Five giants unleashed

Upon a blasted heath, or in a very dark corner of a smoke filled room, or around the kitchen table in a Cotswolds mansion at ‘kitchen supper’ time, plots have been ruminated over, designed and put into action. Cold stone hearts drive the calculated rationalities of bureaucratised, intellectually bereft mindsets who can not see further than their own bank balances and a slow descent into senility. Horizons of expectation and hope have been so lowered that they barely reach the fetid scum ring line of a misused toilet in a backstreet brothel in Rochdale. Pettiness, fear and misanthropy are the guiding principles of social policy that not so much gets developed as oozes from under a slaughterhouse door like a pool of blood specked vomit looking for a dog. Blank eyes, behind them a vacuity of such sucking force a black hole would be jealous of, stare with barely concealed contempt at the need to think about social responsibility. The only thing they see is a gold coin being held in the hand of a starving child, a gold coin they think is rightfully theirs and therefore the prising of infant fingers from which can be justified. Tears do not move them, anguish is ignored, pain is relished as being good for building self reliance and character building. ‘Top Cornflakes’ rise to the top in the face of such adversity.

And so it is that families are shirkers, and homes paid for over 30 years must be sold. Pooling risk, so that individuals may be spared the trauma and bankrupting expense of personal tragedies, is anathema now. Beveridge’s five giant evils awaken, stir, blink, the reports of their death somewhat premature. They’ve been given new life by the austerity defibrillator and the life giving infusion of Brexit. Squalor surveys the landscape and smiles with delight at both gilded and burning towers; Want is pleased to see repositories for foodstuffs proliferate across the land like pustules on a teenagers face; Idleness delights itself as it transforms into a new form of gig activities which strengthens Squalor and Want’s grip around the citizen’s throat. Sickness revels in its ability to inflict its pain unequally and with increasing force, while Ignorance cannot believe the ease with which it has captured so many Oxbridge educated minds.

Ministerial nightmares pave the way for the dismantling of both Beveridge’s and Bevan’s dream. “I have a dream” has been replaced with “go fuck yourself, you lazy skiving (migrant) peasant”. Another dream, “The British Dream” drifts into our space like a wet vindaloo and Guinness generated fart. The dream only includes nice white people in the Home Counties and bits of Cheshire. ‘I’m alright Jack’ is now ‘I’m alright Rupert’ as Jack is far too working class and is not aspirational enough. Aspiration itself is the new Jerusalem upon a green hill far away, but upon closer inspection only a few have been given the map showing the hill’s location.

The blasted heath is deserted now, the smoke clears and the last supper in the Cotwolds has been eaten. Five giants stomp across the land while the plotters retire to Tuscan homes, comforted by fat pay checks and bonuses for setting them free.

May’s ‘Big Club’

 

George Carlin was, and Frankie Boyle is, a comedian. And it falls to comedians to, at times, spike the ideological and smug self serving petty bourgeois bubble that surrounds many politicians, a bubble that allows them to utter, on publically  funded platforms such as the BBC, complete codshit they allow to flow from their silver spooned throats like cancer inducing projectile vomit. George reminds us that there is a ‘Big Club‘, who don’t want you to know that “you are owned“. Members of this Club don’t “want a population of citizens capable of critical thinking“. The Big Club exists and “you ain’t in it“, because “good honest hard working people continue elect rich cocksuckers who don’t give a fuck about you” while they sell you the “American Dream”. Its a dream because you have to be asleep to believe it.

Frankie suggestsThe Conservative party doesn’t really do principle, it’s more of a pitch by elite interests at what they think the public might buy“. This pitch is fronted by cartoons such as Boris Johnson and latterly by  “Jacob Rees-Mogg, a composite figure drawn from the nightmares of 18th century millworkers. He looks like a Punch cartoon of the first giraffe in England, and maintains the general air of someone who has had a wank to the Book of Deuteronomy.”

A Tory somewhere will spot an opportunity and start printing ‘wipe clean’ old testaments. Jesus will weep.

We should not have to be reminded that the Tories represent the interests of Capital while simultaneously trying to convince us that having milk snatched from babies mouths, throwing the disabled in front of buses, telling the mentally ill to ‘pull themselves together and get a (zero hours) job’ is the best thing since discovering that your willy is a source of eternal gratification especially when you get someone else to stroke it.

