The 2nd Viscount Stansgate was alas a political hyperbole. More famous for his insistence on being called Tony than for any worthwhile political notions, how he has handed in his dinner plate he is being lionised for his pantomime ambition to turn Labour into some sort of Eastern European socialist party. in fact possibly his greatest ambition would have been to see Britain turned into a satellite of the USSR. He was a deluded Leninist who seemed from his rhetoric to have been more consumed by hatred than by compassion, (he 'loathed' the EEU - his words - and had little time for Germany either) which is hardly a good base for true socialism, two of his earliest and most burning ambitions being to remove the Sovereign's head from postage stamps and to ban off shore radio stations.
I write of two clowns. One is called Paterson, the
other is called Kaye. Of these two comics, one has already earned immortality
through his work while because of his foolish recklessness the other is fast
gaining notoriety and with a bit of luck will soon hopefully be gone and long
ADVICE TO THE LOVELORN
of happiness is that it is not visible. It is not a material thing. It is an
intrinsic thing, an abstract, and as soon as people try to analyse it, it
becomes even more invisible.
CORONET AMONG THE GRASS
remember so very well when this delightfully funny book was written. Being
Clever Drawers, I should do, but I’ll resist making any Clever-Drawer-ish sort
of remarks here. All I will say that having just finished preparing this second
volume of my beloved wife and partner’s youthful autobiography to me it is
still as fresh and totally original as the day it was written. The one thing it
is not is one however, is one of the things it was claimed to be when it was
first published, that is brilliant.
A SMALL EARTHQUAKE
NO ONE HURT
the crime scale of one to ten this barely even rated. Someone broke into a cottage
on the estate and did a bit of rifling. I noticed it when I walked by because the
mattress was sticking out of the window and a light was shining from the fridge.
A closer look showed a side window (double glazed too) smashed and forced and noting a
bit more of a mess than usual within I called the fuzz.
days later a very small policeman wearing a very small car called.
It sits above us like an incandescent orange box,
situated high on a promontory in order to optimize the view and so spoiling the
same for everyone else. It is meant to be a house but what it totally resembles
is an orange railway carriage, one parked carelessly without a thought for the
consequence and unless the ground opens up beneath it (if only) or Armageddon
arrives sooner than scheduled it is there for evermore.
You can’t ignore it. It forever catches the eye
and when it does the eye becomes very sore.
So there I was sat or as I once used
to be seated or even sitting watching the tube that used to be the box that
once was the animated fish tank when this guy what used to be a man or maybe
even once a bloke comes on and starts to blague that once was sound off or long
ago to give out. To tell the truth he didn’t come on which also means something
quite different now, what I mean is they cut to him on this programme and there
he was sitting all perfectly arranged at this impeccable little café table all faultlessly
arranged him included, so neat and just so, nicely at an angle to show a bit of
profile and trendy stubble, with a little clear glass tea pot in front of him
Once upon a fine and a
rare old time there was a most excellent, highly intelligent and exceedingly accessible
broadcasting channel called Radio Three. On it listeners could encounter
presenters who knew and loved music and who in the main were able to convey
their delight to those who had tuned in to listen without haughtiness, condescension
or disdain, three fellows too often to be found sharing the same bed when so
called classical music is aired. In those halcyon days listeners could turn their
radios on early in the morning and hear nothing but fine music, uninterrupted
by constant inanities, opinions, weather forecasts, hit parades and the sound
of massive ego trips.
of the most crushing of sneers always was the accusation of being a mother’s
boy. Immediately you were a sissy, a
wet, and more often than not a cry baby. A father’s boy – good. Five star
stuff. Fathers’ boys are brave, strong
and resolute with tear ducts sealed at birth. Fathers’ boys put up their fists,
know how to fight fair, tackle low and hard and take the cane without
flinching. Fathers’ boys fly planes, mothers’ boys wear vests. Fathers’ boys
grow into men and we all know what mothers’ boys become, more often than not.