idle

Poor Man's Cranmer; Serious Post

2008-07-04T16:46:00.006+01:00

The Tuscan's awful tale of what happened to him on his return to Italy last weekend got me thinking about death. That, and the fact that I had attended a memorial at Winchester Cathedral earlier in the week for a very close friend, plucked from this earth before his 50th birthday, whose son is an idle godchild.

I am an atheist, but not in a hostile way. I love Agnus Dei and Miserere, and the rollicking good hymns of my youth. I entirely see why "Christian" morality is deemed to be A Good Thing, and I try to be tolerant and charitable, though I indulge myself quite often in frothing intolerance and selfish pursuits. I think the modern Church of England is a confused rabble.

But I was challenged by an intelligent fellow to explain myself, given that I bring my children up in (low-intensity) CofE private education, and have no shame entering churches. Also whether I "feared" death. I mumbled and gibbered and failed completely to articulate my philosophy.

Later, I remembered another obituary I had read a few months ago. This clever man got it about right:
He did not think it was necessary to believe in God to recognise the value of religion in providing the individual with a moral compass. In a recent exchange on AskPhilosophers.org, a questioner wanted to know whether it is rational to fear death: "It's irrational to fear what death will feel like if you know it won't feel like anything," Lipton replied, "but it doesn't follow that it is irrational to fear death. It's not irrational to look forward to the pleasures of living, and if we know that death will take these away, the fear of losing those pleasures doesn't seem irrational either."

The Cream of Anglo-Tuscan Youth

2008-06-28T20:04:00.005+01:00

The Tuscans dropped by for tea today, which was a brief pleasure. They brought their delightful boys with them, who played in the garden in that civilised way you expect of three well-mannered young gentlemen. Here's a picture of the garden soon after they departed on the long drive back to the Tuscan sunshine:

Brave Bogtrotters Banish Brussels

2008-06-13T13:57:00.002+01:00

Idle intake of Guinness at lunch today was above wise levels. Subcontinent plutocrats unlikely to understand reason for slurring and carelessness this afternoon.

But all worth it.

Gowan, gowan, you little Oirish beauties!

Breaking News from the US Elections

2008-05-09T19:58:00.006+01:00

From the Raleigh Examiner:

Chelsea clinton was canvassing in the Democrat primary in North Carolina last week. She approached a local and asked him what 3 things worried him most. He replied:

"Osama, Obama, and yo' mama"

Blue on Blue

2008-04-23T20:02:00.002+01:00

This is a few weeks old. But I like it.

He doesn't photograph well, does he?

2008-04-22T13:29:00.002+01:00

H/T Speccy, again

I have two opposing captions:

1. "Look at that gurning fool. When ah'm Prime Minister it'll all change fae the better. How long wull ah have tae wait?"

2. "Feck! he's got oot just in time. My economic sandcastle is aboot tae be washed awa', bobbing like a turd on the Clyde, and ah'll go doon in history as the worst PM ever. Doomed. DOOMED!"

Caption Competition

2008-04-18T14:12:00.003+01:00

"And if you were 100% African, senator, I'd reckon about this long"

‘I wake up in the morning thinking what we can do to help homeowners’.

2008-04-17T09:16:00.001+01:00

Dream bubbles? Captions?

Internet Dating, Part 1

2008-04-10T16:14:00.011+01:00

When we told the idle girls to get a shift on, we were due at lunch a mile or two along the beach, they were puzzled.

"Who with, Daddy?"

"A fellow who, ummmm, visits the same blogs as I do"

"But Daddy, you told us never even to think about meeting someone you contacted through the internet. You even stopped us using Bebo when those stories started circulating a couple of years ago. And you disapprove of Myspace"

"I know, idle cherubs, I know. But this is different. He is opinionated about politics, seems soundly right wing, enjoys game shooting and is crazy about guns"

"Guns?????"

"Damn, wish I hadn't said that last bit"

"Daddy, we've come all this way to Barbados to see a gun-toting blogger guy who is probably an internet rapist?"

"Of course not, I thought it might be amusing. And anyway, Mrs 45 Government is joining us"

"What sort of name is that? You must be crazy!"

So we got into the big van we hired (there were 8 of us, the girls christened it the Loser Cruiser), and trundled off to the Carib beach bar. There, to greet us, wearing an incongruous but rather upmarket Royal Shakespeare Company baseball hat, was 45Govt and the charming Mrs 45. A fine lunch of mahi-mahi was had, with reasonable rum intake and a terrible, sweet, Californian rose that should really have been avoided. We learned a great deal about the island, sporting guns, and poor behaviour at educational institutions, sometimes resulting in expulsion.

