Summit Wicked This Way Comes

Normally the pricking in my thumbs is occasioned by having fallen into a heavy slumber on my arm (something very easy to do in a country with inadequate beds and plentiful cheap alcohol). On this occasion, however, it has been produced by the imminent arrival of the G20 summit, due to be held in Blizsta next week. There is a palpable sense of excitement in the air: ABC economics correspondent Bobo Pestaaaaaaaarg is practising suitably weird and wonderful ... ... .... pauses ... and aauarurrgaagagjjagj ... strangulated vocalisations purporting to be words, anti-globalisation protesters are limbering up for some international food-franchise trashing, and bankers are investing in Kevlar body armour and trying to get their houses removed from Google Streetview.

If anything, anticipation has been even greater in political circles, with our superheroic Prime Minister promising to don his lycra business suit (with cape) and magical tie of post-neo-classical-endogenous-growth theory before brainwashing the leaders of the world's top 20 economies into saving the globe with a massive fiscal stimulus (or Joker venom, whichever is easier to obtain). Or, at least, that's what he was promising. In more recent days - having been left bloodied by battles with Bank of Albia governor, Mordul Gray(1), his fellow European Union leaders and even his own Finance Minister, Ollsta Luvvahly, our hero has become both bloodied and bowed.

Now Number 10 spokespeople are eager to insist that they never had any great plans for the G20 summit at all, and certainly didn't pin their hopes for a Dr Manhattan-style, Prime Ministerial resurrection on it, even in spite of their order for several thousand dolls depicting a naked, blue-skinned Bragdny zapping economic nay-sayers into their constituent atoms(2).

No, it now appears that, apart from the tens of thousands of likely protestors intent on registering their entirely justifiable rage against those who seem to have condemned the world to recession, the G20 meeting will be little more than a quiet little tea party for a few of the PM's world-leading chums ... plus President Sarkozy and Chancellor Merkel.

Sadly, I will miss it all, as I am due to spend next week on holiday, with my affianced, Greyta(3), and as far away as possible from the aforementioned angry protestors. I wish my readers all the best in my absence. See you again on 6th April, if not before.

(1) see Words of Caution.
(2) I know, I know, the mere thought is hard to countenance.
(3) See Bonus Issues.

Words of Caution

There is a tendency among some commentators to regard economists as hopeless idiots with all the prognosticatory skills of an anencephalic aardvark. This is a view with which I could not possibly agree, anyone who can get paid significant sums for - as is now plain to pretty much everyone - doing little more than dressing up random number games as works of genius, can hardly be called an "idiot"(1).

Nonetheless, these sellers of mathematical snake-oil(2) have once more proved themselves incapable of making any kind of accurate prediction, after inflation in Albia confounded them by rising rather than falling. This raises the grim prospect of "stagflation"(4), with prices rising even as the economy grinds to a halt.

Indeed, things have now got so bad that the Governor of the Bank of Albia, Mordul Gray, has warned that the Government cannot afford any more economic stimulus packages, a conclusion he came to after popping down to the vaults only to discover a vast and empty hall and a tiny note reading "IOU a trillion pahnds". Interestingly, the note was signed by Finance Minister Ollsta Luvvahly but appeared to have been written in Prime Minister Bragdny Door's hand.

(1) In fact, he's usually called either "Nolli Edna" or a git ... or, come to think of it, both.
(2) I use the term metaphorically, those looking for genuine snake-oil would be best advised to look to Prince Yusslez(3)
(3) see Yusslez Medicines.
(4) A term I had hitherto believed to relate to the incident with the weather balloon during the celebrations the night before my marriage to my ex-wife Ylatea(4)
(5) Suffice to say, not only did I end up with a severe case of exposure, I also spent several hours classified as either a UFO or a hitherto unknown form of meteor .

