Exam fever.

Whilst Nick Clegg has been sunning himself at taxpayers expense in Rio, Michael Gove has been setting the educational cat amongst the pigeons. His proposed changes to the school examination system, has elicited the usual Pavlovian reaction from the opposition benches and the teaching profession. "It will divide children into winners and losers."

He has incurred their wrath by proposing to abolish the current GCSE's and return to the more rigorous GCE's, as a way of raising standards.

To help my readers understand the implications of these changes, I have managed to obtain a draft copy of the new GCE sample maths examination questions, so that we can compare it with a real GCSE maths question, from 2008.

2008 exam question.

Q1. Here is a sequence of multiples of 3.

3 6 9 12 15 __  __

Write down the next 2 numbers in the sequence.

This kind of question will be replaced by the following draft sample question, from the new GCE's

Q1. At 10 am this morning, the UK national debt stood at £1,053,531,170,830. Calculate how long it would take you to pay back your share if:

A. You work for 24 hours per week filling shelves at minimum wage in your local supermarket. Or

B. You have invested £3,300,000 in a K2 Jersey based fund.

Summer solstice

Unable to sleep for worrying that David Cameron might be planning to reassert the right of prime ministers to choose two candidates to present to the Queen, for the upcoming vacancy for the Archbishop of Canterbury. He would be bound to try to show how inclusive he is and make a complete hash of it, by choosing Peter Thatchell and Richard Dawkins. Neither of them would do. Dawkins, though having the gravitas for the role, is particularly unsound on doctrine, and Thatchell as we all know, is unreliable regarding ecumenical matters. So as I couldn't sleep, I resolved to drive down to Wiltshire, to see if I could find Rowan Williams and sound him out on his view as to who should become the next primate.

To my surprise, he wasn't watching the sun come up over Stonehenge as I had expected him to be. Apart from a few damp and dispirited hippies, there was just a rather splendid chap who professed to be Uther Pendragon, and that man who seems to spent his life in Coronation Street.

As none else seemed to be doing much, I blew on my rams horn to greet  the dawn, then sacrificed a goat on one of the sarsen stones. But the Auguries were against us, I have never seen a less propitious set of entrails. The future of the Church of England does not look promising, if my goat is anything to go by.

Tax that

In an effort to boost flagging readership numbers, newspapers often drip feed what should be minor stories, to eke them out still further. So it is with the story of tax avoiding celebrities. Rich people have dodged their tax bills and failed to render unto Cesar, that which was cesars. This is scarcely a shock horror story. People have always  tried to lessen their tax liabilities, companies do it and so do even newspapers.

The latest victim of this faux outrage, are the members of the ex teen heartthrob singing group, Take that. They are alleged to have sheltered £26million in offshore banking. In particular the focus of the ire seems to be Gary Barlow, who recently received an OBE for organising the Queens Jubilee Concert. There are even calls for her majesty to take that back. Oh dear, bang goes the knighthood that singers seem to get if they hang around for long enough.

The concert seemed to be a rum do, but I decided not to comment at the time, as I did not want to upset an 85 year old on what should have been a happy day for her. Whilst her 91 year old husband was recovering in hospital, Mr Barlow had some very strange ideas about what might cheer her up. Firstly there was a 71 year old Welshman  bragging about killing someone with a knife. Then, we had a Jamaican lady, also called Jones, who was most notably famous for hitting a chat show host with her handbag, her contribution seemed to consist of practising her hoola hooping skills. The Queen, it is understood, prefers to listen to classical music. It is no wonder that she took the precaution of wearing earplugs. Take back his OBE, she should have sent him to the tower!

Taking the Mickeyleaks

Tiring of living at Ellingham Hall, a grace and favour mansion in Norfolk, Julian Assange has decided that he would prefer a nice long holiday in Ecuador instead. I can understand the attractions of the country, after all it is home to some of the Andean Condors, a distant relative of our own dear Lammergeiers.

This change of scene however; has left some of his celebrity chums in the lurch, as they will now be expected to pay the £200,000 cost of his stay here.

Spoilt for choice, he has apparently turned down the opportunity for a holiday in Sweden, worried that it might as these things do, get out of hand and end up finding himself stuck in America, a country that he has said on numerous occasions that he does not want to visit.

