Camershag - just when you thought it couldn't get worse!

Further amazing revelations in the Camershag saga this morning have shaken the world of Conservative Party supporters ( Colonel Sid and Mrs. Doris Upmammal) to the foundation with the news that the Premier has been photographed mounting a horse!

It seems that our ever-fecund Prime Minister has moved on from piggy-poking to equine enjoyment in his quest to engage the whole animal kingdom in acts of depravity.

(The photographs which follow may be felt inappropriate in a family-oriented publication such as Bobblededgook, but are included as means of chronicling the depths which DC will plumb in his search for full expression of his perverted desires. Readers! please ensure that your internet access settings are such that these images do not fall into the hands of children and the more impressionable members of the Great British Public - or Daily Mail readers as we call them.)

"I hope those bloody paparazzi don't see me!"

Such is Cameron's devotion to horsey-humping, The Great Leader is even thought to indulge in elaborate 'equine ecstasy' sessions with the fragrant SamCam during weekend romps at Chequers.

"Come on Sammy - just one more buck!"

So voracious is TGL's appetite that his peccadillos even extend to inanimate objects;-

An exclusive Bobbledegook image shows Dave mounting a bus!

(That's enough 'mounting' jokes - Ed)

David Cameron's fetishes and drug taking excesses are shared with many of his pals in the village of Chipping Norton where he has his weekend assignations. This centre of debauchery will now forever rejoice in the name of Chipping Snorton for obvious reasons.

It's a relief that the Cameron's don't indulge their habits in one of our local villages, the delightfully named Blidworth Bottoms. The epithet Sniffing Bottoms is not to be contemplated!

In Defence of Porcine Poking!

Your correspondent is pleased to be given the opportunity to respond on behalf of Saint David and the Conservative Party to the gross calumnies perpetrated by that jumped up little squillionaire Lord Arseworth alleging misbehaviour by the Nation's favourite politician during his days at Oxford.

Who is this upstart Ashworth anyway? This jumped-up, nouveau riche arriviste seems to think that slipping a couple of million squid into the party coffers entitles him to have opinions!

Whilst Lord Arsewipe's hallucinogenic allegations do not merit a personal response from a man generally acknowledged to be a Saint, Our Dave (for it is he) has authorised Bobbledegook to refute these wildly mistaken allegations which he can only imagine are a result of Lord Ashcroft's early onset dementia and deafness.

First though, a photograph of the great man himself;-

St. Dave is an acknowledged animal lover.
(Careful mate, that's what Ashcroft says! - Ed)

The thought that our future Prime Minister could have engaged in oral gratification with a dead pig will leave a nasty taste in the mouth of all right thinking folk (as it did with the pig! - Ed.) This vile insinuation is clearly a figment of the imagination since, being an Old Etonian, had DC wished to show his appreciation of the pig's finer features he would obviously have rogered the little porker from behind whilst it was still alive. It always seemed to cheer up his fag Trumpington Mi. when he was a little homesick anyway!

As to the fantasy that David was a debauched party-going pisshead during his days at Oxford, there seems to be some mistake shurely. During his student days DC was was a very diligent student and only left his rooms at the end of term to engage in the normal celebrations of ballroom dancing and the consumption of lashings of lemonade and fruit cake.

David is seen here enjoying an eightsome reel with some chums.
(L to R:Lady Amelia Fitz-Tightly, DC, a chap doing a poor Tommy Cooper
impression and a somewhat lost Cheri Blair)

Note that there is not so much as a cigarette in this picture and that the Saintly One's flies are firmly done up.

The allegation that Cameron was a knob-meister first class is so far removed from the truth as to be ludicrous (although he candidly admits to the odd bit of self-abuse in his monastic lodgings, "Well, I was practising for my role as a politician").

The following wild allegation seems to have been an editorial mix-up at the Daily Mail;-

"Cameron’s most significant conquest was a beautiful blonde called Laura Adshead, who seemed destined for a stellar political career. Educated at Cheltenham Ladies’ College and Oxford, she dated him for a year.

When Cameron ended it, Laura was so upset that she reportedly had to be given a period of compassionate leave from work.