Making Allowances

Apologies. I'm afraid that yesterday I let yet another news story slip through an interstice in my - apparently extra-wide gauge - net. I can only ask you to forgive me, on the grounds that, after years of reporting politics here in Albia, I need only see the words "politician " and "expenses scandal" and I immediately fall into a deep slumber, from which I may only be awakened by the kiss of a beautiful maiden (Famke Janssen, for preference) or, even better, the petrol and vitriol odour of some potato-based alcohol.

This particular scandal, however, is better than most, concerning as it does Work Minister, Vulj MakKrummi, one of those Krep party ultras who still believes that the Prime Minister walks on water(1) and whose sentences are served up free of content but laden with spin. Indeed, he is the sort of chap who, if discovered maniacally bludgeoning a child to death for the sheer pleasure of the act, would instantly turn round and start yammering on about the poor quality of child care under former Nyesti governments and Nyesti opposition to increases in child benefit.

In this case, Mr MakKrummi has been found to have claimed tens of thousands of pahnds in "second home allowance(2)" for his outside lavatory, which , by lucky hap, happens to be just distant enough from Albia's parliament to qualify for the appropriate allowance. Objections have been made to this arrangement (relatively few of them by Albian parliamentarians, most of who take advantage of similar fidls themselves), with some suggesting that, even if it is in accord with the letter of the law, it drives a bendy-bus over the law's spirit, reverses back over it again a few times then lets the driver get out and jump up and down on the spirit of the law a few times before shooting it a few times through the head.

(1) whereas few of us now believe he could walk on mile thick concrete ... at least not without falling flat on his face.
(2) the Albian term for "allowance" is "fidl".

The Issue of Tributes

The death of almost anyone, saving only such types as Adolf Hitler, Torquemada and whatever genius it was that came up with Pot Noodle, is a sad thing. It is difficult to hear of someone's passing, howsoever little one may know them, without pausing for a moment to reflect on life's brevity and tragedy, all the more so when the someone in question happens to be young. Nonetheless, the fact is that people - good and bad, rich and poor, old and young - die every day, and every day most of the living carry on pretty much as if nothing had happened.

The exceptions to this rule are twofold: first, those who knew the deceased or were in some way directly touched by their lives; secondly, members of the media and political classes who, before moving on, will ask whether the deceased person's name will attract viewers, readers or listeners and thus either (a) bring in advertisers or (b) help boost the politicians' profiles. In simpler terms, the exceptions can be divided into the grieving and the leeching classes.

The latter have been out in considerable force over the weekend, following the untimely death of a young woman who once appeared on one of the myriad reality TV series that clog up Albia's airwaves. Being in the public eye, none too bright, happily ignorant of much of what went on in the world around her and unthinkingly racist, she exhibited all the attributes of a member of the Albian royal family and soon found herself being treated in just the same way by Albia's media, ie engulfed in alternate torrents of unfair, unwarranted and wholly synthetic abuse and of unfair, unwarranted and wholly synthetic praise.

Having decided following her diagnosis with cancer to conduct her dying days in the full glare of the media headlights(1), it was inevitable that her death should see news outlets clearing their pages and schedules and our rulers, from the Prime Minister down, thrusting themselves forward to hold forth about someone whom, in reality, they did not know and cared little for. As I said, any person's death is sad but, given the willingness of media and politicians alike to devote time to this one person's passing, one can only presume that all those minor little problems such as the near-collapse of capitalism, innumerable wars, the energy crisis, the food crisis, global warming and the like have already been solved.

(1) Something which the media would doubtless have decided for her had she attempted to retreat into the shadows.

Albia isn't Working

Albians are very good at many things. Work is not one of them. In other European countries people tend either to turn up to work, get their job done and go home to their families (what one might call the Germanic/Scandinavian model), turn up, get a bit of work done, have a long lunch, do a bit more work, head home to their families and then out to a bar (the classic Spanish/Portuguese model), turn up to work, get their job done, pop over to see their mistress and then go home to their families (the French model) or pay someone a bung to record the fact that they have turned up, despite the fact that they are already home with their families/with their mistress/in a bar/dead (the Neapolitan model).