Australians are very often noted for their unorthodox methods of travelling the world and Mr Assange is more unorthodox than most. You or I might contact a travel agent and book our holiday through them, some people these days book theirs through the magic of the interweb. Perhaps he is frightened that they might go bust, as some of them are wont to do at this time of the year, so he has come up with an ingenious solution to his dilemma.

He simply turned up at their embassy in London and demanded that they give him a free trip there. The Ecuadorians are said to be considering the implications of offering him the equivalent of a deluxe package tour.

He may simply have been put off from returning to his native Australia, by thinking it is not safe. Recent reports of dingos eating babies may have coloured his thinking. But the case that they are referring to is over 30 years old and he looks too big for that fate to overtake him. 

My advice would be for him to go  back home. Providing he keeps away from the outback and some of the spiders, he should be perfectly safe.

Laughing all the way to the offshore bank.

Poor Jimmy Carr. It is symptomatic of the profligate times that we live in, that he is being pilloried for trying to save some money for his old age. Out of 1,000 people who have used a Jersey based tax avoidance scheme, he seems to be the only one who has been named and shamed. Thank goodness that I remain largely anonymous and that the papers don't know where I keep my money!

I hadn't realised being a television comedian could be so profitable. £3,300,000 is the figure he is alleged to stashed away.That's 50% more than a Clegg and nearly 3/4 of a Cameron! I shall have to view his tv appearances in a new light after today. Perhaps he would have been left alone if he had invested some of his money in one of Georgie Osborne's exiting new infrastructure bonds.

 But if a man who is involved in tv can manage to save so much money in such a relatively short period of time, then he must be the ideal candidate for the vacancy of Director General of the BBC. I shall await his appointment with interest!

Baracking Obama

For those of us 'Brits' who still admire America and what it came to represent, the most recent news about their fantasist in chief, will sadly come as no surprise. We became used to his studied insults and betrayals, a long time ago and now cease to count them all. From his very first act of sending back the bust of Winston Churchill. to the ultimate treachery of giving the Russians the serial numbers of our nuclear weapons, we despair quietly of the ill mannered oaf who talks over our national anthem.

Now it seems that his antipathy towards us has been based upon a lie. It has been claimed that during the Mau Mau rebellion in in his native Kenya, the British tortured and imprisoned his grandfather. This was supposed to be the basis of Obamas coolness towards us. Despite his claims, it never happened. We didn't imprison his grandfather and we certainly didn't torture him. I don't suppose we'll get an apology.

Meanwhile, today we welcomed a fellow Nobel Peace Prize Laureate, returning after 23 years or so away. The difference between him and Ang San Suu Kyi, couldn't be more striking. Throughout the long years of her imprisonment under house arrest, she impressed the outside world with her quiet dignity and humility. So perhaps he could earn his award by spending a similar amount of time under house arrest, when he is ousted from office, later on this year.

Or, if he wishes to emulate another recipient of the Nobel Prize, Nelson Mandela, who also spent a similar amount of time, 22 years, imprisoned on Robben Island, I'm sure it could be arranged, if it was the will of public opinion. After all, there is a ready made island jail in San Francisco Bay. It shouldn't cost much to reopen it again.!

Back of the hairnet

After our nail biting, historic and sensational draw against France, tight lipped England manager, Roy Hodgson, was in a voluble and buoyant mood. "Footballs coming home and so are we, we already have our flights booked," he told a packed press gallery. "Soon our Toad in the hole, Wayne Rooney will be back and then there will be no stopping us."

I remain optimistic, but slightly sceptical about his claims for success for the tournament. Wayne Rooney may be coming back after his suspension, but there may be trouble brewing already. His much vaunted £30,000 hair transplant may be thinning. The photographic evidence may be conflicting, but dare he risk the threat of Lammergeiers mistaking his bald head for a rock. As he runs towards goal, he doesn't want to have to keep glancing skywards to make sure that a tortoise is not about to drop on him, like the terrible tragedy that befell Aeschylus. 

The Wags joining the England squad may prove to be a blessing. Let us hope that they provide a distraction, but I am not entirely convinced that it will fool a Lammergeier.

More questions than answers

Yesterday, a shadowy figure emerged from in hiding to give evidence at the Leveson Enquiry. With his big clunking fist, he lashed out at people whom he could not remember, angered by the conversations that he couldn't recall having with them.

Giving his evidence, Gordon Brown evaded giving the answer to the two most important questions that he could answer. Where on earth has he been and what has he been doing for the past two years?

