Hello Reekers,
I'm still transmitting from Lum Central, the revolting hordes have not stormed the winter palace gates just yet, no shots have yet been heard from the Potemkin, and Prince Andrew is still a towering tw@
Hold the phone, did you say twat? Yes I did.
Apparently The Duke of York is an obnoxious, arrogant, rude, nob of a man who travels the world being helicoptered on to golf clubs and schmoozing with Balkan mafia politicians and Arab dictators so that they will choose good old blighty to go shopping for their new fighter jets and land mines. Jeez, who knew?
Well, I think if we're honest, we all suspected he was a bit cocksure, by that I mean, we were sure he was a cock, but we were willing to forgive a little because of the Koo Stark memories and also the fact he's not Prince Edward. His wife is a liability right enough, but hey, he wasn't the first and certainly won't be the last to make an ill judged marriage proposal , and remember the gene pool he had to choose from, its very concentrated, therefore very thick.
Wikipeadia made it semi-official a couple of months ago, when those paragons of gentlemanly discretion and modesty, the Americans revealed, through an ambassador that had been exposed to The Dukes diplomatic skills, that he was rude, arrogant and by all accounts, thick as mince. I think they were probably jealous of his all round ability on those fronts.
Genocidal Slavic generals and absolute Arab monarchs are one thing, once you go buddying about with a extremely rich and influential paedophiles, it has to be the final piece of miners kit that gets the roo-a-bucking. Add the fact that his ex-wife, who I think is a registered charity in 180 countries, has been receiving some hand-outs from the old perv, I expect with The Prince's full knowledge, well, it all adds up to breeze blocks on the gravy train line. Its time for quiet withdrawal to a ridiculous country estate, preferably one of his mums (ours) and not one belonging too a Russian steel mill owning billionaire.
I pushed my own little boat out just a tad too far the other night.
An adhoc convergence of Olympic Security experts, and me, occurred in unfamiliar surroundings. Like the planets aligning, or the one night when old turtles crawl up the beach to lay there eggs, this was an event that only happens maybe a couple of times a month.
An unfamiliar pub because we all wanted to sit down after a day of Olympic herculean work efforts, and not be jostled by the 24 year old Barclay's bankers out enjoying their million pound bonus money and resulting jolly japery.
This stand-by venue had a more traditional feel, especially when it came to the beers on tap. No Peroni, the new sharp Italian, in the classy glass, pulled from an enormous, hard, eye-catching ceramic dildo shaped tap. What I like about Peroni is the fact it is either free of chemicals that cause me hangovers, or so full of anti-hang over chemicals that I almost never have one in the morning. Nope, I had to take a step back to pre-Peroni days and go with the Kronenbourg 1664. A fine, fruity beer I always thought, refreshing and fullsome and French.
Just like I will never visit France again because of the surly natives, third world toileting arrangements and believe it or not, the crappy food, so I will not be visiting Kronenbourg again.
I miraculously tottered home, but woke in the morning with a lot of bad Franco-noise going on in my head. There was a French Farmers blockade, burning veal calves and peasants driving muck spreaders down the boulevards, lorry drivers crawling down the A1 honking horns and smelling, Charles De Pompous Gaule stomping his fists and looking down his nose at me and the impassable Maginot line, being passed, in quite a fast and loose manner.
None of the good French things, like baguettes, just the noisy shitty stuff. Its Peroni for me from now on, until it makes me feel like Mussolini hanging by his ankles from a lamp post.
Lang may yer lum reek
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