And The Empire Continues To Sink

It was Dean Acheson, President Truman's Secretary of State, who coined the phrase that Britain had lost an empire, yet had failed to find a role in the world. And that this phrase persists indicates it's continuing vervacity.

I think it's pertinant this week as our masters cowtow to the former colonists from Saudi Arabia. And watch how those venal old Saudi's are rubbing Britain's nose in it . They know just how much Whitehall and their lackies are willing to grovel to get their hands on some of that soiled old oil-money, and they're going to see just how low Britain's prepared to stoop.

The phrase also cropped in the BBC's No Plan, No Peace, the documentary addressing Britain's culpability in America's failure to plan for the aftermath of the Iraq debacle.

I enjoyed two moments of the programme in particular.

On my travels in recent years, I've often been asked why Blair allowed himself to be embroiled in such stupidity as that eminating from the Whitehouse. My response was that Blair was vain, wanted a role on the world stage, and believed he could influence Washington.
The programme put forward another, more geo-political, notion. Prior to the war, as Washington set up exercises in preparation for the pre-war diplomacy, the CIA operative given the job of role-playing Britain at the negotiation table, elected to agree to anything, just to remain at the top-table. Somewhat prescient.

In regard to the aftermath of the war in Iraq, there was the experience of a British economist, who, on reading American's "reconstruction plan", found a section stipulating the agreed currencies to be permitted during reconstruction. The American Dollar, unsurprisingly, was there. But so too was the German Reichmark, a currency abandoned in 1948. The document had clearly been hastily cut and pasted from reconstruction documentation from the Second World War. Equally disturbing was the documentation in regard to the restoration of electricity to the nation. It consisted of one sheet of A4, only half-covered, and comprised merely of a list of addresses of power stations.

Iraq didn't stand a chance.

Charity? I'll Drink To That!

On discovering London in my youth, (I mean that reflexively, in that I discovered for myself; I make no claim to being the man who DISCOVERED London, as there were already 8.5 million people here before me. Not unlike the American continent when Columbus "discovered" that.) I was appauled to discovered that most of the charities that you'd ever heard of had located themselves in Belgravia, the capital's most expensive piece of real estate. Obviously, the aristocrats who had inviegled their way into running these affairs weren't going to lower their standards however the extortionate rents were undermining the concept of giving.

It comes as no surprise therefore that our posh chums in the world of Rugby have been upbraided for their cavalier attitude to charity, as their own effort to raise funds for children has been criticised, as they've been spending two thirds of the donations on entertaining themselves!

"I say chaps, we've taken 2 million quid!"

"Spiffing! Bugger the orphans; let's buy more bubbly!"

"No champers for me old boy, I'll just bugger the orphans!"

"Hoorah!"

Go Global

Imagine the moment on your flight as the person next to enthuses about how they're on their way to The World Toilet Conference!

Important stuff I agree, but let's try keep this above the waist please.

Wake up Cat

Drawn from life.

Underpants: My Struggle

It may be out of fashion these days, but I think discretion is one of the finer human virtues, and I have to admit that I'm disappointed to be trapped in an income bracket that prevents me from enjoying the benefits of the level of salesmanship available to higher economic groups.

I am aware that the gentleman of the upper crust who shop in such thoroughfares as Jermyn Street, or amongst the merchants of Mayfair, are afforded the utmost of dignity in their transactions. I understand that the service available there is always polite, ever obliging, yet never intrusive, or dare I say it: over-familiar.

No. Due to my relative penury, I am forced to shop amongst the hoi-polloi.

For example: some time back, in a chemists near London's King's Cross, I steeled myself to procure some condoms. Yes, dear reader: Condoms. I followed the age-old protocol familiar to all men in this situation, and stepped forward to the counter, pointed to the "items" I wished to procure and curtly proffered a ten pounds note towards the lady attendant as remuneration.

The moment could not pass quick enough as she took her time noisily shoving my purchase into an unnecessarily rustly bag. Then, as though she wanted to drag the process out a little further, she paused, looked up, and asked in an East End accent broader that the Mile End Road:

"Do you want a receipt with that?" (Or "jew wan' a resee' wiv 'at?")

Naturally, I coughed, and through a dry throat uttered a curt "no!"

She appeared to expect this reply and added:

"Nah, it's not as though you're gonna bring' em back, eh!"

I shudder at the very recollection.

Anyway, to my point.

This very afternoon, whilst underpant-shopping in Marks & Spencers (and can I add that, apart from the occasional luxury ready meal, underpants & socks are ALL I buy at M&S), I queued up to pay for my "garments", and finally made it to the till.

The young man behind the counter was initially polite, and appeared efficient as he scanned the bar code and stated the price in clear tones. (£7.50 for ten: not bad). But then, and to my utter ASTONISHMENT, he then OPENED THE PACKET AND TOOK A PAIR OUT! Brazenly! With his own hands! I could only look on in dismay as he casually admitted that he was just "checking to see if they're the size on the packet!"

Like that was anybody's business: my pants. He was handling MY UNDERPANTS for God's sake!. In front of EVERYBODY. I mean, I ASK YOU.

