Sir Underpants, for services to Parliamentary Standards. Arise, Sir Chris.
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Lady Sir Brian for making a lot of noise and requiring our dear late departed Queen to wear earplugs.
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The chronicles of Ruin, continued. Call me Ishmael said....intelligence is knowing what to do when you don't know what to do. Anonymous said... When I don't know what to do,I come here. 10 September 2009 22:59
6 comments:
Lady Sir Brian increasingly reminds me of the later (and now entirely late) Jan Morris, Trans Pioneer (and fine writer/mountaineer). Cross-currents.
It could be my New Year sherry, though.
France's contribution to civilisation: Madame La Guillotine.
A sidebar to the recent Ghost Town comments, mr mongoose. In case you've not seen this already :
https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-coventry-warwickshire-63871358
Fascinating story, mr verge, thanks for the link. Images swimming up from sixty years ago. mr ishmael lived in Coventry before he and I got together, and was very fond of the place, particularly the markets, the bombed Cathedral and Lady Herbert's Garden. Always an insomniac, he wandered the city at night and was unfortunate enough to discover a dead man in his car at the city's Memorial Park. I've never found a deceased person, despite my daily walks with Harris. It's always the dog walker stumbles across the ill-concealed corpse in the undergrowth, in Midsummer Murders, but, like much of the fictional murder industry, it is utter nonsense. Murder is seldom the result of cunning planning to achieve a fortune, freedom from an inconvenient spouse or revenge - usually it is sudden, violent and the victim is young and male. Or your wife - because she was asking for it.
Anyway, I really didn't care for Coventry. My work often required me to visit the place, and, before satnavs, the city was a horror to navigate and in which to find a handy car park. Much of it was the fault of the inner ringroad, a post-war city reconstruction planning nightmare - a truly nasty road that tightly circles the city, with exits that you are supposed to dart down to the region of the city you wish to visit - but the traffic goes at racing speeds on that high speed noose around the city, the signs are confusing and on you before you know it and I would usually have to go around it three times before launching myself at an exit with hope clenched in my teeth and the certainty that I was going to be late again.
Even worse than these plonkers with their pretend honours, it now seems that the ginger twat has finally bit the hand that fed him.
Surely, Mrs I, Mr Ishmael has something prescient to say about this little turd? I'm not defending the rest of them, but he seems to have totally lost the plot.
Ah, mr mike, mr verge has recently been editing mr ishmael's writings about the Angry Ginger Bastard, for Volume 4 of the Chronicles of Ruin and I'll repost them shortly for your delectation and delight.
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