I now know more about 45 Govt than I will divulge on this blog, and can report that he is often unarmed and not an internet rapist. But that's how the idle girls still refer to him, poor man.

Gone Chillin'

2008-03-20T10:26:00.006Z

That's Idle in the distance, chillin wid his bitches at Bottom Bay in Barbados. We'll be there in a day or two and this idle, empty blog will become even idler and emptier for the next fortnight. I might change my blog header to include tumbleweed in future.

Luckily we all have up to date passports. Here's a bona fide letter to the minister responsible for fingerprintingirisrecognitionstoolsamplesandDNA:

Subject: Passport Application

Dear Minister,

I'm in the process of renewing my passport but I am a total loss to understand or believe the hoops I am being asked to jump through.

How is it that Bert Smith of TV Rentals Basingstoke has my address and telephone number and knows that I bought a satellite dish from them back in 1994, and yet, the Government is still asking me where I was born and on what date?

How come that nice West African immigrant chap who comes round every Thursday night with his DVD rentals van can tell me every film or video I have had out since he started his business up eleven years ago, yet you still want me to remind you of my last three jobs, two of which were with contractors working for the government?

How come the TV detector van can tell if my TV is on, what channel I am watching and whether I have paid my licence or not, and yet if I win the government run lottery they have no idea I have won or where I am and will keep the bloody money to themselves if I fail to claim in good time. Do you people do this by hand?

You have my birth date on numerous files you hold on me, including the one with all the income tax forms I've filed for the past 30-odd years. It's on my health insurance card, my driver's licence, on the last four passports I've had, on all those stupid customs declaration forms I've had to fill out before being allowed off the planes and boats over the last 30 years, and all those insufferable census forms that are done every ten years and the electoral registration forms I have to complete, by law, every time our lords and masters are up for re-election.

Would somebody please take note, once and for all, I was born in Maidenhead on the 4th of March 1957, my mother's name is Mary, her maiden name was Reynolds, my father's name is Robert, and I'd be absolutely astounded if that ever changed between now and the day I die!

I apologise Minister. I'm obviously not myself this morning. But between you and me, I have simply had enough! You mail the application to my house, then you ask me for my address. What is going on? Do you have a gang of Neanderthals working there? Look at my damn picture. Do I look like Bin Laden? I don't want to activate the Fifth Reich for God's sake! I just want to go and park my weary backside on a sunny, sandy beach for a couple of week's well-earned rest away from all this crap.

Well, I have to go now, because I have to go to back to Salisbury and get another copy of my birth certificate because you lost the last one. AND to the tune of 60 quid! What a racket THAT is!! Would it be so complicated to have all the services in the same spot to assist in the issuance of a new passport the same day? But nooooo, that'd be too damn easy and maybe make sense. You'd rather have us running all over the place like chickens with our heads cut off, then find some tosser to confirm that it's really me on the goddamn picture - you know... the one where we're not allowed to smile in in case we look as if we are enjoying the process!

I served in the armed forces for more than 25 years including over ten years at the Ministry of Defence in London. I have had security clearances which allowed me to sit in the Cabinet Office, five seats away from the Prime Minister while he was being briefed on the first Gulf War and I have been doing volunteer work for the British Red Cross ever since I left the Services. However, I have to get someone "important" to verify who I am -- you know, someone like my doctor...who, before he got his medical degree 6 months ago WAS LIVING IN PAKISTAN...

Yours sincerely,
An Irate British Citizen.

A Public Service

2008-03-05T15:58:00.004Z

If, like Idle, you enjoy verse, here is a terrific new occasional - they say quarterly - blog. I commend Lighten Up Online to the house.

Here's a perfect haiku, by Tony Cloke, from edition one:

People who freefall
with defective parachutes
jump to conclusions.

None Braver

2008-03-04T13:10:00.004Z

RIP

Even by the extraordinary standards of this fine warrior race, Rifleman Bhanubhakta Gurung is hard to better.

Idle had the great honour of serving for a month in Hong Kong with these spirited, friendly and hugely impressive people. He was given a pair of crossed-kukri cufflinks as a memento and wears them with pride.

The Idle advice to the MoD is to recognise that you can't change a useless lardy ignorant chav into a soldier as easily as twenty years ago, so recruit another four regiments of Gurkhas and PAY THEM A REASONABLE PENSION THIS TIME, you useless gits.