Later, she moved to America, where her hard-partying lifestyle spiralled into drink and drug addiction.

Subsequently, she became a nun."

This passage was in fact a quotation from the bonk-busting work of Jackie Collins who sadly shuffled off this mortal coil earlier this week. We'll not see her like again. (Thank Christ -Ed.)

As to Lord Arsepoof's assertion that Our Dave "spent his entire undergraduate career ripped to the tits on weed and snorting coke like there was no tomorrow" (I've paraphrased Ashcroft's fantasies a bit there), this is a complete misunderstanding on the part of the benighted knight.

The suggestion that our future Prime Minister indulged in the consumption of narcotic substances whilst listening to Supertramp as a member of the notorious 'Flam Club' is clearly erroneous. "I cannot recollect ever experimenting with drugs at Oxford" says DC. (Neither can any of us 70s dopeheads, laddie! -Ed.) David was in fact a founder of the Oxford University Flan Club, and would spend hours baking his favourite delicacy along with a group of his chums. Any white powder seen around his nose at this time would just have been flour from an over-enthusiastic kneeding session!

Obviously if Cameron had indulged in the weed or white powder he would not have become the man he is today. The effect of such abuse would have rendered the perpetrator detached from everyday life, unable to make rational decisions and generally of no use to man or beast. (Are you sure of that defence? - Ed.)

So, rest assured good readers that St. David is totally without blemish, a man upright in everything that he does (Not another sexual allegation shurely - Ed.) and that the future of your country is safe in the hands of this paragon of purity,

What ho chaps, anyone for Tizer?

Death of a Titan

Sad news yesterday with the death of D.B.Close CBE.

Brian Close was a boyhood hero of your correspondent. The phrase 'Yorkshire Tyke' was probably invented to describe him. He was almost certainly the bravest player ever to represent England at cricket, although many would prefer the term 'foolhardy' to describe him.

'Hard' does not even start to describe his attitude to cricket. Remember that this was in the 60s and 70s. No protective helmets or body armour in those days. The only protection worn was the box. "What me wear a box? Are you suggesting I'm a Jesse, you soft southern piece of shite?"

For those of a strong disposition, have a look at this clip of Closey facing up to the West Indies pace attack of a young Michael Holding at Old Trafford in 1976. In those days there was no limit as to the number of bouncers that could be bowled per over. (Warning: not to be viewed by impressionable youngsters, pregnant women or those who suffer nightmares!)

I think 'sang-froid' is the term that might be used to describe that performance. ("Sang-bloody- froid! We don't have that foreign muck in Yorkshire") Close believed that you should never show pain as it would only encourage the bowler! As he wandered down the pitch to do a bit of 'gardening' (the wicket was breaking up alarmingly with every delivery) you can imagine him saying to John Edrich "Eh lad, I'll be glad of a pint after this little lot. That basstard Holding's a bit on the fast side!" Brian was aged 45 when playing in this match, England had already lost the series and the selectors brought in older players whose careers wouldn't be ruined by the trauma of facing the Windies quickies.

This is Closey's torso at close of play;-

"Which of you bastards has nicked my fags?"

Notice that all the bruises are on Brian's right hand side. As a left handed batsman Close hadn't ducked or turned his back on the ball at all! His reasoning was that if you went down the track to the quicky and took it on the body, you couldn't be given out LBW!

DBC was certainly brave, and probably certifiably mad. He specialised in fielding at short leg - the suicide position usually detailed to the most junior ( and therefore most dispensable) member of the team as a rite of passage. Not in the Yorkshire side!"Eh Doris, is that the Cathedral bells clanging? No Esmerelda, it's that Brian Close being hit in the knackers again. Our Janet had a feel of them one night and says that they're like pickled walnuts!"

The story goes that Close, fielding at short leg, was once hit on the forehead by a ferocious hook. As he went down pole-axed he shouted "catch it" and the batsman was duly caught at second slip. On being brought round Brian was asked "What would have happened if you'd been hit in the throat?" to which his reply was supposed to have been "The bugger would have been caught in the gully!"