A Statement:

Look, Mr. "Marks & Spencers" whatever your name is, leave my pants alone! I'm pleased you care about actual pant-sizes matching the packaging, but kindly not whilst I am undergoing the indignity that underpant-shopping represents. What if I'd gone for the old-man's pants this time? (And let's face it, the day will come). Do I want everyone in the queue behind me to know? Will you hold them aloft and announce to the assembled throng "Blimey! He's gone for the old man's pants, and they're the wrong size!".

No, I don't like this development at all. Basically, I just want to pay for the pants and leave. If they're the wrong size, I'll just throw them away, and then visit ANOTHER branch to buy more, and to keep doing so until I get the right size. That's the way it is with underpant-shopping.

I've probably said enough, but I just think that this is some kind of training issue. I really do.

Exit, Pursued By A Pigeon

Theatre-goers in Bristol, England, got more than they paid for during a performance of the Snow Queen.

It appears that the Hippodrome has been sub-letting the rafters to members of the local
pigeon population
and this is causing tension between punters and the potential pie-fillings above.

Note that the unfortunate Mr Poulter is bald.

Looks like they need a revival of Kes, and quick!

Get Your Oats Every Morning!

I was wheeling my trolley through the breakfast section whilst shopping in Sainsburys earlier today, when I noticed a sign locating the "adult cereals".

Adult? What could that mean?

Kellogg's Ladyshapes?

Dick Krispies?

And I hope that's only yoghurt on that muesli!

Can you IMAGINE what the free gift would be! I ask you!.

And all targetted towards the sort of people who like to start the day with some nice warm porridge inside them.

Disgusting!

Mind you, now I think of it, Kellogg's Corn Flakes have always had a cock on the box.

BBC: Donations To Tories "Symptom of Madness"

Well, actually that's not really what they said, but read here how the Conservative Party set out to disinherit the son of a crazed businessman, who had left his fortune to the Tories because:

Mrs Thatcher would save the world from "satanic monsters"

Shameless, as always, the Tories were relying on the "You don't have to be mad to fund the Tories, but it helps" defence.

Thankyou Mr Cadman, After All These Years

On attending my first French Language class, aged eleven, the teacher asserted that "everyone of you will be able to speak French on leaving this school!" It was an idle boast, and proven to be so by the fact that no-one left our school speaking ENGLISH, let alone French.

Other idle boasts included the Maths teacher's optimism that one day we would find a need for Algebra, or the PE teacher's claim that we would eventually come to appreciate the rules of Cricket.

Yes, I am a cynic, and probably atypical of the sterling generation produced by my Secondary Modern back in the early 70s, unlike those high-achieving others who, to this day, know doubt calculate the Test Scores in French using Algebra on a daily basis. And maybe, had I spent more time listening, and a little less time sneering at my betters, then maybe I'd be an internet millionaire by now, rather than an insignificant ten-a-penny blogger that no-reads.

However, there is yet hope.

In the Guardian Quick Crossword today:

Question 9 Down "Abrasive Sheet"

The answer (which I actually knew) : "Emery Paper".

At Last! That's five years of Metalwork finally justified!

Thankyou Mr Cadman, I clearly remembered more than the fact that your fingernails were permanently ingrained with industrial grime!

Evening Standard: BBC Boss Gags Stars

I'm glad to see that the apparently well-endowed Head of Light Entertainment still insists on the casting couch, regardless of reputation.

Put On Your Bowler: Let's Hit The Shops!

Back at the tail-end of the Thatcher era, an associate opined that "there is no democracy anymore, just The Market".

He went on to make a lot of money in Marketing, and although I still believe that he was wrong, I often remember this remark when observing the grip that unrestricted capitalism has taken upon the world, particularly in territories which had previous been denied it.

Northern Ireland had never been denied capitalism, but they had it hard, what with all that bombing and all. However, check out what they get up to these days as the people of Antrim go shopping: with a vengeance!

(Mind you, if you want opening-night mob-rule, no-one does it world-wide like IKEA: click on the tabs HERE to see how the Swedish retailers have turned it into an artform)

Mortgages: "The House of Horror" Option

However many times you tell them, there's always someone who signs off the copy without proof-reading it as instructed.

Either that, or Mortgage Advice UK contract out their debt-recovery to The Other Side.

Check the last sentence of Cons where it claims:

"Your home may be possessed if you do not keep up repayments on your mortgage"

Alderman Cripples Tomato Lady

Just when you thought that the situation in Northern Ireland had improved, then THIS had to happen.

Surely "Tomato Lady Vaulting" has to be a considered cruel and unusual punishment, even by Ulster standards!

(I'm not sure as to which side the Mayor dresses, but would he have attacked her if she'd been dressed as an orange?)

New Terror Threat: Thai Food Mary

The War on Terror took an ugly turn this week, as the streets of London's Soho were evacuated as the forces of good were sent in to investigate a mystery smell.

It transpires that those little yellow perishers at the Thai Cottage were plotting to concoct a "burned chilli dip", although our sources have yet to unveil the level of harm intended, or just how the evil-doers had planned to deploy this "condiment".

You thought smuggling water onto a plane at Heathrow was depraved: imagine what this could do within the confined space of an innocent airliner.

Be vigilant, and don't pay the "service charge" unless you know the proceeds will be distributed amongst the staff.