Members of the Big Club in the UK often share a certain background, but not exclusively so…they manage to co-opt members of all classes, some of whom lemming like, leap willingly into the abyss while some of their peers push them over the edge singing ‘Rule Britannia’.

Our society is riddled with contradictions. We complain about a health and social care service being brought to its knees like a catholic choir boy being forced to swallow the acrid jizzum of Capital’s High Priests while being told it tastes like honey and yet we don’t want to ‘tax the rich’ in case they take fright and hide away. We gawp at, and cheer on, one London based couple receiving State handouts because they talk posh, are pretty and went to a decent school while baying for the blood of other State supported couples who have the temerity not to be born in a gilded tower in Mayfair but to have lived in some other smoke stacked tower in Kensington.

Frankie writes: “The contradictions of our society are managed by having an elite class who have internalised them, often through attending public school and Oxbridge (Oxbridge is a compound term formed from the words obnoxious and privilege). What we often think of as the self belief instilled by an elite education is really a kind of class exceptionalism, a belief that privilege is earned through talent and hard work, against all of the available evidence“.  Don’t confuse an ‘elite’ education’ with ‘education’.

Theresa May had an education. This included St. Juliana’s Convent School for Girls, a Roman Catholic independent school. When she was 13, May won a place at the former Holton Park Girls’ Grammar School, a state school in Wheatley. May then attended the University of Oxford where she read geography at St Hugh’s College, graduating with a second class BA degree.

I’m assuming the geography she read at Oxford included the ‘Ladybird of Book of the British Empire’, Capitalism for Dummies’ and ‘How to Airbrush History’.

Recently May stated “A free market economy, operating under the right rules and regulations, is the greatest agent of collective human progress ever created. It was the new combination which led societies out of darkness and stagnation and into the light of the modern age … That is unquestionably the best, and indeed the only sustainable, means of increasing the living standards of everyone in a country“.

May either does not know or wilfully ignores the fact that the ‘free market’ bit is bollocks, that neoliberalism is all rhetoric, not reality, one which serves the interests of Oligarchs and Plutocrats.  That the notion of ‘progress’ is blind to the past and present human suffering required to create it, that to call other eras, and human societies that exist or have existed ‘darkness and stagnation’ is the arrogance of Anglo-American modernity…a modernity that is consuming itself, the biosphere and the planet. May is the product of a petty bourgeois home, spouting petty bourgeois platitudes, to a petty bourgeois audience whose tears of joy at such banalities flow as acid to the hopes, dreams and ambitions of billions.

The Big Club cheers while it watches its rentier and casino finance wealth pile up in untouchable tax havens. The arms dealers, the tobacco Lords, the military-industrial complex, the fossil fuel and media Barons, shower themselves with praise and dividends while the little people are distracted by two morons with an arsenal of nuclear weapons whose size is only matched by ego.

 

Ein Bisschen Muscheln Penisneid

Photo by Sebastian Spindler on Unsplash

Psychoanalysts in the US have been examining detailed evidence provided by professors in projectile physics (rocket scientists) at the Bikini Atoll Institute for the Study of Ionising Radiation, University of Hawaii, following the testing of nuclear weapons in the Pacific. As the radioactive fall out settled down into the aquatic food chain, detailed psychological profiling using data found in marine life, revealed a long suspected but to date unconfirmed thesis. Notwithstanding the difficulty of extrapolating conclusions from the study of molluscs’ post blast mating behaviour, a eureka moment occurred to scientists when observing two mussels (glowing bright green at this stage) facing each other and sticking out their little elongating pink feet from under their shells. The dimunutive molluscs did this in rapid succession as if to compare the size of their tiny muscles (no pun intended). A limitation to the analysis was the requirement to anthropomorphise this behaviour in order to apply the findings to the already documented psychodynamic behaviour in humans. A key factor was the use of the nuclear weapon and its ionic radiative effect on aquatic fauna, who in response to being bathed in the fallout displayed alpha male behaviour normally seen in Political Leaders of tinpot dictatorships such as PRNK and in Washington DC. Dr Gottfried Freud (no relation) of the Institute for the PsychoAnalytic Understanding of Marine Fauna said of the molluscs, “it was as if they were in a competition to see who had the biggest dick”. This finding suggests that political leaders not only like to compare the size of their phallic shaped rockets but that actual use, such as penetrating the space of another’s enclosed airspace, actually encourages further comparison which could lead to further use and escalation. Dr Freud added that if this analysis was correct, then the aquatic studies reveal “we are fucked”.