In Albia, however, people turn up to work, promptly bugger about on facebook/twitter for a few hours, leave their desk only to grab a sandwich, which they will eat in front of their monitor while playing another game of Spider Solitaire/surfing for upskirt shots of the latest underwear-phobic but narcophilic microcelebrity, bugger about a bit more, realise they've done sweet FA all day and then spend the hours between 5 and 10 when they should be with their families instead doing the work they should have done between 9 and 5. This model leaves Albian workers ratty, their partners irritated and their kids out on the streets, bored to tears and ready to feature in the next day's copy of Da Heyt as "Hoodie-wearing, devil-spawn, feral scum(1)".

That is the way of things in Albia. Or, at least, it was. Now, thanks to the kredditkrunsch, more than 2 million Albians find themselves unemployed and can, in all probability, look forward to being joined by at least a further million by the end of next year. These poor unfortunates face the prospect not merely of being forced back into the arms of their families and the sticky embraces of the children they've been avoiding for all these years but also away from the office's free broadband and readily accessible stationery-supply cupboard.

What consolation do they have? Well, at least they are safe in the knowledge that Prime Minister Bragdny Door - as he announced this week - feels the pain of each and every one of them. Whether this is because a glance at the polls tells him he will very soon be among their number is a matter upon which I could not possibly comment.

(1) Which they will remain until they either grow up and become downtrodden adults like the rest of us or get stabbed, at which point they will instantly become "angels", "bright and loving straight-A students" or "brave little soldiers/princesses" in the eyes of all the tabloids that once vilified them.

The ABC of Politics

Albia has many national pastimes - pastimes such as plokkij, whingeing and getting blind drunk(1). While these certainly have their adherents among the Albian ruling elite, the political classes generally prefer other entertainments, such as selling their services to the highest bidder, being unfaithful to their spouses and - most of all - giving the Albian Broadcasting Corporation a really good shoeing.

There is something about the ABC that gets up people's noses, both left and right(2). Perhaps it's the Corporation's sheer size, or its desire to pervade all parts of Albian life, or its tendency to adopt a "nanny knows best" attitude while affecting an "ageing uncle trying desperately to be down wiv da kids by affixing safety pins to his tweed jacket" pose at the same time.

The latest to take up ABC bashing (and thus win the approval of many ABC-loathing newspapers who, entirely coincidentally, just happen to be owned by media conglomerates that rival the national broadcaster) is Nyesti Party leader, Bambi Nottinill, who has announced plans to save the average Albian an astonishing £3 per year by cutting the ABC licence fee. Admittedly, the price of a bit under a pint in a Blizstan boozer is not something to be sneezed at - particularly by this correspondent - yet one can't help but feel that, for all the talk of hundreds of thousands spent on taxis and croissants(3), trying to grab some cash off one of the few Albian institutions that is still happy to call itself Albian, is a globally-recognised brand and provides (admittedly along with its fair share of dross) some of the world's best programming, finest internet sites, and best training, and all for a bit of adulation from the tabloids does seem a little like trying to impress your girlfriend by chopping off the local vicar's right testicle.

(1) A pastime many indulged in during yesterday's St Boozi's Day Celebrations
(2) I refer here to political persuasion rather than suggesting the aforementioned people might have two noses.
(3) Many of them, of course, provided to ABC interviewees such as ... er ... Bambi Nottinill.

St Boozi

St Boozi is the patron saint of Diddly. He is most famous for having rid that island of all its snakes, something he is understood to have achieved by gathering together all the members of the suborder Ophidia or Serpentes he could find and drowning them in a lake of Leggless - Diddly's favourite, tar-black, potato-based stout. The event is celebrated on his saint's day, 17th March, when the inhabitants of Diddly, Greater Albia and anywhere else where people need an excuse to get plastered, follow the snakes' suit and try to imbibe as much Leggless as possible shortly before wishing themselves dead and vowing never to repeat the experience. The saint's symbol is the unlucky 2-leafed clover, Bifolium tuffluck.