Good Man Down

2008-02-27T23:01:00.006Z

RIP

Speccy has it better than I can, with a good video clip:

http://www.spectator.co.uk/coffeehouse/527481/rip-william-fbuckley-jr.thtml

I was planning to tell you about the sea bream I caught in Table Bay off Cape Town this afternoon, but it can wait.

One for The Tuscan Boys

2008-02-22T15:58:00.003Z

ITALIAN BOY'S CONFESSION

"Bless me Father, for I have sinned. I have been with a loose girl"

The priest asks, 'Is that you, little Joey Pagano?'

"Yes, Father, it is."

'And who was the girl you were with?'

"I can't tell you, Father, I don't want to ruin her reputation"

'Well, Joey, I'm sure to find out her name sooner or later, so you may as well tell me now. Was it Tina Minetti?'

"I cannot say"

'Was it Teresa Mazzarelli?'

"I'll never tell"

'Was it Nina Capelli?'

"I'm sorry, but I cannot name her"

'Was it Cathy Piriano?'

"My lips are sealed"

'Was it Rosa Di Angelo, then?'

"Please, Father, I cannot tell you"

The priest sighs in frustration. 'You're very tight lipped, Joey Pagano, and I admire that. But you've sinned and have to atone. You cannot be an altar boy now for 4 months. Now you go and behave yourself.'

Joey walks back to his pew, and his friend Franco slides over
and whispers, 'What'd you get?'

"4 months holiday and five good leads."

The HMS Apollo Incident

2008-02-15T10:56:00.006Z

Some months after the Argentine surrender in the Falklands, Idle was commanding a settlement called Fox Bay West on West Falkland. This was a relaxing role, as a mile of cold South Atlantic water separated us from the company headquarters at Fox Bay East. I posted a soldier as lookout, and we sprang into action only when a RIB started bouncing across the bay. By the time any boat containing the company commander arrived, we were behaving busily and looking efficient and soldierly. Otherwise, I preferred intense periods of relaxation; we were never more than a fortnight away from a live-firing exercise in the bogs and hills.

One day, at the weekly Orders Group across the bay, the company commander announced that the Royal Marine detachment on HMS Apollo was going stir crazy and needed to come ashore to do whatever it is that Marines do. One officer, an NCO and six men were invited by HMS Apollo to take their place for a few days. This was a plum opportunity to get away from sheep-shearers' accommodation and army cooking, and everyone wanted to go.

The three platoon commanders were invited to give their reasons as to why they should be chosen. I kept shtum until the others had spoken, and then quietly offered the fact that my father had been First Lieutenant on board HMS Apollo about thirty years previously. (Now, this Apollo was almost certainly not the same boat, but a modern destroyer or mine layer or something, but I left that bit out).

To cut a long story short, I found myself one evening playing poker in the officers' mess (they call it a wardroom) after dinner on HMS Apollo, somewhere in the South Atlantic. A knock came on the door, and a Petty Officer requested the presence of the infantry officer in their mess. The RN officers smirked.

As we entered the PO's mess, the fellow asked me my christian name, which struck this Highland officer as unconventional. He said the rules were that I walked in and walked out of their mess as an officer, but niceties were suspended whilst they entertained me.

We got drinking and chatting and I was closely quizzed about my Aberdonian credentials. The Royal Guard at Balmoral came up. Suffice to say that I foolishly backed myself to remember the first dozen heirs to the throne, in order. I got it right, I think, but had to toast every one of them with a shot of navy rum (that dark and pungent stuff, not the delightful golden nectar of Mount Gay or Appleton). Soon, I was gibbered.

At this stage, they said, it was time to play a game. A teaspoon was produced, the end of its handle tied to a length of string. I was instructed to take off my trousers and underwear, and the string was passed round my waist and tied in such a fashion that the bowl of the teaspoon hung about two inches below my dick. Then they stood me legs well apart on a coffee table, introduced me to their mess champion, facing me in the same exposed condition on his own coffee table, and produced two lit candles in their sticks, placed between our legs. Then they blindfolded us (or was it only me?)

On the command "extinguish!", I crouched down and swung my equipment back and forward, in an attempt to douse the flame. Go too far, singed gonads and bell-end. You can imagine it, I'm sure. I swung and missed like a hopeless golfer, and suffered several discomforts. In my panic and confusion, I could hear the click of cameras amongst the roars of laughter. Best of five, the PO won 3-0 and I was reintroduced to my clothes.