 

Beer

Photo by Yulia Combat on Unsplash

A recent study suggests that beer is better than paracetamol for pain relief. In a randomised controlled trial in which one control arm was given beer and the other 1 gram of paracetamol, self reported pain levels were nearly 90% lower in the beer group.  The beers were two from England: 1) Old Cockfiddler’s IPA at 4.5% and 2) Munchnuggets dark stout of 5%, and a beer from Scotland  McTavish’s Sporran Lifter at 4.8%. Researchers from the Institute of Entheogenic studies at Tolskiddy University were involved in the 5 year long study in three locations: Cornwall, Shropshire and Ross and Cromarty. The lead investigator, Seamus, also known as ‘f*ck me I’m pissed’,  Penberthy had to spend the first four years finding suitable locations in which to conduct the study. This involved visiting numerous public houses with either ‘Arms’ in the name or those that made reference to Royalty. Pubs with non-traditional nomenclature were excluded from the study, as were all Wetherspoons. The locations had to have high levels of bonhomie and cleavage on display. The scientific reason for the necessity of the display of the latter was not reported. Participants were asked to rate their pain levels before taking either the beer or the paracetamol and then again about 4 hours later. The beer was to be taken in quantities decided upon by the research participants within that time frame. They were not allowed to take any spirits as this was identified early on in the pilot study as a confounding variable and thus invalidating the results. Pork scratchings, and other non meat based snacks were allowed. Limitations to the study were reported as a) the source of the pain was not identified except for childbirth which could safely be ruled out b) not all data from particular locations could be recorded due to passive inebriation on the part of the data recorder. The Scottish data was particularly affected by the inebriation factor. Conclusion: if there is any suggestion that you might feel pain now, or in the near future arising from any cause (physical, emotional, financial, existential or philosophical) then it is better to drink beer than rely on piffly packets of paracetamol which are harder to source in a pub than beer. This latter finding was a happy  unintended consequence of the study.

Why 10% did not find beer better at paracetamol for pain relief was not known. Hypotheses include abstinence, lack of a pain source or death of the participant within the 4 hour time frame.

 

 

Back to the Tory Future.

Photo by John-Mark Kuznietsov on Unsplash

Sources close to Downing Street are playing down rumours that future legislation might be based on the exegesis of certain texts which are to be found hidden away on dusty shelves in the dark corners of the library in the Ancestral Westcountry homes of the Aristocracy. While accepting that the House of Commons stores its Acts of Parliament written on now ancient ‘vellum’ (in this case, goat or sheepskin), it is keen to assure the public that the future will not be a repeat of the past and that tradition should not hinder the move into an age of the ‘white heat of technology’. Downing Street was forced, it is said, to speak out on its forward thinking agenda by a rogue would be ministerial Aristocrat who is keen on ‘hanging, flogging, shooting and keel hauling striking nurses’ who has publically gone on record as saying that “while the actual burning of witches might be regretable, at least it got the peasants out in the fresh air for a few minutes break from shovelling shit all day, and cleared the Catholic Church of heresy once and for all”. The rogue aristo, code name ”JRM”, also referred to “buggery, felching, rimming and midnight sodomy as sins”, albeit in a wistful tone which some have interpreted as nostalgia for the practices commonly undertaken at some ‘high end public schools’ (allegedly). Downing Street was reportedly aploplexic that this hinted leak of forthcoming social legislation was made to Derek behind the bar at the ‘Crown and Homo’ in Soho. ‘JRM’ also made reference to stripping women of the vote, wearing trousers or ‘speaking louder than a man in public’ if they should fall pregnant and not follow through with it. Dr Roger Felcher of the Institute of  Studies said:

“Young man, there’s no need to feel down”.

We will not tolerate homophobia in Downing Street or the Admiral Duncan said a Downing Street spokeperson, “JRM, can just grease his schoolboy opinions and shove them up his pretty little tight arse”.

Aliens in suits?