Brian Close was also a footballer, turning out for Leeds Utd., Bradford City and, on a couple of occasions, Arsenal. He was perhaps the archetypal Yorkshireman; self-opinionated, stubborn and always willing to give his opinion. He eventually got sacked by the Yorkshire Committee (as he was by England) and went off to Somerset where he established that county as a force in the domestic game and brought on two promising youngsters named Ian Botham and Viv Richards.

The wit and wisdom of D.B.Close!

I feel privileged to have seen him once playing for Yorkshire against Glamorgan.

We'll not see his like again.

Electional Dysfunction

Whilst talking about erections your correspondent was drawn to reflect that the elevation of Kim Il Corby to the Labour leadership is but one result of the contagion which seems to have been rampant this summer in the electorates of the western world.

The Americans have always had some dodgy Presidents, ranging from the criminally insane Tricky Dicky through the sexually obsessed Kennedy, confused ex-celeb Regan to the mentally retarded Bush Junior. (Yes, you seem to have been pretty inclusive in your abuse there - Ed.) But an even weirder prospect now looms over the Land of the Free in the form of arch self-publicist and total arse Donald Trump.

Trump!

A right fart.

                                                                                               

How anyone could think of electing a bewigged, mysoginist buffoon whose name means fart is completely beyond me.

Whilst pursuing this wind-based analysis of politics across the pond, and feeling rather puerile, readers might be interested in this video which shows what Cabinet meetings could be like if old Donny gets elected.

Actually I think I might be being a bit unkind to our New World cousins. (Shurely not! - Ed.)

Does this Trump election poster show that the Yanks are finally beginning to appreciate irony?

Dear, dear Donald has been criticised for his crass comments on just about everything, and so has enlisted his dear lady wife in his campaign in order to 'soften' his image a bit.

Donald and Melania

Now come on Trumpster, she's a fair bit of eye-candy but as an ex-model who specialises in peddling anti-aging cream, she ain't no intellectual dynamo.

By the way, why do people (even billionaires) have to make rabbit ears when on camera?

You couldn't imagine a great British statesman like Winston Churchill doing such a thing, could you?!











If you feel that Trump as a potential President is plumbing the depths, it gets even worse for the U S of A!
It seems that a gentleman named Kanye West has announced his intention to run for President in 2020. Mr. West, it seems, is a famous rapper (the 'C' is silent) and convicted felon who is mostly famous for being married to a blow-up doll.

Kanye and his wife.
What a lovely pair!

It seems that Miss Kardashian is very keen to take an active part in running the world's largest democracy and has issued a number of briefing papers on topics of interest to her.

Hi boys! Good job I've got massive boobs else I'd be forever falling on my butt!

As First Lady, Kim intends to cover herself in liquid chocolate to welcome visiting dignitaries to the White House.

The mind boggles ................

That American Presidential Succession in Full

2016  Donald Trump

2021 Kanye West

2026 The Ghost of Walt Disney

2031 A box of Golden Grahams

2036 A small house brick

(That's enough Presidents - Ed.)

Corby-mania grips Britain!

With the labour Party cognoscenti (Sid and Doris Welfare-State) in apoplexy at the election of their new leader, Conservative Party-sponsored street parties are popping up all over the country as The Toffs celebrate the prospect of being in power ad infinitum.

"Mark my words chummy" said a tired and emotional Tory grandee (Brigadier Maurice Mussolini (retd.)),"The boy Cameron and his fragrant wife will rule forever - we'll make the ambitions of the Third Reich look like pie in the sky!" (at this point the Brigadier appeared to reach sexual climax, but it might have been a seizure).

Ten things you should know about Jeremy Corby.

1. Jeremy is a part-time model and an icon for the followers of the new 'Geography Teacher Crumpled' fashion trend.

Jeremy is here shown modelling the new England rugby away strip.

It is understood that the International Rugby Board have given The Great Leader (TGL) special permission to appear as a replacement should England be losing by more than 20 points in their RWC match against Uruguay. TGL will obviously save the game single handed, playing on the left wing.
















2. Jeremy's family made their wealth from Grandpa's invention of the Corby trouser press, the iconic accessory in every hotel room in Britain.