Haunted by his failure to win the last general election, he seems to have largely forgotten his constituency of Kirkaldy, speaking in only two debates in the past year. No doubt the worthy citizens of Kirkaldy have become even more abject and downtrodden by the vicious, callous Tory swine, as a result of this neglect. There seems to be so many gaps in his memory that one wonders if the poor man might be suffering from early onset Alzheimer's disease. If this is so, it is clearly another case for Dr. Andy Burnham.

I like to think that he has been composing romantic poetry, full of passion and unfulfilled longing. To the skirl of his pipes, he drees his weird amongst the heather of rain lashed Rannoch Moor, with only the wild red deer and the odd cappercaillie for company.

Alas, I fear that this is not the case and as well as drawing his mp's salary and expenses, he has been giving highly paid talks in America, Nigeria and India, to fund other activities. 

 

Art for arts sake

To the Hayward gallery this morning as I was told that there is a new exhibition that I really should attend. I've never been an admirer of this 1960's brutalist architecture, but ever one to contemplate fine art, I put aside my prejudices about the building and resolved to go. The admission charge was £8, which was a bit steep when one considers that the National Gallery is free, but for a few hours entertainment, was not wholly unreasonable.

The exhibition was called Invisible Art, but I am afraid that I couldn't see anything in it. Room after room was empty. I thought that they hadn't yet got around to hanging up the art, but no, this was it, finished.

If Ralph Rugoff thinks that this any way to run an art gallery, then he is a bigger fool than I am.

Left behind

The shocking news that David Cameron left his daughter behind in the pub, does not in the least surprise me. I myself, have left any number of children behind in pubs. The greedy little blighters never stump up the cash when it is their turn to buy a round. So if they can't be bothered to pay their way, then let them find their own way back home.

But as he is seen as a caring Conservative, I doubt very much that David Cameron would have taken this robust view of the misery caused by childish misers. Perhaps he was momentarily distracted by that well known sufferer of Restless Arms Syndrome, Ed Balls. In which case, it is perfectly understandable that he left the child behind in a momentary lapse of concentration., anyone would have done the same. My copy of The Guardian is strangely silent on the matter of his whereabouts.

I would hesitate to suggest that he has taken to stalking David Cameron, we must all presume that he is innocent and was nowhere near the place at the time. But until The Guardian reassures me on the matter, I fear I shall not rest easy.

Euro 2012

Less than 48 hours after Euro 2012 started, Spanish Prime Minister Mariano Rajoy, has already announced that it is a victory for Spain. The size of their bailout was 100 billion Euros, so I can't really see how he can claim it as a victory. So far, Greece has had over 300 billion, so by my reckoning the score is 3-1 to Greece. With this sort of adding up, it is no wonder that they are in financial trouble.

Ireland has had 85 billion in loans and Portugal has a paltry 78 billion. So it is doubtful that they will make it through to the next round. 

Since the politicians and bankers have spent the equivalent of 5 Facebooks, propping up the Euro, a sum even I find incredible, perhaps it could be left to the footballists. The team that wins the tournament, get their country the next round of bailout funds. It would give the teams something to play for and lets be honest, it can't be any worse an economic solution than the ones that have been tried.

Restless Ed

Unable to sleep last night, for worrying about poor Ed Balls. Eagle eyed television viewers will have spotted him slumped on the opposition front benches at PMQ's, his hands making drinking or throat cutting gestures towards the government. Uncharitable observers have claimed that it is a bullying attempt to distract David Cameron when he is saying something. It is my belief however, that he is suffering from  a little known affliction called Restless Arm Syndrome. Sufferers report that they are prone to making involuntary arm and hand movements at inappropriate moments, causing them much embarrassment. A comparison could be made to the more familiar verbal condition, Tourettes syndrome.

Now his condition seems to have deteriorated. He has recently commissioned a survey into finding out why people seem to dislike him. Normally I believe that a person should be free to spend their money how they choose to. But this is a worrying development, possibly indicating delusional paranoia, which is clearly a worrying development in his condition, indicating that things have taken a turn for the worse.

One possible cause for this may be something as simple as an iron deficiency, brought upon by his diet. Ed has become quite well known for hosting frequent dinner parties for his posh chums in the Labour party, in an effort to make them like him more. He seems to be feeding them exclusively on Lasagna and Eton Mess and herein lies his problem. Any dietician would have told him that he needs to have more variety in his diet. I blame Andy Burnham, the labour health spokesman for not doing his job properly by giving him some advice.