NASA, in a leaked report, reveal evidence that the search for life forms from another part of the solar system may be over. The life forms are simple organic bodies with no discernible nervous system or capacity for intellectual or intelligent processing. Being ‘organic simple’ rather than ‘complex carbon’ based forms they obviously lack empathic understanding or ethical reasoning powers. There is evidence however that they have adapted to their hosts social environment by emulating the behaviour of Homo Sapiens by being complete and utter bastards. NASA think they are widespread and have developed symbiotic relationships with certain personality types even to the point of taking over the host nervous system in a parasitic manner. To spot them, look for narcissism, psychopathy, stupid haircuts and orange skin. Due to critical faculties being impaired in the hosts, dress sense reduces to either drab high collar uniform or the standard business suit. The hosts’ judgement is so impaired that their survival depends upon a high degree of sycophancy around them. Dr Dave Brubaker of the Institute of Studies stated “There’s a Star Man waiting in the sky, he’d like to come and meet us but he thinks he’d blow our minds”. So, if you see a strangely suited orange skinned creature or one with a fat face and hair like a badger’s back combed bollock…you have been warned, they may be from another galaxy and know not of what they speak. 

 

Photo by Federico Beccari on Unsplash

The Rees-Mogg Virus

Public Health England are considering issuing a Health Alert aimed at people aged 18-24. It seems that this age group is susceptible to a particularly nasty virus which, if it infects you, causes neurological damage resulting in behaviour that may cause offence and distress. Symptoms include delusions of grandeur, moral vacuity and temporal shifts back to the 19th century, i.e victims may start to believe that Victoria is still Queen, that Britain has an empire and that it is perfectly fine to say ‘fuzzy wuzzy’ in public. The ‘Rees-Mogg’ virus is particularly virulent in Cotswold villages, certain Oxbridge colleges and expensive private schools. Its origins have been traced back to a turd found in the middle of a playing field at Eton. There has not been a single case reported in Rotherham. Transmission of the virus occurs by sharing champagne glasses and reading the Daily Mail. Young people in Essex, particularly Romford, seem to have immunity. Dr Dave Brubaker of the Institute for Studies says of the victims, “in their minds there’s something lacking, what they need’s a damn good wacking”. Other studies suggest prevalence began after June 2016 when an older generation, now mostly dead, had a collective psychotic episode resulting in calls for the return ‘Love thy Neighbour’ on the telly, spanking and spam for tea “because it did us no harm”

Photo by Chris Lawton on Unsplash

The Trump Card has been played

Fuck nationalism. fuck fascism and fuck off petty patriotism, the last refuge of the scoundrel, and the bastard son of xenophobia. For every narrative blaming the dispossessed, the refugee, the asylum seeker, the disabled on benefits, the unemployed, the old, the sick and mentally ill for their problems, fuck off. How many times does it need pointing out? Who crashed the financial system in 2008 leaving you to pick up the bill? Who decided to move your job to a foreign country because their labour is cheaper? Who turns a blind eye to off shore tax havens while simultaneously sipping champagne with asset strippers, amoral financiers and fancy Wall Street brokers? Who likes to import cheap labour? Who makes cuts to public Infrastructures, housing and education? Who spews lies on their front pages and on the sides of buses? Who is relaxed about the filthy rich because they are the filthy rich’s friends? Who sells arms to terrorists? Who owns media empires peddling a narrow narrative about spurious ‘market freedom’ while undermining the Rule of Law reminiscent of Nazi slurs? Who wants to sell off the NHS to private sector companies they have interests in? Who wants you duped, ‘baked off’ celebrity obsessed, focused on blaming each other? Who owns swathes of our cities, luxury yachts and gated properties with concierge doctors, private pilots and private armies just in case? Who is militarising the police to protect their assets from indigenous protest? Brexit sentiment riles at elites, but fails to grasp that British elites will still not give a fuck about your house, your job, your health or education. Who is it travelling first class, business class, private class while public transport slowly becomes an expensive farce? Who made a pact with Saudi Arabia to secure oil, and thereby provided refuge for the death cult that is Wahaabism not Islam? So, fuck off with your fascist inspired stories about people, yes human beings, many of whom literally bear scars from bombs and bullets made in the U.K., the USA, France and Russia. Take your first world middle England petty nationalism that has benefitted from two centuries of plunder, war and genocidal imperialism, wrap it in the Union Jack and stuff it up your arse.