The Corby Press in commemorative red livery to celebrate TGL's erection.

The Corby trouser press has many functions in addition to that of pressing trousers. It does a fine job of warming up take-aways (especially paninis) and has provided great sexual solace to many a lonely travelling salesman during long evenings in Scunthorpe. (Health and Safety hint: Always check the inside of your host's trouser press before inserting anything you value into it. Old chips or fish fingers can easily be removed, but you must make your own decision as to viability should the press have significant internal staining.)





3. Jeremy Corbyn has the same initials as Jesus Christ!

This is, of course, just as you would expect for the True Redeemer as Jeremy's followers call him.

Jeremy Corbyn

JC

Long hair, beard, charismatic speaker. Coincidence?

I think we should be told.

4. Like Jesus, Jeremy Corbyn was born in humble circumstances, which did not stop him rising to become a leader of men.

Chez Corbyn (stables round the back)

5. JC has a town named after him in Northamptonshire. Corby is described as 'the arsehole of the universe' and is home to more unemployed, alcoholic, Scots ex-patriots than Sauchiehall Street on a Saturday.

6. Jeremy is not just a one-eyed politico, oh no!

 According to the Financial Times, "he loves making jam with fruit grown on his allotment, belongs to the All Party Parliamentary Group for Cheese and is a borderline trainspotter".

He is a vegetarian and a keen cyclist - he does not own a car - as well as being a supporter of Arsenal football club. 

Corbyn Jam

(Editor's note: The above bit purports to be true! The All Party Parliamentary Group for Cheese actually exists and will feature in a future blog.)

7. Jeremy was heavily criticised for inviting Palestinian terrorist group Hamas to Parliament, but explained later that he thought the bloke with the tea towel on his head was promoting hummus which is another of the great man's passions.

8. Jeremy is a serial knobber. He is currently on wife number three having worn out the first two with his incessant demands for tantric sex (with added hummus).

9. TGL is at present taking time out from his highly successful film career to concentrate on turning Britain into a Third World country.

One of JC's finest roles is celebrated in this commemorative philatelic tribute;-

Obi Wanker-Knobby

10. Er..... that's it! (Thank God for that - Ed. Roll on the rugby!)

Silly Season Animal Stories

As the summer sun beats down on our beautiful countryside (Are you 'aving a larf mate? Look out the bleeding window) the denizens of the press have started their annual transhumance to the beaches, leaving journalism trainees and interns to fill the pages of the papers with dross pinched from the previous day's net postings. With Britain under siege from 'swarms' (ooh Mr. Cameron, what wicked words you use!) of illegal immigrants, the roads of Kent at a standstill and countless family holidays to the continent ruined, do we have any detailed analysis? No. With the Daily Torygraph rapidly turning into a redtop, what fills the pages but that old stand-by, the cuddly animal story.

We started the week with the sad news that Cecil the lion was no more.

Now I'm no apologist for twatish American dentists with too much money and a morbid interest in slaughtering endangered wild life, but I must admit to having been a bit annoyed by a story which features an animal with the name Cecil. For heaven's sake, this poor creature was supposedly the King of the Jungle, and deserved a better name than Cecil! When did we ever hear of a King Cecil? Why wasn't our maned friend called Bart, Arnie or Llewellyn- some well-hard name befitting such a majestic animal?

The late Cecil (or it might be his mate Tarquin)
These Africans all look the same to me.

Of course, Cecil's demise was soon followed by the outpouring of a nation's grief and the erection of a shrine to the deceased flea-bitten mammal.

Out came the predictable stuffed toys, although I'm not too convinced by the white bear and the monkey with the big ears. (Come on, this is in America. The poor old Yanks are trying their best - Ed.) Actually I think this charming photo was just an attempt to get an upskirt shot of the lady with the trainers.

For those readers feeling trigger-happy, here is a shot of the 'World's Most Wanted'

"I think we've been spotted"

With their dander well and truly up (I wonder what a 'dander' is?) the animal huggers then turned their wrath on the sleepy seaside town of Skegness. And what has poor old Skeggy done? Slaughtered all the seagulls who nick visitors' chips? Culled the resort's feral cats? Barbecued the donkies who used to give rides on the beach? No, they have a mascot called Jolly the Fisherman.