He could try eating peacock for a change, as I suggested to the residents of Banks yesterday, but I fear that the sauce poivrade would be too much for his delicate stomach and that he should stick to plainer food for a while. Lord Archer used to host some shepherds pie and champagne parties, perhaps he could give him some recipies and advice, if Andy Burnham won't.

Ostenatious consumption

The residents of Banks, a small village near Southport, have been overun with a plague of peacocks. Speaking from experience, I can fully sympathise with their plight. They may be beautiful creatures, but the noise that they can kick up, especially at night, can be horrendous. Also, they are destoying bedding plants on their gardens and one has even taken to vandalising a greenhouse. Something must be done, and I think that I might be able to help here.

There is some remarkably good eating on a peacock. An average sized one will feed about 6 people, so it is something that is clearly worth trying. Roasted they can be quite delicious, but I find that the meat tends to be a little dry and will require frequent basting during cooking. People who want to show off, may find that skinning the bird with the feathers intact before cooking and then replacing them just before it is served, will impress ones dinner guests. Especially so, if one can persuade the local urchins to dress up as cherubs and accompany the dish to the table. But I have found that this only works if one has a string quartet to provide a musical accompaniment, Vivaldi for preference, but you may have your own ideas. However: even in these days of mass unemployment, it is hard to justify the expense of employing half a dozen urchins and a string quartet to accompany your main course to the table. Your dinner guests might also think that you must be some sort of vulgar Russian oligarch to do such a thing, and worry that it might be laced with polonium.

My favourite way of eating peacock,  is cold and thinly sliced. Serve it with a sauce poivrade. and a glass or two of lightly chilled pinot noir.

The workers united.

News that the bus drivers in London are demanding an extra £500 for doing their jobs during the Olympics, fills me with a sense of great delight, causing me to reach for another bottle of the shipwrecked 1907 Heidsieck. These days, apart from a few reminders of our glorious past in museums and galleries, London is unbearable at the best of times. During the 17 day festival of running and jumping, it will be well nigh impossible. Boris can bluster about his routemasters all he likes, but as Margaret Thatcher once remarked, "anyone who is over 30 and has to rely on public transport is a failure in life."

The fares will have to rise to pay for the extra wages, pricing them out of the reach of many of their fellow workers.Then, they will have to reduce the number of bus services, throwing many of them out of work. At £70 per week,the congestion charges are keeping the poor from driving around. Soon, the only motor vehicles to be seen in London, will be the limousines of the wealthy. London may then become a civilised place again and I might once again book a suite at Claridges.

Alternatively, they could look elsewhere for drivers to do the jobs. With 7 weeks to go, there is quite enough time to sack the current lot and recruit and train some new ones.  A Mr Schwalbe, from Doncaster, claims to have applied for over 200 jobs, without success, as he has too many qualifications. He looks just the sort of chappie that they should be employing.

Road to nowhere

He couldn't put taxes on pasties and caravans. A quick rummage down the back of the sofa didn't turn up much beyond the odd sock and a few stale blue chips. So wee Georgie Osbourne has to find some money from somewhere else. He's looking to renovate the country and needs lots of money. Billions of it in fact. And that, is an awful lot of wallpaper.

So he has hit on a new wheeze and I think that this time, he might finally have had a good idea. He wants to cadge some money from the rest of us, that bit the wiser ones amongst us who've got something squirrelled away. If he can get the money, from bonds that are usually issued in wartime, then he plans to spend it on the infrastructure, roads etc. Transportation superhighways.

With a few obvious reservations, this could be the most sensible idea he's had in 2 years. Naturally of course, if I'm going to lend him some money, then I would want a reasonable return on my investment. Something a bit better than what I get from the 2nd bank of Lichtenstein, might tempt me.

Secondly, I would like some recognition of my contribution to the greater good. The honours system is debased enough, so it would have to be something different. There are precedents for this. A small town in New Mexico, originally called Hot Springs, changed it's name to that of a quiz show and did rather well when it became Truth or Consequences. This could be extremely popular. If he plays his cards right, this could be a blockbuster of an idea and wouldn't be the weakest link in his financial strategy.

Certainly, I see no problem with corporate sponsorship getting in on the act, after all, they are the ones with the most readily available wads of cash and it might also have the added bonus of them wanting to move their corporate headquarters there. Nothing could signal better that Britain is open for business than naming places after businesses. What is wrong with Kentucky Fried Chingford, or Starbuckinghamshire?