Meanwhile, the western media holds it breath waiting for ‘the’ result. When it comes, it will either be turd like, slithering out hell’s anus wearing a blond toupee made from the flaxen hair of Teutonic virgins pulled by force screaming from as yet otherwise unblemished pudenda, or it it will plop into our laps like our old flea bitten moggy mewing to distract us from the fact of the decapitation of your budgie with one swish of a razor sharp claw. The western media will pore over the significance of the win. If the puckered lips, which resemble a dockers ringpiece after a curry night in Mumbai wins, then stand by for all the cockroaches of bigotry, fear and petty nationalism to come crawling out from within the festering pus soaked sores they call home to crawl over to your baby’s crib and shit in it. If the old guard get their girl in, stand by for a wave of mysogyny to distract you from who is actually pulling the levers. Guns will be cocked as second amendment sympathies were given succour by a demagogue whose only success is ‘getting away with it’.

The real tragedy here is that many who lost their livelihoods, their prospects and their children’s future due to the strategic decisions of the greedy bastards, have turned to a Greedy Bastard to save them. It’s like suffering dry anal sex and then instead of reaching for the Vaseline one grabs a pineapple for another go at it in case that feels any better. Not since the Somme were so many led so badly. The western media will lap it up though also decrying the worse excesses as their bank balances improve. A weeping crocodile would have at least the good grace to look embarrassed at his lachrymous act if caught out. The western media will shake their bourgeois heads in disgust and then retire to bed in Uptown New York wondering how this genie was able to not only get out of the bottle but was able to call down a shower of shit. They will forget they rubbed the bottle with all the fervour of a masturbating schoolboy, whose weak grasp of the short term consequences of his action is in inverse proportion to the clutch of instant gratification. It will get messy….

Well, now we know.

The Dow plummets and the Futures market foresees gloom. The capitalist class executive have a momentary wobble as it seems “their girl” will not make it. The political power elite in the US have, despite and because of their best efforts, elected the wrong candidate. Not to worry, there is money to be made in construction, arms, civil surveillance, policing, health insurance and in ‘corrections’. The congruence of interest of the CCE has backfired momentarily as the men of media wealth have bought the (wrong) man of power. The ‘Greedy Bastards’ have miscalculated but they need not fear, the flaxen haired turd will not seriously alter the basic foundations upon which money can be made. They’ll merely have the inconvenience of switching their investments to less volatile markets and wait for the storm to settle. It will be a media storm at first, but not a lot will change. Police will still kick the crap out of native Americans, and drones will still kill civilians. IS will be pleased as punch, their caliphate one step closer in their eyes. Putin will welcome another nut job to the growing list of complete bastards that run countries. Big Oil rejoices as the Paris accord gets put back on the shelf. Big Pharma will sell even more antidepressants and Big Celebrity will go into overdrive to provide distraction and succour to an even more duped population. God Bless America.

Now, we’ve all had a bit of fun with both Brexit and Trump. Markets will get in a tizzy for a while because they don’t like uncertainty. The economic infrastructure will not change much as the capitalist class will readjust and will welcome someone in the White House who does not like to pay tax and is contemptuous of health, environmental and social regulations. They publicly abhor his redneck views on women, gays and non whites but these groups are only useful to Capital as reserve armies of labour. Their concerns are not Capital’s concerns. His chief crime is not being Ivy League or Oxbridge and thus speaks like an angry docker whose beer has been spilled. Their own noxious views are of course spoken with far more finesse in boardrooms and banks. Capital does not care who is in the White House as long as the structures remain. And they will. Capital looks with disdain on the culture wars on abortion, gun control, gay and women’s rights, as long as they don’t affect the bottom line. These culture wars are poor people’s wars and it suits Capital very nicely to keep the populace arguing over the cultural superstructure as important as it is for the living breathing individual who experiences the sharp end of bigotry. No, the end of the world as we know it has not arrived, it has morphed into a nastier bigoted version of itself. The nuclear option however….I do shudder to think of Trump in a room full of US hawks. Yet he may work with Putin in mutual backyard Empire building, leaving NATO out in the cold.