Jolly welcomes you!

It seems that Jolly first appeared in 1908 on a Great Northern Railway poster extolling the delights of this East Coast Mecca;-

Jolly - effeminate but innocuous

A splendid evocation of Skeggy's nautical past you might presume - but oh no, no, no.

According to the demented Dawn Carr, head lunatic of PETA (Puerile EarThlings against Anything)

(Are you sure of that? I thought it was People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals - Ed.), Jolly "evokes images of cruelty to animals".

As your humble correspondent could not even start to make up Dawn's description of this piscatorial poaching pariah, I will quote her verbatim;-

"Fish being tricked into impaling themselves in the mouth, animals being pulled out of the ocean in giant nets where they are so crushed together the pressure pushes their stomachs out through their mouths and their eyes pop out."

God help us Dawn, they're bloody fish! They have no brains, their soul (sole?) raison d'etre is to provide the raw ingredient for our national dish. Have you never experienced the delights of a lightly battered portion of cod from the great Harry Ramsden's (or Big Gav's for our NZ readers) accompanied by the requisite portion of chips? (Probably not, most of these animal fanatics are devoid of any sensual pleasures or sense of humour - Ed.)

They're fish you loon; Cod not God. Not a single GCSE amongst the lot of them, even with the abysmal standards of that qualification. When was a herring ever Poet Laureate. Has a kipper ever been King? When was the last time a Fish presented the weather forecast?

Shome mishtake shurely - Ed.

And what does Demented Dawn suggest as a replacement for the aquatic mass murderer?

Bloody hell Dawn! That's shite.

Mass civil disturbances are to be expected at this ludicrous proposal. The good citizens of Skegness have already taken to social meedja to express their support for their local hero!

Bloody classy those Skeggy lasses!

And finally on the animal front;-

Taiwan giant panda 'fakes' pregnancy symptoms to be given extra food and nicer accommodation

This one is a ripper folks! It seems that Yuan Yuan, an 11-year old Giant Panda at Taiwan Zoo got pissed off with the standard of her accommodation and grub and so faked a pregnancy to gain access to  her own air-conditioned room and to be given round-the-clock care, extra bamboo and treats such as fruit and buns.

"I hope they keep that bloody dentist away"

At great risk to his own safety, your correspondent interviewed the Polymath Panda. "Conning these keepers was a breeze, mate. Next I think I'll con my way into the UK. The government there are a right pushover. Free housing, great benefits and, if I can persuade this bloody soft cock of a mate of mine to get his act together, we can produce enough sprogs to live the life of Reilly on the state. I'll just have to figure a way to get through that Channel Tunnel - those African illegals are crap at it. Needs a bit of Oriental cunning!"

Lordy, Lordy!

House of Lords, London, 28th July

I love this dressing up! I've got suspenders on underneath!

A statement from Lord Sewel ( The Right Honourable (sic) John Buttifant (honest!) Sewel CBE,
Deputy Speaker and Chairman of Committees. Family motto: "It's the real thing - coke" Coat of Arms: Penis rampant on a background of white powder, with notes of the realm (rolled))


Dear common people.

It is with great sadness that I wish to inform you that I have herewith resigned from The Gravy Train ("beloved House of Lords" - shurely!) in the light of the unfathomable and somewhat frenzied reaction to my leisure pursuits by the gutter press.

As Chairman of Committees at Halitosis Hall, part of my rôle is to enforce discipline (more, more!) and uphold the standards of the House. Accordingly I have referred my actions to my own committee and have found my performance to be wanting on a number of counts;-

1. The use of a £5 note to snort coke was just common! What was I thinking of? We Lords are paid £300 a day in cash just for dropping in before opening time and tooting with anything less than a tenner cannot be tolerated.
2. Those 'sex workers'! I know realise that I really let myself down with that group of slappers. These were hardly Christine Keeler class were they? (Editor's note: under 50? Google 'Profumo Affair')
   
   

   

   Gratuitous picture of Christine for old times sake

         I now realise that this bunch of cut-price strumpets were of insufficient class to benefit from a         good seeing to from a peer of the realm and I apologise most sincerely to my colleagues and fellow legover enthusiasts in The House.