Whilst I wouldn't want to sponsor the whole infrastructure of a town, I might want to have an initial small investment, to see how it was doing, before I committed myself further.

I rather think that the Laammergeier layby has a pleasant enough ring to it.

Blue sky thinking

Whilst we were dancing round the wicker Fabian last night, In London one figure was sadly missing at the concert. For most of us, throughout our lives, he has been a central figure in all of our great state occasions. A man born into a hereditary privilege. Not the Duke of Edinburgh;  we know that he missed the concert due to illness. I myself have been laid low by a surfeit of Lampreys on more than one occasion, so I can imagine what he must feel like.

I speak of David Dimbledore, son of Richard Dimbledore and brother to Johnathon, hereditary wizards of the airwaves, who have guided us through these great moments and told us what to think. Where on earth was he?

If the BBC cannot bother to wheel out one of the monarchs of the television and inflict mediocrities, spouting inanities upon us; one has to ask oneself the question, 'What is the point in having the BBC?'

One can now get water, gas and electricity from one of several companies. So why do we have to pay a compulsory tax if we want to watch another companies offerings. It should go the way of all things that have passed their time. Like the steam train, the BBC could be run by a collection of enthusiasts at the weekend and once in a while we could take a trip down BBC memory lane and feel all warm and nostalgic. Then after we had congratulated ourselves for doing so, could then return to the real world and how things are meant to be.

Panus Barmicus

Conservationists warned today about the catastrophic collapse in Liberal Democrat (Panus Barmicus,) numbers. Nationally they have seen a decrease of 20%  in the resident population. In some parts of the country, their numbers have declined by up to 40%, in just one year alone. As a species they are in serious danger of extinction by May 2015, unless something is done to help them. Their only hope may be a captive breeding programme, but experts doubt that they could find willing specimens to breed from, as many consider them to be unattractive.

A payment of just £12 per year, could help fund a Liberal Democrat in a wind farm near to you and you will receive a regular pamphlet on just what these shy reclusive creatures are up to. If you can't manage £12, then please send what you can to help save them to: Nick Clegg, 8-10 Great George Street, London. SW1P 3AE

Thank you. Your help could make all the difference.

Proud to be British.

Like the rest of the country, we were all up early to begin the day of celebrating the Diamond Jubilee of our most gracious soveriegn, her Majesty Queen Elizabeth the 2nd. As a nation, the doomsayers believe we may not have much of a future, but by golly, we showed them that we have a past. 

The lefties at the BBC no longer seem to understand our great national occasions and seemed to think that the biggest river pageant for several hundred years, watched by over 1 million people lining the banks of the Thames was best illustrated with jiving, cross dressing, celebrity babies.What they will make of a state funeral, God alone knows. The job should be handed to someone else.Their kindred republican spirits, at best 200 of them, in their gloomy silent cages, gave what they had advertised beforehand as the biggest anti monarchist demonstration for decades well out of harms way. And fortunately, the privately educated, anti elitist Trenton Oldfield, spared us from one of his synchronised swimming display.

Our estate villagers, know how to do these things properly and our proceedings brought quite a tear to my proprietorial eye. For the past week, they had been decorating their cottages and the main street with bunting made from old, unwanted copies of the Guardian and flannelette nightgowns.

Events were initiated in a grand style as the village children treated us to an  allegorical display commemorating last years riots, brought vividly to life through the medium of interpretive dance. Next, the formation lawnmowers of the Red Flymos, cut the village green in amusing and ingenious ways, to the delight and amusement of all. Then, as my own dear wife, Euphobia, led the way strewing her lavender and basil, we all trouped behind our Morris and Garland sides, to the ceremonial tapping of the barrel and the eagerly anticipated match between the Redcap and the Dumpie. Thanks to the effects of the Auld Squiffy, there was much ribald commentary and betting on the outcome. A match that ended later on in a coq au vin.

We all then went back to the village hall for lunch, where yet again, the ladies of the Womens Institute did us proud, with a magnificent spread of jellied snails and lambs tongues in aspic. And of course, no feast could be complete without dear Mr Romneys delicious jalapeno and haggis ice cream.

Tonight we shall conclude our festivities, by dancing round the wicker man. For this most special of occasions, we have bagged ourselves a Fabian.