I walked out of the PO's mess and embraced life as an officer again, albeit a nauseous one. Nothing was said about my ordeal, not even by my sergeant, who was in the PO's mess throughout.

When I am returned as the honourable member for Chichester, having won a shock victory for the No Nonsense Party, I am sure the photos will emerge, at least in the Midhurst and Petworth Observer, maybe even the Petersfield Post. Until then, my modesty is intact.

Things They Didn't Teach at Sandhurst in 1980

2008-02-06T19:46:00.000Z

"An officer should be comely, spratly and above all else, confident in his own dress and bearing. He should, where possible, eat a small piece of meat each morning with molasses and beans. He should air himself gracefully when under fire and never place himself in a position of difficulty when being shot at. He should eat his meals comfortably and ahead of his soldiers, for it is he whom is more important tactically on the battlefield and therefore he who should be well nourished. His hair should be well groomed and if possible he should adorn a moustache or similar facial adornment. When speaking to his soldiers he should appear unnerved and aloof and give direction without in any way involving himself personally in the execution of arduous or un-officer like duties. He should smoke thin panatellas except when in the company of ladies where he should take only a small gin mixed with lemon tea. He should be an ardent and erudite gentleman and woo the ladies both in the formal environment and in the bedroom where he should excel himself beyond the ordinary soldier with his virulent lovemaking prowess. These I say to you are the qualities of an officer that set him apart from the lay person and the common soldier."

Lt Gen Hubert Worthington, Commander In Chief, 5th Royal Indian Mountain Division, Bombay, 2th December 1907

Honest Aussie Sets Good Example

2008-01-28T13:56:00.000Z

Australia wicket-keeper Adam Gilchrist has revealed his dropped catch off India's VVS Laxman convinced him to retire from international cricket.

Gilchrist, 36, missed the chance in the final Test of Australia's series win and said: "I knew somewhere between the ball hitting my gloves and the ground.

"That catch - I watched a replay and I just moved really slow.

"I realised I didn't have the absolute desperation that you need to continue to maintain your standards."

Unaccustomed as I am to offering praise to an Australian sportsman, I make an exception for Gilchrist. Not only was he a demonstrably honest man, who 'walked' when he nicked one (never caught on with his team mates, Yes - that's YOU, Symonds!), he was the most entertaining batsman of his generation, which is saying something when Lara and the Indian middle order have been around these last ten years. Good on yer, Gilly!

Read his reason for going, admire his honesty and compare him to the incompetents we come across in all sorts of positions in life who just don't know when to quit, even when honour and responsibility suggests that they clear their desks immediately.

"I knew [it was time to quit] somewhere between Northern Rock/the Armed Forces/the new Wembley Stadium hitting my gloves and the ground" - insert your own disastrous event - and it is a sentence that one simply cannot imagine being uttered by a public servant in this country.

The Leaving Present

2008-01-09T15:38:00.000Z

Rick, from Zimbabwe, had checked out of the halls of residence at Cirencester Agricultural College, and taken a room with a mate of Idle's, who had opted for mature student status at the college after leaving the army. The Idle mate had a wife and a mortgage and might even have had a child by that stage. Crucially, he had a spare bedroom, a fully-stocked larder, a big kitchen, TV and video, and laundry facilities. Having been raised on a farm in Kenya, he was sympathetic to an impoverished Zim 20 year-old.

Rick didn't pay his rent often, let alone a contribution to the Waitrose and Threshers' bills. It was put on the slate, in the expectation that the tobacco crop would come in at some stage and Rick's father would stump up the readies.

This went on, needless to say, until graduation. In the fog of celebrations, a drunken and morose Rick approached Idle's mate, fessed up that he didn't have a bean, and could he pay sometime in the future? Idle's mate, generous man that he was, said he'd call it quits if Rick could secure him a certain commodity available only in Africa. It was a deal.

Months later, the Idle mates were skiing. They returned to Cirencester after a fortnight and were approached by the shy old spinster from next door, who told them she had signed for a parcel for them during their absence, but "had to put it in the garage, because it was making a dreadful smell".

A soiled package was produced, opened at arms' length with clothes pegs on noses. There, untouched since the day it was sliced from the beast, was a Cape Buffalo scrotum.

"He might have cured it, at least" said Idle's mate. "Jesus!" said the wife "what the bloody hell are you going to do with THAT?"

"Turn it into a sporran", said our man. "It'll be the only one of it's type in the world."