        3. My choice of bra was absolutely appalling!

Where was my colour co-ordination? A man of my age, of a more mature stature, should really have consulted Rigby & Peller (naughty knickers to the monarchy) for something more seemly (an ermine trimmed basque would have been nice).

Having considered my own case, and in light of the ridicule that has been heaped on me, I am reluctantly resigning from the House of Lords Prostitute Appreciation Society and apologise to all my fellow members for letting my standards slip in pursuit of a quick piece of rumpy-pumpy.

I shall thus be removing myself from pubic life and will henceforth dedicate my self to helping poor little homeless girls find their place in society and working hard to alleviate the parlous plight of poor peasants in Colombia.

The former Lord is seen at home helping his dear lady wife do the housework
"Can't find the hoover, better snort up this strange dust"

Fascists of the Royal and Food varieties

Dear chums, at last something to write about!

The world of Royal watchers (Sid and Doris Patriotic-Bonkers) were aghast this week with the revelation by the Sun newspaper (sic) that our dear Royal Family are in fact all closet Nazis and were fans of that nice Mr. Hilter back in the 30's.

A grainy home movie purports to show Her Madge giving the old raised arm salute to the delight of the Queen Mum and her Uncle David.

There are however distinct reasons to believe that this footage is a fake;-

i) The Queen Mum is NOT drinking her customary gin and tonic
ii) Uncle David (Edward VIII as he was to become) is NOT having intercourse with Wallace Whats'ername for whom he forsook the throne to embark on a life of serial buffoonery and debauchery
iii) Her Majesty the Queen is known to detest football and therefore would have no need to practice the greeting given by all Ingerland fans when the national side plays the Krauts.
iv) The Royal dachshunds are nowhere in sight (better check that bit - Ed.)

As to the Sun's headline "Their Royal Heilnesses", this is just puerile. (Pot, kettle - Ed.)

A statement issued from Buckingham Palace reads as follows;-

"Mein Gott in Himmel. Was ist alle dieses schiese in der Sonne dagblatt? Wir ver only following orders."

To reassure our readers of the continuing uncontaminated allegiance to all that is great and good in this country, we include this recent photo of the Royal christening;-

OK, it's not Charlotte, but charming, nichtswar?

If readers need further reassurance that the Royals remain central to the nation's heart we include this tribute.

A knitted reconstruction of the Royal christening created by the parishioners of Griston in Norfolk

That's more like it! Personally I think that Prince William here looks like Sir Michael Caine.

Further fascist news this morning when it was reported that interfering councillors in Stonehaven, Scotland have ordered the local chippy to remove their advertising banner.

It comes to something when the good burgers (shouldn't that be 'burghers' -Ed!) of this quaint Scottish outpost can't celebrate their only claim to culinary fame (or any other sort of fame come to that) without the busybodies deeming it unbecoming and an affront to dietary correctness.

Come on guys, loosen up! From a nation that produced the haggis, this is a bit thick.

Rumours that a daily intake of DFMB made First Minister Nicola Sturgeon the woman that she is today have not been refuted, which I find quite significant.






And finally, for those of you with a strong disposition, here is a close up of the DFMB to stir your appetite.

In praise of Titty and Fanny

This week I have mostly been thinking of ........................swearing!

My musings were brought about by the news that the BBC, in their politically correct crusade, have changed the name of one of the heroines in their new adaptation of the brilliant Arthur Ransome's Swallows and Amazons from the original Titty to the politically correct and seemingly acceptable Tatty. What a lot of absolute cock! (Editor's note; shouldn't that read 'total penis'?)

Now come on, what on Earth is this all about? The Beeb had pledged that their adaption of S & A would be faithful to the original, written before Elf n' Safety prevented children from climbing trees, sailing boats, apprehending criminals and all the other essentials of a well-rounded upbringing, and for that they are to be congratulated. However, it seems that the sensibilities of your 21st century viewer are too delicate to deal with the name Titty.