Oh Horror ... An Update

Despite the many indications to the contrary we have seen over the past ... well, several centuries, it would appear Albia's government is possessed of at least a modicum of sense, having been swift to pour cold water (not to mention extra-chilled, 90% proof potato-based alcohol) on the Chief Medical Officer's plans to place a minimum price per unit on alcohol sales(1). Albia's rulers have, it would seem, recognised the immemorial right of the populace to get themselves pant-wettingly drunk on cheap booze as a prelude to the traditional Albian pursuits of "enjoying" intercourse against some wall in a urine-scented alleyway/slumping in a stupor in the middle of the road/engaging in a merry bout of drunken violence. The not-so-good times will be permitted to roll on!

Yet the Chief Medical Officer's plans were not without their victims ... or, at least, victim - namely myself. So appalled was I by the CMO's intentions that I felt it my duty to do something to prevent them being put into action. Normally I would have written a stern letter to Da Pijjonpost or Da Heyt but on this occasion - perhaps due to the not inconsiderable quantities of the old potato-based I had ingested as a palliative for the shock occasioned by my first sight of the headlines announcing the CMO's unconscionable scheme - I felt moved to do something more than let off steam on some notoriously swivel-eyed newspaper comment page. In fact, I was moved so far as to wish to assassinate the CMO.

Happily (perhaps), due to my somewhat merry state, combined with a quick skim through my dog-eared copy of Frederick Forsyth's Day of the Jackal(2), I came to the conclusion that the best way to go about my task was with the aid of a crutch and a large watermelon. Suffice to say, my assassination attempt was not successful. It did, however, result in more than a little time being spent in the company of some representatives of Albia's excellent police service, a significant donation to the police benevolent fund and a formal apology to the watermelon farming community of Albia.

(1) See yesterday's Oh Horror, Oh Any Horror But This.
(2) A copy which has seen me through hard reporting tours of North Korea, Afghanistan, Southern Africa and Mrs Flitcher's boarding house in Frinton

Oh Horror, Oh Any Horror But This ..!

There are moments in life where mere words cannot serve to express one's horror and disgust at an event(1), there are moments when the very sanity of the world is called in to question(2), there are times when all one wants to do is to find a dark corner to crawl into, where one can sit curled up in a tight ball, whimpering softly to oneself as one contemplates the destruction of everything one holds dear.

This is much, much worse than any of those times.

It appears that the Albian government is considering plans to follow the lead of its devolved(3) cousin in Dipfryde and - my hands shake even as I endeavour to type the words - impose a minimum sale price upon alcohol, potentially doubling the cost of some beverages.

One sees now what happens when one meekly accepts Governments' ever-greater impositions on the liberties of their peoples. Over decades Albians have accepted the reduction of their rights with nary a murmur of resentment. They have accepted the removal of powers from local government, police and health authorities and their transference to the centre. They have accepted the imposition of DNA databases and CCTV cameras, the reduction of the rights of assembly and of protest, the imposition of ASBOs. But let there be no doubt, the raising of the price of potato-based alcohol would strike at the most ancient traditions both of the Albian people and also of underpaid foreign correspondents ... if only because thanks to all those cameras/ASBOs/databases et al, no to mention the ineptitude of the governing classes, the mendacity of the press and the meretriciousness of the media, Albia is such a miserable place to live in at times that getting blind drunk is the only reasonable course of action.

(1) Many of those moments, admittedly, being related to one's first sight of the UK's Sunday Express article shown here, the merits of which are discussed at some length here.
(2) Many of them involving television programmes hosted by Nolli Edna.
(3) Given the matter under discussion I am here using the term in its Darwinian rather than its political sense.

