Author: ivan

There were umpteen things wrong with Lady Bonjela today: Item: Lady in purple. Now. Let’s see. I’m going to go to all the effort of wearing a purple dress, accessorise with purple glasses, a rather funky purple bag and YES! PRAISE JAYSUS! I will die my hair a delicate shade of purple. But. I will… Continue reading Lady Justice is missing an orange

Hmm. What would happen if you could really brew a storm in a tea-cup? Would you be able to send forth little bolts of lightning from your pinkie? Or make it rain on a sixpence? (That last one would be even more impressive if I knew what a sixpence looked like, and perhaps how I… Continue reading A storm is brewing

With these words, John Bolton, ex-US ambassador to Chessington World of Stupidity, has gone up amazingly in my hard-to-be-amazed estimation. The fact that he turned his interviewee (sorry, her name escapes me but she’s Not Jeremy Paxman and Not Sophie Raworth) into David Caruso and she had to conduct the rest of the interview with… Continue reading “I couldn’t care less”

Pootling along, minding my own business on the train. Ok, pretending to be reading some Really Important Pamphlet, when my semantic reverie is broken by an earnest and unnecessarily long conversation (by mobile phone, because that makes all the difference) about a disciplinary matter involving various Johns, Wally, Charles – all of whom were on… Continue reading Why oh why oh why oh aye ay aye ay ay ay should have known better

I’ve realised, a bit late in the day, that my random jottings are becoming perfect spam fodder. I should really run it through a spam filter one day to see how much gook I di gobble. But enough of that seriousness. On to verbiage. A propos of nothing, I decided to write down everything I… Continue reading Modern blur is rubbish

There are now enough Poles serving coffee in the land for the pronunciation of sugar to  be changed wholesale to shoe-gah.  Or perhaps we should simply accept that coffee is meant to taste of shoes.  Or it should be drunk from shoes.  Made from Italian leather. I’ve never been clear about this – do the… Continue reading The Radio 4ski Archies

The minister for trams. The clam of chowdertown. The big cheese. Chief Monkey of Golden Triangle. Elvis of our hearts. Princess of our jaffa cakes. The raisin of our dreams. King. Of. Cheese. A grin for all seasons. Ok. So a long day being mildly tingled by politickery. And obnov, feeling a teensy bit old.… Continue reading Inside the head of Minibus Milliband

… it’s Salmon pink, marshmallow roasted, Essex blonde, new potato, Elvis in a dress, marsupials breeding with mammals effluent. Available from your local Marks and Spanks for just a nappy or two. I’ve realised a bit late in the day that one of my own heroes (or herrors, as I just tipped) has already written… Continue reading This isn’t just any effluent…

Like my good friend Mr Hassenscouser, I am partial to the odd advert starring ‘Tyrannoserious Alan’, a dinosaur with no sense of humour whatsoever. This is a particular problem for said reptile, as he spends most of his time talking to an imaginary volcano (possessed by the spirit of Brian Blessed, or Prince Charles, or… Continue reading Filled with vulcanicity

Two of them. Staking out their territory in the carriage like they would do at Glasters or Glynders or Class WarDers (just a little pun there, mes amis). Overnight bags stuffed full of cosmetics that have Never Knowingly Been Sold to Poor People. You can tell this by the pattern on the front of their… Continue reading The who-rahs