A bit rich

Rich Ricci, is one of the wealthiest paid bankers in the country. This year he got paid £9.7 million in share bonuses alone. Last year his pay package came to £44 million, a large sum, even by my standards. Presumably, his employers, Barclays bank think that he is worth his salary and share option bonuses. One must also assume that without any evidence to the contrary, he pays his taxes full and promptly.

So naturally, he is symbolic of all the nasty greedy bankers that the left so hate. So equally naturally, there was a certain predictability of faux outrage, when he was caught buying tickets for the Euromillions lottery when the jackpot was worth £92 million. 

Given all of the opprobrium that he was heaped upon him, one would have thought he was in the same category as Iorworth Hoare, who won £7.2million, when he bought a ticket when he was on day release from his prison, sentence for rape. Or even the former dustman, turned Lotto yob, Mikey Carroll, who blew £9.7 million and ended up on benefits. 

Mr Ricci was guilty only of appearing to be greedy and foolish. Something we are all guilty of at times. It was surely worth a punt for a few pounds if the sum of £92. million, scarcely a trifling sum, was on offer. I might have been tempted myself. At least I would have sent one of the servants to get my tickets for me.

Of course it availed him nothing. In the end, nobody won. Least of all the papers that criticised him. Next Tuesday, the jackpot is £106 million. I might be tempted to have a punt myself. 

Chantilly Lace

The grand baron, Lord Peter Mandleson, has decided to spend the Jubilee weekend at a hotel in Chantilly, Virginia, along with a large group from his annual holidaying club, The Bilderberg Group. I fear he has made a grave mistake. Having scrutinised the list of attendees, I notice that a lot of the people who have gone there with him are bankers and politicians, so the jaunt promises to be a gloomy affair. 

Perhaps they have taken their advice from Robert Mugabe, the 88 year old newly appointed UN leader for tourism. I may be misjudging the place, but there doesn't seem a lot to do there. Certainly, there is a nearby Air and Space  Museum, if they find themselves at a loose end on a wet afternoon, that may interest some of them. But, I can't see it entertaining them for 4 days. They may end up having to talk to each other, something to be avoided when faced with holiday companions, who are also at a loose end.

Lord Mandleson may of course have rented his own house out for the weekend, in which case, it would be nice to think that he has turned a profit from the weekend.

Diamond Jubilee Weekend

In my role as Master of the Game of Fighting Cocks for her Majesty the Queen, (alas, a largely ceremonial role in these unhappy times,) I expect to be very busy this Diamond Jubilee weekend. Indeed; my own dear wife, as Strewer of the Royal Herbs, will be likewise engaged in her duties.

For the past two years, I have been selectively breeding Derbyshire Redcaps and  Scots Dumpies to have the perfect specimens to match against each other on the day. However; I have failed to elicit much interest from the official organisers, save for an impertinent visit from a constable and a hatchet faced birdwatcher from the RSPB. Similarly, when I put forward my request to Gary Barlow and Andrew Lloyd Webber, to compose something suitable for the occasion, they unaccountably failed to return my calls.

If this is what we can expect, then I fear it will be a shambles. I would not be surprised if Trenton Oldfield decided to have another bracing swim in the Thames this Sunday afternoon.

Fortunately, a barrel of Auld  Squiffy, persuaded the stout yeomen of our village to rally round and mark the occasion of the Queens Diamond Jubilee. We will  have our own procession through the village. As our local Morris side, The Balsamic Bounders and the Ladies Garland team, The Vinaigrette's, dance through the village to the traditional tune, 'Merrily kissed the Keynsian,' my wife will strew Lavender and Basil in their path. Once they have reached the old bear pit, they will be treated to the tapping of the barrel and a match between the Redcap and the Dumpie.

Going for Gold

It is thought that for reasons entirely unconnected with Lammergeiers, Vladimir Putin has decided that he will not be attending the Olympic Games, this summer.

I cannot say I blame him. Some of our competitors have been described as being either fat or ugly and to a man of his delicate sensibilities, I fear that it would be too much for him.

We now learn that the price of a beer in the stadiums, will be £7.23, a simple cup of tea, presumably in a plastic cup, will set you back £2.. Furthermore; If you try to circumvent these exorbitant charges by bringing your own drinks, then they will have the impertinence to confiscate your property.

Most of the Russians that I meet nowadays are billionaires, who wouldn't notice what to them would be trifling sums. But I fancy that like Vladimir, they will not be coming. They would rather spend their money on football teams and yachts.