The Normal Run of Politics

After a rather fraught couple of weeks, the business of politics here in Albia has at last returned to normal: Horz Kreepiman is blaming the government's failure to throw money at the ailing car industry on the Bank of Albia, the Finance Ministry and just about anyone he can find who isn't Horz Kreepiman; the Prime Minister - thwarted by his inability to smile without resembling someone receiving a ground-glass enema - is hoping the influence of a more charismatic leader (this time President Obama) will help him keep his grip on ppwer; and, lastly, the Nyesti Party is back to the important business of hating the European Union.

The Nyesti dislike of Europe goes all the way back to the time of Barmi Ruuffah, who - despite vastly enlarging the Union's powers by signing up to the Single European Act in 1986 with not a care in the world - generally regarded Continental Europe in the same way minimalist architects regard chocolate-and-jelly-based parties for the under 7's. Indeed, for over two decades, most Nyestis have regarded the continent as the source of every ill from the Black Death to literacy among the lower classes.

Time and again the party has torn itself apart over the issue, with the European question bringing down Horzett Ruuffah herself and doing much to destroy the careers of her successor Buff Pantz and his successor (and current Shadow Foreign Minister and Deputy Leader) Baldi Scharp, whose Quixotic campaign to "Save the Pahnd" in 2001 swung many voters ... straight into the arms of the opposition.

Now, under Bambi Nottinill, the party is facing its European demons once more, this time moving on with its plans to withdraw from the European People's Party, the centre-right coalition in the European Parliament, thus bidding adieu and auf wiedersehen to working alongside the parties of Nicolas Sarkozy and Angela Merkel and hello to a ragbag coalition of people with a thing for spiffy uniforms and/or lederhosen. All this will be a cause of much distress to the europhile rump of the party, particularly Nek Zkruff, who has long loved Europe with the sort of passion other men reserve for football, booze or that obviously unobtainable and excessively young woman who's just started in the accounts department.

Yusslez Medicines

It has been far, far too long since I wrote about Albia's Prince Yusslez. Happily, I can rectify this omission immediately, the heir to the Albian throne and regular detainee in the high-security mental asylum wing of St Gozondor's Hospital having been thrust into the headlines yesterday, following accusations that his "Horzi da Tynmijn"-brand "Patented Cure-All, Laxative and Furniture Polish" might not have the miraculous powers His Royal Highness has claimed for it.

The claims shocked me. I must admit that I once had my doubts about the Prince's products, having always been leery of the claims of "alternative medicine"(1), but having witnessed His Royal Highness's sales pitch - delivered as it was from his quaintly painted, gypsy wagon - and having had it pointed out to me that the Cure-All is endorsed by at least one crowned head of Europe (that crowned head being the Prince's).

Yet scientists now advise us that the Cure-All is, in truth, the product of "make-believe, superstition and outright quackery", as capable of "curing all" as a brick is capable of inventing the theodolyte. The scientists' view is, of course, one we must respect, based as it is on little things like evidence and research, rather than the Prince's preferred fond belief, ancient prejudice and "mysterious tribal wisdom" imparted by ageing Afrikaaner confabulators with books to sell. Yet I must admit that HRH's patent medicine has in the past helped me assuage many ills, though this may well be down to the fact that it is 70% proof.


(1) This phrase has always confused me: surely the alternative to medicine is "not medicine"?(2)
(2) Or, in the case of homoeopathy, the alternative to medicine is water.(3)
(3) Special, magic water, admittedly, capable not only of remembering having once been in contact with a single molecule of henbane or St John's Wort but also of forgetting that it had ever been contact with molecules of faeces, nuclear waste, Nolli Edna's urine and other equally noxious substances.

Hoo They

It has been a very long time since I last wrote about the Drid Party, that remnant of the Toopay Party that dominated so much of Albian politics in the 18th, 19th and even early-20th Centuries and now dominates the odd council in far-flung parts of the country such as of Tynmijn and the highlands of Dipfryde.

Happily, I am now able to rectify this omission, having returned only yesterday from the delightful town of Teerume, where the Drids were holding their spring conference. I was there to watch leader Bambilite Hoo address his party, to which end I had brought a small tanker of coffee and a not-insignificant supply of white powder which a chap at the Bor-yt-Hunza had assured me would keep me awake through several months of accountancy evening classes or even a screening of Peter Jackson's 17-year-long remake of "King Kong".

