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.