Vladimir, is rich and powerful enough to organise his own games, with prisoners from the gulags, at his secret palace on the shores of the Black Sea. It might be quite fun to watch dissident writers and artists puffing their way round the 4 X 400 metre relay race. So if I hear of any more gloom and despondency about Boris's festival of games, then I shall take up his invitation.

Baldness and cancer

Poor Will.i.am Hague and Ian Duncan Smith. Not only do they have to cope with the ever present danger of a Lammergeier mistaking their bald head for rocks and dropping a tortoise on them, but now a new threat has emerged to worry them.

Researchers at the University of Toronto, have discovered that men who have gone bald early, can be up to twice as likely to get prostrate cancer, than other more hirsute males.

They could try having their bald heads tattooed with a drawing of a full head of hair, like the bass guitarist in the rock band Split Enz, is amusingly alleged to have done after shaving his head in the 1970's. It may work and if they are desperate, may consider giving it a go.

It may fool the researchers, but it won't fool the Lammergeiers for a moment.

Pasty faced

Poor Ed Milliband. Just when he thought that he could celebrate a minor victory and have a pasty/ party, the taste has turned to ashes in his mouth. One of his posh chums, has rather spoilt the pasty/ party for him. Speaking for the opposition, in the House of Lords, in an urgent debate on the matter that has gripped the nation, Lord Peston gave the game away.

Lord Peston proudly and brazenly asserted that he had never in all his life, consumed a Cornish pasty. But, he rather fancied that it might taste like Boeuf en Croute, something he seemed to enjoy very much. Honestly; these people are so out of touch with the common people. Sometimes I truly despair of the modern Labour Party. Whatever would Michael Foot have thought of them, as he marched all the way from the valleys to Aldermaston, with nothing but a piece of coal and a leek to sustain him on his journey.

Getting Pasty Joke

There was good news yesterday for Ed Milliband, when the government announced another U turn. They seem to be performing so many these days, that to the casual observer like myself, they seem to be going round in circles. So he must have been delighted at the climb-down on the proposed Vat changes, the so called pasty tax. 

Recently introduced to the gourmet delights of traditional Cornish pasties, by his posh chums, Ed Balls and Rachel Reeves, both of whom were educated at Oxford university. Doubtless, his delight is shared by another old chum, Baron Prescott of Kingston upon Hull. I do hope that this new found love of Cornish delicacies, does not wane if he encounters Stargazy pie at another photo opportunity. He would do well to remember the  faux pas allegedly committed by Lord Mandleson, when he was out electioneering with the lower orders. It is claimed that when he entered a working class fish and chip shop and placed an order, he asked for some of that guacamole to go it.

Yet another climbdown, this time over Vat increases on static caravans must have been good news too, for Margarett Beckett, well known for her love of caravanning holidays. A move that must have made a double celebration for Baron Prescott, as most of them are made in his part of the country. An area once described by Chaucer, as "a mersshy contree, called holdernesse." 

Flying to Moscow

Our dashing Foreign Secretary, Will.i.am. Hague, has flown to Russia to rap with his counterpart, Sergei Lavrov about the continuing crisis in Syria. The news doesn't tell me if he wing walked like his father does, when he gets into a plane. It would have certainly impressed macho hard man, Vladimir Putin. We might finally get something done then about this appalling regime and the barbarous massacre of innocent civilians in the town of Houla.

Rich Pickings

Was shocked this morning, to discover that David Cameron is worth a paltry £4 million. How the Prime Minister of our nation is expected to rub along on such a paltry sum, heaven only knows. I think I might take up a collection on his behalf. The big surprise for me was that the Deputy Prime Minister, Nick Clegg is worth an eye watering £2 million. Clearly I have been adressing my begging letters to the wrong person.

I nearly entered politics myself at the last election, but decided that the game wasn't worth a candle, when I found out just how miserly the parliamentary expenses allowances are. I abandoned the idea when I realised that I couldn't claim back the employments costs of my 2nd pastry chef. If a fellow can't have a biscuit when he wants to, there is no point in bothering with public service. No wonder Baroness Warsi has got herself into such a mess. She should have claimed that her main residence was her sisters back bedroom, like Jacqui Smith did.

Welcome to my world

Welcome to the first post, from my mountain retreat. The Lammergeiers have feasted and are resting before they swoop down on an eclectic mix of news that either did or didn't make the headlines. There are no hard and fast rules.

My blog is a fantasy and any resemblance to reality, may or may not be a coincidence.