Your editor is currently enjoying the sun, sand, sea and sex on the island of Rhodes, and will be back with further supplies of rubbish on the 28th, volcanic ash permitting.
Having left the chaos of British politics f0r the chaos of Greek politics, he arrived to discover NO strife on the streets, NO Molotov-cocktail throwing youths, and NO riot police charging along with shields raised and batons drawn.
It is all extremely disappointing.
He is now off to cause a little agitation.
Hey-ho, another disappointment! Your editor has spent the last hour anxiously scanning the Sunday Times rich-list, to find that once again his name does not feature.
After a whole year scrimping and scraping, the total on the bank statement has risen by only seven pounds and thirty-two pee, of which one pound fifty was down to the scrimping (whatever that is!) and four quid to scraping. The balance was a loan from the dog.
The same old names are on this rich-list. Many of them are completely beyond the pale. Mittal, Abramovitch, the Duke of Somewhere… some of these people we do not even know . They are not upon one’s visiting list, and one certainly would not wish them to be paying attention to one’s marriageable daughters. Although, cross our palms with silver and…
Ah well, perhaps next year will see your editor’s name on that magic list. In the meantime, he will continue feeding all his small change into Miss Money-pig. It all adds up, you know.
We shall now spend the rest of the day sulking.
It seems like only seven months ago that I began this blog. Actually, it was only seven months ago. And already, with this post, I am up to three hundred examples of fine and deathless prose. Even Shakespeare, in his prime, never posted that many on his blog. William Shakespeare, I’m talking about. You may have heard of him.
Writing the blog, both Grizelda and myself have found it enormously therapeutic. She has almost ceased shoplifting from Tesco, and no longer bays at the moon one week every month. For myself, being permitted to verbally cover the dreadful Mandelson in green custard has done wonders for my nervous twitch and my stutter.
I would recommend writing a blog to anyone with a spare thirty hours a day, but occasionally a dread thought strikes me. How many people actually read it?
To answer this question, I have a statistics thingey called AWSTATS, which gives the low-down on all sorts of things in over-excruciating detail. The problem here is that your editor is too thick to understand it.
Transposing the main details to a spreadsheet, it seems that in almost seven months, the blog has had ten thousand unique visitors , who visited the blog twenty-four thousand times, examining a total of one hundred and thirty-four thousand pages , knocking up two hundred and eighteen thousand hits .
This is worse than Greek. What does it mean ? I understand the concept of a unique visitor, and the number of visits they make. But what is a page? Is it equivalent to a single post? Or to the number of posts visible when you visit the Daily Moaner? Or the total number of posts made to date? And what is a hit? And does it matter? And whither the Universe?
All in all, I think the numbers quoted must be fairly pathetic, with other bloggers achieving these figures every day, Sundays included.
Though I see I have been helped by referrals from friends at other sites, such as Anna Raccoon, Dick Puddlecoat, and Old Holborn. The Daily Moaner is grateful and promises not to moan at them.
Come on, admit it… you have no idea what a Scoville unit is, have you? But it’s something you should be very afraid of. You can find out more by clicking here.
Don’t say you weren’t warned. Oh — and don’t read what Vimes (commenter 4) posted either. It’ll spoil your enjoyment of Bohemian Rhapsody forever.
Your editor was watching the Gordon Brown harange lecture speech from his bed this morning, but sadly found it so soporific that when a White Rabbit wearing gloves sped by, he hurried after him down the nearest rabbit-hole. Luckily though, the main points seemed to be the following:
1. In the global future, there will be a new Ministry of Happiness, under the guidance of a Happiness Czar. Everyone will be happy, if they know what’s good for them.
2. Every child will have a pony Unicorn of its own. On payment of two farthings.
3. Beginning in November 2011, every day will be the first day of Spring.
4. All British weather will be subject to regulation, with strong winds and rainfall turned away from our shores and directed towards France, at the annual Cheese Harvest. England will be filled with bluebirds.
5. All unemployed youths to be organised into squads, clearing up bluebird shit.
6. Lots of crackdowns on all sorts of things. His Government would be really, really good at crackdowns. An additional 2,537 new criminal offences to be created. Offenders to receive really lo-o-ong sentences (though caring and compassionate ones), ranging from life upwards. But then to be released immediately due to lack of prison cells.
7. Police, PCSO’s and traffic wardens to be issued with guns, tazers, MACE, etc, to enforce the new Happiness regime.
8. All guns to be converted to blow pretty bubbles.
Mr Brown accused the Conservatives of being Blue Meanies, whose real aim was to send all our children up chimneys, and who would re-introduce top-hats to be worn by a new class of toffs lead by Boris Johnson.
Also, the PM said, there were rumours circulating (which Mr Mandelson had only just started ) of Tory plans to bring back the window-tax. He warned that under a Tory administration, everyone would be consigned to a debtor’s prison, somewhere in Whitechapel. And it would jolly well serve them right, for voting Tory.
At this point, your editor awoke, to find the floor littered with the skeletons of duck-billed platytudes.
About those debates… You know… the ones between Brown, Cameron and Cleggie, to be held before the election. (May 6th — trust us ).
It turns out they won’t be debates at all, not proper ones. There will just be three not-even-realistic robots, taking turns to spout pre-rehearsed political talking points at a TV camera. For there is a list of rules a leg-and-a-half long. Seventy-six of them, just like the trombones, which is French for paper-clips.
Throw a Shoe Today
The leaders get a minute to respond to a question. A minute. That’s sixty seconds. Can anyone imagine Gordon answering a question in less than seven hundred words? He takes longer than that to say good morning. And the minute includes storming-off time.