And he did, and it is. A fine and splendid thing it is. My friend particularly likes being approached by aged Scots ladies at highland events who have an interest in this sort of thing. "Excuse me" they say, "but I couldn't help but notice your unusual sporran". To which he replies "How observant of you. I suppose you have already worked out that it is the scrotum of a Cape buffalo". They tend to scurry off after that.

Here it is:

One-Hundred-and-Eiiiggghhhtteeee!

2007-12-30T19:38:00.000Z

Henry was very proud of his new watch. He hardly ever took it off, and when he did, he kept half an eye on it, from his bathtub, shower, or wherever. He didn't take it to away rugby matches because he couldn't concentrate on putting his knee on the opposing flanker's testicles in a ruck, thinking instead of a dishonest bastard half-inching his Rolex from the Away dressing room.

He made the mistake, however, of taking it on tour to Guernsey at Easter. His mate, captain of the team and scrum half, had a successful father who owned some sort of gin palace, modest but functional. The gin palace was duly motored across to the Channel Islands to provide cheap accommodation and totty pulling power for the duration of the tour. There were bunks for six, including a private double at the front (the bow?), which became the official shagging berth.

Henry pulled on Night One, a lovely balmy evening in late Spring. He got the islander well juiced up, winked at the lads to indicate that the Shagging Berth would be occupied for the next 15 mins, and went below (as they say).

After a few minutes of unrewarding foreplay, Doreen (for it was she) asked Henry to take his watch off, as the chunky strap was marking her back. Gentleman to the core, but briefly forgetting that his first love was his timepiece, Henry unclipped it, put it in his left hand, and reached out for the ledge beside the bunk, without missing a beat in his quest to locate Doreen's ribs with his tongue, via her throat.

The porthole was nine inches wide, barely wider than Henry's knuckles. Did he touch the sides (as it were), as he reached blindly to his left? He did not. Was the porthole open? You bet it was.

Henry opened his grip, and waited for the clunk of watch-on-ledge. Clunk came there none. Instead, a muffled splosh.

Doreen and Henry's lust was not consumated that evening. He sulked all the way through the tour, and cannot hear the name "Rolex" to this day without wincing.

Idle knows this story to be true. The Rolex pictured is - wait for it - a "Sea Dweller".

Considering a Name Change

2007-12-26T19:27:00.000Z

Those employers can be most unsporting in the run-up to the winter pagan holiday.

This is a blue-arsed fly, according to google images. I know what he feels like.

If my seasonal drunkenness and irrascibility goes unpunished, I will post again in 2008 for the three loyal posters on this site.

More wealth, health, happiness and less imbuggerance to you all next year.

Planes, Trains, and Firearms.....

2007-11-16T19:21:00.000Z

DO NOT MIX

Idle planned to be far too busy to post this weekend, but if I tell you that I am marooned in the Executive Lounge at Heathrow Terminal One, you will begin to catch my drift.

It's a long story.

Last time I travelled with my shotgun in its splendid, burnished leather case, battered but beautiful, I was told that the lock was insufficient and that next time I should expect to have it refused entry to the plane. The cheek! Vintage guns come in vintage cases, c'est tout. But the jobsworth made it clear he was planning to obstruct me at the next opportunity.

So, this week, I planned ahead and googled for airline-friendly cases. Being of Aberdonian stock, and owning, as I have said, a burnished beauty of a case, etc, I opted for the *oh dear* bottom of the range. It appeared at my office yesterday, a limp-wristed and poofterish excuse of a shotgun carriage case, barely able to withstand the negligence of a trotskyite BAA baggage handler, let alone a determined Mozzie with evil plans for the denizens of Slough. And did it have any locks? Did it fuck.

Instead, there were holes through which padlocks could be attached. Three of them. So, rushing from lunch at the Savoy, I espied Mr Robt Dyas' emporium and summoned the manager. In broken English, he advised me on the quality of his padlock collection. A budget pack of four small-but-strongs were purchased.

Of course, I got back to the office and discovered they didn't quite fit. Furthermore, the hinges along the spine of the case were so easily jemmied as to be worthless.

So Idle, discovering this just as he was about to head to Heathrow, had to make a detour to the architectural ironmonger near Piccadilly Circus. Took me an age, heavily laden with guns and baggage. But reasonably strong chain-link was provided (£1.50 a metre), and the padlocks could be affixed, and a circumference of chain round the whole shebang, to boot.