I can do no better in pointing out the absurdity of this stance than quote verbatim the Torygraph's editorial on this subject;- (but first a photo of Titty)

The 1974 version with Ronald Frazer and some fine Titty

By Telegraph View

6:35AM BST 25 Jun 2015

In the new BBC Films version of Swallows and Amazons one character’s name has been changed. Titty will become Tatty. Really! 

Her name might have made us snigger when we were 12, perhaps, but practically anything could set off a determined searcher for “rude” words. After all, another of the clean-living outdoor crew of the Swallow is Roger. Roger as a verb is quite as “rude” as Titty. 

In any case, if you want to stop people laughing at a name, the best way is to speak out loud and bold. May Dick be always welcome and Fanny praised. Let us see nothing amiss with wee Willie. 

Otherwise we shall end up living in Grace Brothers department store, whooping with laughter at every double entendre, yet petrified to talk of bastard trenching or female joints lest some imaginary listener be offended.

________________________________

For the youngsters amongst our readership. I would point out that Grace Brothers were a department store in the BBC comedy (sic) Are you being served? which featured a hugely camp and mincing shop assistant who was always harping on about stroking Mrs. Slocombe's pussy. Oh the golden days of British comedy! Bastard trenching is a horticultural term meaning double digging (to two spades depth) and caused a lot of problems for the 'Saint of the Sod' Mr. Alan Titchmarsh when he used it recently.

Now I may be wrong, but I reckon that the average pre-pubescent young girl would hate to be called 'tatty' and would much rather be known as 'titty'!

By the way....... I've just noticed that my spell-checker has joined in the act! It is happy with titty (in the mammary sense) but seems to take objection to Titty with a capital. I suspect this is all down to the bloody Americans and their total confusion when it comes to naming private parts. Good old Uncle Sam seems to get its knickers (or panties in a twist - hate that word!) when trying to assign a name to the botty. For the sake of our American chums I will provide a visual clue;-

Ass

Arse

Butt

There, it's easy! The Yanks will soon get the hang of it - and then I'll try to explain the intricacies of the word fanny as we use it in the developed world.

The final word on the Titty/Tatty fudge should probably go to a mature correspondent who opined "When you get to my age most of the titty you meet has gone a bit tatty!"

Talking of our trans-Atlantic cousins, my musings on this subject were further intrigued when President Obama used the N-word.

"Racism, we are not cured of it," the president said. "And it's not just a matter of it not being polite to say nigger in public."  

Now I must admit to be being very, very confused about the use of this word. Of course I would abhor the use of the word as an insult directed against anyone with a black skin (and there are PC problems with using that term I gather. I feel myself walking on thin ice, but will persevere.)

What is confusing is that nigger  has become a popular term of endearment by the descendents of the very people who once had to endure it. Among many young people today—black and white—the n-word can mean friend. All very tricky. I don't much like the idea of a word being hijacked by one section of the community to the exclusion of its use by everyone else. Why are only homosexuals allowed to be gay now? and what happened to the good old word poof?

And while I'm at it....... I wish that the the press would stop using N-word, C-word, F-word and so on.

When I see N-word I immediately start thinking of all the silly words starting with N that could be used in the context, like nincompoop, namby-pamby, nannoplankton and narcissist. The use of N***** is just as bad; I have an urgent need to fill in the missing letters. Is it nitwit, numpty or noodle ? Now this may just be me going slightly demented, but if you put F*** in the paper the average 6-year old, trying to decide which words they can get away with using in polite company, will work out wtf you're on about! 

I think we need to do some serious thinking about this subject, but at the moment I can't be a****!

Bloody Sycophants!

After rejoicing yesterday about Gareth's Knighthood your correspondent was moved close to chundering this morning in reaction to this piece of journalistic bilge about Prince George going to watch his Dad play polo.

A Sunday afternoon, a two year old rolling about on the grass and having good fun (albeit surrounded by the paparazzi). End of, finito, fin de l'exercise .....? Oh no! Not according to the mentally challenged reptiles masquerading as the British press.

Small boy climbing up bank

Sorry! Got that one wrong - in fact George is "struggling to crawl his way up a daunting hill".