The audience will be effectively blindfolded and gagged, being forbidden to cheer, heckle and applaud, even. Spitting, hissing, booing, cat-calling and whistling are likewise verboten . You’re not even allowed to shoot them, for God’s sake, which is surely the test of any civilised nation.
However, the Daily Moaner has found a loop-hole. As far as we can discover, there is no prohibition against throwing shoes. And what better way of expressing solidarity with our Muslim brothers than to adopt their methods of showing disapproval. Thankyou, Muntadhar al-Zeidi (pictured ), for showing us the way.
The idea is, of course, a steal from the American way of doing things, what with their gift for spontaneity and all. We all know how sucessfully that’s worked out of late. Bush 41, Clinton, Bush 43, Obama…
What we need over this side of the pond is Paxo, worrying at them with his teeth embedded in their hairy legs. We want John Humphries shouting at them, calling them liars. We want our comedians making faces at them. We want the Telegraph exposing their little frauds, and the Sun plastering their adulteries over the front page. Most of all, we want members of the public throwing buckets of green custard over them.
Because that’s what they deserve. They’re politicians, for God’s sake. The lowest of the low, scum of the earth. They seek to rule us, because they know better.
Dig out your old Reboks NOW.
Jesus Christ All-bloody-Mighty!
Our Nanny state is now extending its tentacles to walking the dog. Many a time your editor has been out late evenings, drunk in charge of a collie. Now a leaked document reveals Government proposals to force dog owners to take a “costly” competence test, and buy third-party insurance.
They would also have to pay for a microchip to be inserted recording the dog’s name and address, National Insurance number, bank details, paw prints, details of the animal’s sexual orientation and their political persuasion. All in the name of stopping them from biting the postman.
Well why not? It’s not as if the nation has any other problems right now. The economy is sorted, the various wars all won, racial tensions abated, poverty eliminated and the entire populace happy and content. Yes, let’s allocate some taxpayer-funded resources to our canine friends. Will there be a special multimillion pound quango appointed, do you think?
But it goes deeper than this. The Daily Moaner can reveal that there are sinister plans to extend the scheme to domestic cats (believed to kill thousands of other animals every night), hamsters, gerbils and “miscellaneous small animals less than 40mm in length, that can be kept in a matchbox “.
And this programme will continue indefinitely until Gordon Brown is in control of every life-form on the planet. And after that –
Space — the Final Frontier…
One of the best political blogs around is John Ward’s The Slog. Not only does it report a lot of sense, but it has a wonderfully restful background colour. And it is very often correct with its advance intelligence.
Good design with good writing. Even the commenters are sensible… well, sometimes. You can read it here. We have just added it to our blogroll.
Currently it’s reporting that Gordon is now admitting that relations with Alistair Darling are “difficult”. And that Darling is thinking that “That man has got to go.” It’s just like Brad and Angelina. Who would have thought? Read it for yourself here.
According to the Slog’s sources, A Labour insider has said that if they should win the election, the first task would be getting shot of Gordon. Exactly the same task to be done if they lose the election!
Whilst posting our Wanker of the Year item below, on the wit and wisdom of Nigel Farage, your always illeistic editor (look it up!) was alerted by the butler to a visitor at the main door to the East Wing. It turned out to be Mr Chris Skidmore, the Conservative candidate for the district.
A pleasant conversation was had on the doorstep, during which Mr Skidmore learned of the Daily Moaner’s basic beliefs; namely, that all power-seekers are in it for themselves and what they can get out of it. Chris Skidmore was far too polite to deny this.
Likewise, when asked about the huge and ghastly Cameron poster and its resemblance to Chairman Mao’s (see here), he didn’t venture an opinion. Though he did agree with your editor’s restrained and considered opinion that Farage was a complete and utter wanker. Such political nous in one so young…
We cannot tell, of course, whether Mr Skidmore is a demon from the sixth circle of hell. Much too early for that. There was no discernable hint of brimstone. He cast a shadow, which many politicians are unable to do. He seemed a nice bloke. But then, so did Tony, after we’d had ”thirteen years of Conservative misrule.”
And in the bumf leaflet which he kindly left, he promises he will never abuse the voters’ trust, never claiming for food, furniture or household goods, and not making a profit with our money.
But then, they all say that…
Oh the noises coming from Parliament this morning! Our elected representatives (read: pack of lying, crooked bastards ) are bellowing like trapped mastodons being sucked down into the primordial ooze. There are screams of rage and fury from the wounded beasts, and the whole House has a faint whiff of rotten eggs.
We’ve had Sir Stuart Bell swearing blind that the Legg report will “draw a line under the whole affair”, and that the scandal wouldn’t influence voters. Yeah… he wishes. And we’ve seen Ann Widdecombe complaining in that fingernails-on-blackboard voice about the report’s unfairness.
Honest Dave Cameron was door-stepped by the TV cameras, and proclaimed that from now on Parliament would be a better and cleaner place, full of knights in white satin and fairy princesses. Though it was noticeable that his blink-rate was abnormally high.
Now we have Paul Clark, who used to be a transport minister, being ordered to repay £11,407 because he couldn’t provide the paperwork. Anyone who has ever dealt with the Revenue knows that when you tell them the dog ate your certificate of interest, they tell you to get something called a copy from your bank or mortgage provider. And if you can’t – or won’t – they quite rightly assume that the paperwork never existed in the first place.
As the song says — it’s getting mighty hard to find an honest man.
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