A Rant following Daily Mail Headlines

The Daily Rant:

Fuck nationalism. Fuck fascism and fuck off petty patriotism, the last refuge of the scoundrel, and the bastard son of xenophobia. For every narrative blaming the dispossessed, the refugee, the asylum seeker, the disabled on benefits, the unemployed, the old, the sick and mentally ill for their problems, fuck off. How many times does it need pointing out? Who crashed the financial system in 2008 leaving you to pick up the bill? Who decided to move your job to a foreign country because their labour is cheaper? Who turns a blind eye to off shore tax havens while simultaneously sipping champagne with asset strippers, amoral financiers and fancy Wall Street brokers? Who is relaxed about the filthy rich because they are the filthy rich’s friends? Who sells arms to terrorists? Who owns media empires peddling a narrow narrative about spurious ‘market freedom’ while undermining the Rule of Law reminiscent of Nazi slurs? Who wants to sell off the NHS to private sector companies they have interests in? Who wants you duped, ‘baked off’ celebrity obsessed, focused on blaming each other? Who owns swathes of our cities, luxury yachts and gated properties with concierge doctors, private pilots and private armies just in case? Who is militarising the police to protect their assets from indigenous protest? Brexit sentiment riles at elites, but fails to grasp that British elites will still not give a fuck about your house, your job, your health or education. Who is it travelling first class, business class, private class while public transport slowly becomes an expensive farce? Who made a pact with Saudi Arabia to secure oil, and thereby provided refuge for the death cult that is Wahaabism not Islam? So, fuck off with your fascist inspired stories about people, yes human beings, many of whom literally bear scars from bombs and bullets made in the U.K., the USA, France and Russia. Take your first world middle England petty nationalism that has benefitted from two centuries of plunder, war and genocidal imperialism, wrap it in the Union Jack and stuff it up your arse.

Dear George 6

23rd October 2016

‘Maldives’

Dear George,

Yes, yes, dear chap, I’m still here, and you should be as well. I can’t tell just how lovely the sunsets are especially after a decent G and T by the poolside. I could really get to like this. By the way, did you get your chaps to see to the mess in your hallway after that particularly foul issue with the sewage outflow? It must have been quite a bore to have been contacted in the middle of night at your little ‘pied a terre’ in Knightsbridge to then to be told that there was a pretty rank smell in your house in, which one is it now? Oh, never mind…and worse, that Boris was not to to blame this time.

Couldn’t resist that little joke.

I hear St Theresa is getting little miffed with the Troika she set up to handle the negotiations for, you know what. Well what did she expect? Her decision was akin to letting loose three starving dogs in a butcher’s shop and then expecting them to conjure up a Beef Wellington good enough for Heston fucking Blumenthal’s great Aunt Bessy (she of the Yorkshire puddings). Yes they know about meat, but they are hardly likely to go about the business with any finesse, forethought or familiarity with common decency. There will be blood, most of it theirs as they gorge on what remains of the sausage called the British Economy. I hear the Bank’s trade union spokesman is bluffing on about them taking their cash to the gnomes of Frankfurt or some other ghastly place. Her Saintedness had better get round there quick, flash a bit of tit, and make sure the bastards stay put. Christ the hours you and I spent in wining and dining the c*nts, for that is what they will be if they now desert you all in your hour of need. I lost count of the number of dinner jackets my chaps had to pop down to Savile Row to replace, and the interminal caviar stains like adolescent jizz down my shirt front. Not often I feel cheap as you know old boy, but by Eton’s fell waters, they could spend. I remember one chap, don’t remember if it was Chase, JP’s or Goldman’s, telling about buying a nice little property in Scotland for the weekend shooting. I thought he meant a country pile, like Sam’s pater’s, but bugger me he meant Perth and Kinross. All in secret of course, couldn’t let the Sweaties know. Bought it off a chap from China after a thrilling game of ‘chase the monkey’ in Gleneagles.

I didn’t know monkeys would wear gimp masks, but what do I know? Funny what you pick up at dinners in the City.

Well I hope she’s happy. Phil ‘face like slapped tit’ Hammond is the only one in the whole bloody outfit who has the slightest clue whats going on, but he is as about as affective as a row of daisies grown especially for stopping a panzer division on their way to a ‘lets kick the shit out of anything in our way festival’ during the glory days of the blitzkrieg. The troika will tie him up in knots and whip his testicles till they bleed his heart dry. They’ll have fun doing it while the City turns the currency into shite where the pound is worth no more than a polo (mint – not the car).

Sam’s preparing tonight’s dinner. Thankfully she brought the decent caterers with her this time, you know the ones. So the fizz is on ice, the oysters shucked and I’m on a promise methinks.

You really must pop over, I hear old Pip Green is at a loose end and might be in need of cheering up. Perhaps he’ll lend you that Lear he keeps near Windsor, tell him the wine is rather good, even over here.

Pip pip,

Dave

PS. Boris asked for demonstrators outside the Russian embassy, I assume he sold his shares in Gazprom then?