Thought for the Day from The Young Man With a Wire in His Ear

‘Morning. Old Archie calls me The Young Man With a Wire in His Ear. I do have a name, but if I told you what it is, I’d have to kill you. Only joking. Sort of. Anyway, I said to Archie, I said, look Archie, I know your schedule backwards; I go everywhere with you (apart from the bog, but there’s a P56 minicam in there) and even though I think you’re a bit wet and posh, I have to admit you’ve got guts and your heart’s in the right place. That’s why I let you think I don’t know how you smuggle your TftDs out of the Palace. And I like the fact that you had a pop at those little bleeders at Wonga although all that guff about “What would Jesus have done?” doesn’t cut it with me. The odd inexplicable house fire and some very explicit stuff in Inboxes (untraceable, natch), and dead rats turning up in tumble dryers would have floated my boat.

     

But I suppose the Arch of Cant can’t really waltz about the place roughing up the bad guys. I’ve always found that a good going over, a pre-emptive smack in the gob, so to speak, works wonders in the mind-changing department. You’re a bit on the puny side though, aren’t you? So you’ve got to do it your way. And I’ll do it mine. But I’ll be doing it for you and yours, Archie. I’m part of the great Unseen. I alter stuff. Look at those money-lending leeches who are about to appear before a Parliamentary Sub-Committee. They don’t HAVE to be there. But after a visit from myself and Brenda (PGRU - Pain Gets Results Unit), Wonga and the other greasy little creeps decided that they should. Don’t worry, the marks won’t show.

       

What I’m trying to say, Archie is – I’m on your side. You’re one of the good guys. So when it's all looking a tad hopeless; when your patience and understanding are getting you absolutely zilch then suddenly main planks of the opposition (a lot of them ARE planks) have heart attacks in Spanish Jacuzzis, or peg out after a spot of skinny-dipping in Coniston Water, that’ll be the Young Man With a Wire in His Ear doing what Jesus probably wouldn’t have done.

See ya!

On This Day...

Five Years Ago

It was an expensive round in the clubhouse for golfer Geoff Slewitt, who for the third time in a week landed a hole in one at Piddinghoe. As before, the feat was slightly marred by misdirection, the ball having been sliced each time off the 4th tee to land in the nearby hole of the 3rd green alongside.

Ten Years Ago

'Into The Void: New Perspectives on the Nihilistic Trope in Visual Perception' was the arresting title of the degree show put on at Bootle College of Art by final year student Troy Biles. Visitors to the Private View found an empty space, devoid of content, but warmly praised for its boldness by department lecturers, London critics and collectors from around the country. There was also interest shown by potential buyers from across the Atlantic. Respecting the key principles underpinning the exhibition, Biles chose not to attend in person.

Thirty Years Ago

Armed police equipped with tranquilliser darts surrounded a Cumbrian Mint Cake Factory believed to have been broken into by Minnie the Missing Marmot, absent for twelve days from the nearby High Hills Wildlife Park and Rainforest Visitor Centre. A Press blackout was put in force by senior police officers, keen to avoid a stand-off situation between man and marmot.

Fifty Years Ago

Hoots of disbelief and derision greeted the keynote speech delivered to the Annual Conference of Town Planners meeting in Harrogate. Visionary architect and radical thinker Ernst Scheidtweiler asked a packed hall to imagine a Britain in the 21st century with town centres where butcher and baker, greengrocer and draper were no longer to be found, their spaces filled instead with coffee shops, nail bars, tattoo parlours and hairdressing salons, with the odd betting-shop, charity outlet or discount store thrown in for good measure. Quizzed on the likelihood of shoppers then all travelling between home and town centre by jetpack, the Swiss guru described instead a vision of town centres criss-crossed by people on planks with small wheels. This drew further laughter.

Pangolin Obituaries

Carl-Gustav-Kustardt 
Sept 1919 - Dec 2013

Inventor of the ever-so-slightly ginger hairpiece beloved of balding men the world over, Carl-Gustav was also famous for keeping a bowl of whelks inside his jacket.

Peacefully at home.

Major Anton de Ferette, MC, DSO, KGB, RSPCA, GCSE.
Aug 1921 - Nov 2013

Much decorated liar and scoundrel, de Ferrette was the darling of London society during the inter-war years. Much has been written about his exploits as a double agent and bounder.

He is remembered by Dougal McTeeth, Scots curling cheat as 'That one-eyed bastard who still owes me fifteen and sixpence'.

Season of Good Will Wossnames

Well! Nice, fuzzy, touchie-feelie, funny Boris has morphed into what he really is; a rich Tory baron who honestly believes that he is one of the Princes of the Universe. 

Greed is good. High IQ is good, and if you're not rich it's because you're STUPID. If his speech didn’t bear directly on to this government’s policies it would be funny; Pythonesque in its veneration of privilege. Boris pointed out that some people in the UK have an IQ of 80. Well of course they have, you Old Etonian duffer! The average IQ is 100. 80 provides one of the figures required to arrive at an average, DOPE! 

    

Then this silver spoon-fed toff (IQ at least 267) went on to outline a society which in part exists already, where the rich (greedy intelligent people) get richer and the poor (those, according to Boris’s thinking, with an IQ of 100 or less) either stay poor or get poorer. That is happening even as I type. 

This has caused some consternation among Pangolin staff. Despite all appearances to the contrary, some of the crew have an IQ well in excess of the 130 points required to join the Boris Band of the élite, and are wondering what's been happening to their pocket money. Uncle Tarquin was sufficiently exercised to be seen walking up and down on the hearth rug in his carpet slippers, muttering something about having met a rich person once: "Boring, talentless git. Hadn't even made a forest with mashed potato and broccoli florets when eating his (public) school dinner..."

Murgatroyd (who, you will recall, is a particularly fine example of manis pholidota) scratched his nose with the tip of his tail and pondered. "So the top 2% IQ-wise are the richest? Is this stupid apology for a yard brush really trying to tell us that the Beckhams have brain cells? Doubt they could scrape together 130 points between 'em!"

     

What of compassion, Boris? What of the little old ladies who find that the £200 heating allowance –  probably no more than you and your privileged cronies would spend on a half-way decent bottle of wine – isn’t enough to keep them warm?

     

Anyway, let’s hope that Boris’s speech helps put an end to the Tories’ disgraceful feudal rule. Our lovely Miasma - who admits to having a bit of a crush on Boris - said "I just wish he'd shut up. He's just such an adorable little weebly-bum when he keeps his trap shut. And he's just such a totally unadorable little fascist eugenicist whenever he opens it. But he looks so adorable when he carries a yard brush...."

   

Elsewhere in Pangolinland we’re wondering about Scots independence and as with the ongoing stupidity with HS2, failing to see how that will work financially. Maybe England should push for independence from Scotland.

   

Happily, Old Bill (senior citizen who helps around the office) got his battered little Alfa 147 back from the menders after it was smashed up by a street-orc [IQ unknown] and it looks wonderful and can now resume its runabout duties whilst the big beast Jag remains in the garage, only growling forth for longer journeys.