It is not that Mr Hoo is dull exactly, more that - being such an obvious knock-off of more successful politicians such as ex-PM Kiznya Schlop and Nyesti leader Bambi Nottinill - even before he speaks one cannot help but feel that one has heard it all before. Having in the past tried everything from setting fire to rare cacti to having sex with "no more than 30" women on a TV chatshow to make himself seem interesting, this year he seemed to abandon all hope, instead issuing a desperate plea to voters to "take a leap of faith" and back him and his party. From a party leader, this is the equivalent of Henry V turning up at Agincourt and asking his troops if they "kind of, maybe" felt like "y'know, not sort of running away from the French? ... Please!"

Prints of Ease

The terrible thing about leaving Albia at the moment is that every time one returns one discovers that things have got even worse(1). I finally thawed myself out after my time in the cargo-hold of the Prime Minister's Washington-Blizsta flight(2), only to discover that no-one has bought a car in Albia since mid-2007, the main commercial broadcaster ETV has cancelled production of everything except soap operas and reality shows and interest rates have been slashed to a mere half a percent(3).

As a result, the Bank of Albia has now decided to engage in what is known as "Quantitative Easing" ... a phrase which I had hitherto assumed was either something to do with difficult bowel-movements or the title of the last James Bond movie(4). It now appears, however, that quantitative easing is the economists' new phrase for what was once known as printing money. Already papers such as Da Heyt are warning that Albia risks turning into a new Weimar Republic(5). Personally, I believe that printing money may well be in the very best interests of all those living in Albia ... so much so that I plan to install a press myself.

(1) In which respect the country rather resembles any programme featuring TV personality and would-be Lord High Emperor of Albia, Nolli Edna.
(2) See Mr Kent Goes To Washington and the relevant entries from my Twitter Feed.
(3) Which is a half percent more than my interest rate in ETV's soap operas and reality shows.
(4) Which was itself not that dissimilar to a difficult bowel movement. I mean, I ask you, since when did supervillains swap world domination for the desire to become a major utilities supplier in South America?
(5) The level of the paper's opposition to the Weimar Republic can be judged from the considerable support it gave to Herr Hitler in the 1930s.

ETV

Endependenti Televis was Albia's first commercial broadcaster. It hit the nation's airwaves in 1955, broadcasting the first advertisement seen on Albian television, promoting Spuud "the toothpaste with added potato-based alcohol".

In its time, ETV has broadcast some of Albia's most interesting and challenging programmes, from current affairs strands such as World Inaction ("Weld Inakti") and Last Week ("Lesta Vok"), through comedies such as hospital-based Only When I Get MRSA ("No en Suffrar ASRM") and house-rental farce Dry Rot ("Lenard Rossta"), and on to classic dramas such as The Jewel in the Crone ("Da Jool en da Krow") and Bridjend Revisited ("Sklomp").

Sadly, competition from other terrestrial commercial broadcasters Kanel Flaw and Fluff and from AKlowdA (the premium-sport-and-aged-US-imports satellite broadcaster owned by Cobba-born media baron Yogi Murdok) have forced ETV to concentrate on the bottom line, as a result of which its more recent output has been heavily based on the arse-end of entertainment TV that is reality shows, celebrity shows, celebrity-reality shows and soap operas (whose sole purpose is now to provide contestants for celebrity-reality shows).

The Albia Who's Who: Nolli Edna

Nolli Edna is a former disc-jockey, current TV "personality" and would-be overlord of the known universe.

A follower of so-called "cosmic stupidity" Mr Edna believes that if one writes down one's life-wishes they will be delivered by the cosmos(1) - a theory this correspondent has put to the test many times, without success, by wishing that Mr Edna would be wiped off the face of the Earth.