Now the pressure was on. The Bakerloo got me to Paddington alright, but the Heathrow Express was expressly NOT express, if I make myself clear. In fact it was suffering"congestion", and my journey time was nearly doubled.

I sprinted, Alan Wells-like, from the train at Terminal One, cunningly leaving a small case holding my work papers on the train. I arrived at the check-in, sweating like the Chief Stoker of the Great Britain, and was offered seat 2F. But wait! Production of the shotgun caused much discombobulation. Magically, seat 2F disappeared, and the flight was "closed". Why? Because the trotskyite baggage handlers will not commit to less than an hour to walk a WW Greener 12 bore approx 300 yards to the plane. And I had booked the gun onto the flight a week earlier.

Some fucker is sitting in 2F right now doing my crossword and drinking my BA bloody mary, and I hope he bloody well realises it.

Me? I'm booked onto the 1940 (expected 2020), and my whisky-drinking is taking place not on Deeside but in the Exec Lounge. The company is commercial folk, I believe. Thank god granny isn't alive to hear it.

My papers? Not yet found by the Heathrow express guards, or cleaning staff. I have been advised by a nice skinhead on the desk at Terminal One to manage my expectations lower, as it were.

Have my Three Bad Things happened? Or was the loss of work papers a mere inconvenience, and I shall be prised out of a mangled fuselage somewhere in the Peak District tonight?

It's a bastard, the whole thing. Plus I exchanged short sentences with a plutocrat this afternoon and will have to pretend he was right and I was wrong when I see him next week. Oh, woe. Another whisky, please, Manuel, and is there an update on the delayed 1940 to Aberdeen?

Idle's Edwardian Manners, Part 2

2007-11-02T10:53:00.000Z

When it became clear that the Second World War was going to take much time, treasure, and manpower, civil servants were dispatched from Whitehall and county councils to have a quiet word with the bigger landowners and stately homeowners, to address their staffing levels.

One such official made a visit to Chatsworth and spent a morning counting the number of gardeners, footmen, gamekeepers and chefs. Before lunch, he had an audience with the Duke.

"We thought" began the chap from the county council, "that you might be able to reduce the number of gamekeepers, Your Grace".

"Bother" said the Duke. "Oh, very well"

"And perhaps one less man in the kitchen garden" said the official.

"Has Birtwhistle said he could spare one? I suppose so, then"

"And one less pastry chef, we thought" said the public servant.

"Dammit all" said the Duke, "can't a chap have a biscuit?"

Self-Defence

2007-10-29T21:21:00.001Z

The finest book ever written about boxing imho was this, by the great George Plimpton, who has long been a hero of idle's combining as he does a love of literature, sport, journalism and the human condition. A supreme stylist and a great American man of letters, right up there with Alastair Cooke in terms of style and sagacity.

Plimpton knew Muhammad Ali, warts and all, and thought him exceptional. The Tuscan has a low opinion; perhaps he's seen When We Were Kings - if not, see it - but read this book and you might see Ali in a different light. Possibly the best book ever written about sport.

Caption Competition. Limericks even Better

2007-10-26T10:47:00.000+01:00

Is that Maxwell in the background? Or Eugene? Any other song links?

Old Lefties Still Foaming at the Mouth

2007-10-25T09:37:00.000+01:00

Letter to the Torygraph from the usual suspects

Sir – Today a statue of David Lloyd George will be unveiled in Parliament Square. Lloyd George was Prime Minister between 1916 and 1922. During this period Britain used planes to bomb: Mashud, on India's border with Afghanistan; Dacca, Jalalabad and Kabul; Egypt; Enzeli in Iran; Trans-Jordan; and, of course, Iraq. Today these vicious policies continue unabated. [Blah blah yadda yadda]. All of which makes today's celebration of Lloyd George's legacy highly topical and disgraceful. Harold Pinter, John Pilger, Denis Halliday, London N1

Dontcha just love these pompous, sanctimonious, humourless twats? As I remember, 1916-22 was a slightly unsettled time for the world and our empire. Bombing by plane had just caught on as an offensive and defensive tactic. Gold medal winners in wrong-headedness almost all of the time, these fools. They have spent much of their lives revering Stalin and Castro and the other evil bastards who arrived at dictatorship from the left rather than the right. I think they wrote this letter simply to show off their triffic grasp of the early history of aerial bombing.

Dunno who Halliday is, so no dartboard picture of him. Maybe Johnny's pa. What we do know is that he is a fellow-traveller of The Pint and The Pilge.