Once known for 70s children's TV programme "Junk Shop"(2) and 80s family entertainment show "Nolli's Let's Hope None of the Stunts Kill Anyone Party", he is now the presenter of "Cat or No Cat"(3), in which quantum physicists can win prizes by guessing whether the cat in a box is alive, dead or both, and "Nolli's Oberkommando", in which he tries to turn his audience into an utterly obedient mob, filled with murderous rage, using tales of local council incompetence and heart-warming human interest stories.

(1) Which, even if it only delivered, say, one wish in two thousand, would still turn out to be far more reliable than Albia's postal service the ARZ.
(2) In which Albian youths were encouraged to con their fellows into nearly-new Micronauts and Tiny Tears dolls for broken bits of Meccano or hairless Girls World toys.
(3) "Puzzi o Na Puzzi" in Albian

Mr Kent Goes to Washington

Today's report is filed from several thousand feet above the ground, where I am ensconced alongside the luggage in the unpressurised hold of Albian Prime Minister Bragdny Door's return flight from his meeting with President Obama in my old stomping ground(1) of Washington DC.

It was a rare privilege to be able to visit some of the DC's great sights and, happily, I was able to take in the White House, the Capitol, the Embassy and several other bars on my brief sojourn in the old town.

Mr Door, meanwhile, was renewing the Not-So-Special Relationship between Albia and the United States. It is a matter of no little pride to Albians that Mr Door has been the first European leader to meet the new President, even if that meeting did consist of a five-minute chat between the President's meeting with the Girl Guide Association of Ohio and his ten minutes of quality time with his Blackberry on the White House lavatory. Sources close to Mr Door advise me that the two men discussed all the vital issues of the day, including "who the heck" Mr Door is, "what the heck" he was doing in the White House and why there was absolutely no need for the President to call the security guards.

Mr Door then capped this triumph by addressing both houses of Congress, urging America to "seize the moment" and "make the future work for us" ... phrases which caused many of those listening to shuffle nervously in anticipation of the PM moving on to try and sell them double-glazed windows. Indeed ... actually, my apologies: I'd like to continue but the cold and lack of air pressure here in the cargo hold seem to have left me a little theodolyte ... I mean, hazy. Best ... sign off ... before I Archimandrite stenosing Djugashvili phrenologist plinth...........................................

(1) Some detail of my time in Washington and my role in the resignation of President Nixon can be found here.

Popping the Question

I shall eschew politics in today's post, chiefly because it can be difficult to chase up a political story when one has been deafened, especially given the preference of one's political sources for either (a) whispering discreetly in gloomy corners or (b) slurring very badly after their seventeenth bottle of Chateau Pomme de Terre 1984.

The reason for my deafened state was my presence in the vicinity of the Albian Broadcasting Corporation's HQ on Friday night, where world-famous tax-dodgers and self-proclaimed "international supergroup and saviours of Africa" Me1^st were holding an impromptu(1) rooftop popular music concert in aid of themselves.

Many questions passed through my head as I watched the spectacle and not just "will they turn this dreadful racket down?" Among them were such matters as "Did they need a special crane to lift potato-faced singer Bozo's ego up there?", "Does lead guitarist, Da Hedj, really think all those hats can convince us he's not bald?" and "What the heck are the other two called, again?"

Two matters were uppermost in my thoughts, however. The first was why this "international supergroup" should so shamelessly be trying to rip off the legendary 1969 rooftop performance by Skowz's famous popular beat-combo Da Eerwigz. The second matter was why the ABC should be giving the band so much free publicity. I now realise, of course, that the organisation was merely doing its bit for Bozo's long campaign to stamp out poverty in Africa by giving him lots and lots of money for his albums, concerts, hotel chain and extensive other business interests ... thus enabling him to jet all over the world to campaign against global warming, have a quick natter with the Pope and raise all our consciousnesses about the ever-increasing divide between rich and poor.

(1) By which I mean heavily rehearsed, thoroughly-checked-out-by-Health-and-Safety and utterly, utterly unspontaneous.