Christ mate, it's not the foothills of the bloody Himalayas (and, if I'm not mistaken, neither is that Sherpa Tensing on the left).

Child in dodgy footwear kicks pill

Oh no! Silly me. This is a "self assured" kick. What a crock of shite. He'll be playing centre forward for his father's 'beloved' Aston Villa next. (And while I'm moaning, why are football teams always 'beloved'? My dear lady wife is my 'beloved'. I 'support' Wales, but the thought of having sexual relations with any of that hairy-arsed bunch is appalling.) (Oh I don't know! - Mrs. Bobbledegookist)

Child rolls down hill

I can remember doing this as a kid and landing in a cow pat! I got my arse smacked for being a prat. Young kids today? Don't realise how lucky they are.

I think the final words in this rant should go to Prince George himself;-

Hurrumph!

A Knighthood for Gareth Edwards and a walk down memory lane

Congratulations to the great Gareth Edwards on the well-deserved award of a K in the Queen's Birthday Honours list. GOE was one of Wales' greatest players, a world class scrumhalf if ever there was one and a terrific ambassador for the sport of rugby.

The great man in his pomp

Gareth was reckoned to be possibly the greatest player to ever play for Wales, and who's to gainsay that? He was one of the first scrumhalves to perfect the long spin pass and this did so much to free up the two fabulous outside halves he played with, Barry John and Phil Bennett, during Wales' glory years.

Gareth anguished that his sideburns were not as good as JPR's!

A spot of Googlisation reveals that the commemorative figurines (Groggs) of those days are still available - a fantastic Fathers' Day present if ever there was one.

Groggtastic mates!

Of course, no mention of the Great Man would be complete without reference to THAT try, so for those heathens amongst you who may not have seen it recently, hold on to your hats!;-

Please note that this game was not played in a mist! It's just the crappy quality of the old film! Amazing how the game has changed, the lineout then was mayhem and a great excuse for skullduggerry (and many were skullduggerred!) and there are at least two attempts at decapitation in this clip. Good to hear the dulcet tones of the late, great Cliff Morgan on commentary too.

Mention of Sir Gareth brought back happy(ish) memories for your correspondent of the day when I played against Gareth. As far as I can recall, I haven't thought about this during the 50 years that have elapsed since Gareth and I were callow youths in opposition!

Back in the mid-sixties our provincial Welsh grammar school side were invited to a prestigious sevens tournament in Bristol, and who did we draw in the first round but Millfield School who were then by far the most powerful schoolboy side in England. A trip across the channel was of course an international tour for us and off we set by steam train for the great adventure. There were no bridges across the Severn in those days (small boys in the park, jumpers for goalposts etc.) so other than a trek round via Gloucester (where to this day the locals still eat Welsh people) a trip by rail through Brunel's great Severn Tunnel was the only way to get to foreign parts. Anyway for some reason (probably sheep on the line) our train was late arriving in Bristol and so we had to change on the train and rush to the ground by taxi. God knows where the money for that came from! Somehow the organisers had been informed of our hold up (No idea how, no mobile phones in those days, must have been a carrier pigeon) and generously rescheduled the playing order to give us a chance to arrive. So there we were, straight out of the taxis and onto the pitch to meet the greatest challenge in our lives.

To put it into perspective, Millfield's side were all schoolboy internationals (including JPR Williams, another from the Welsh pantheon) and so we were deep in the doodoo before kickoff. Sadly there was to be no fairytale ending and we were duly beaten by this array of stars, but we gave a good account of ourselves and were certainly not disgraced. I should here record that during the match I inflicted on Gareth the hardest tackle he encountered in his entire playing career but, truth be told, all I can really remember is bouncing off the biggest pair of thighs I'd ever had the misfortune to come across (oooh-er Mrs.!). Actually, neither Gareth nor JPR were the best players on the day; that accolade went to Vaughan Williams, then the Welsh Schools fly half who strangely never made it through to the senior ranks (although he was capped by The Bahamas!). Vaughan Williams died a couple of years back after 30 years of service as Director of Sports at Nottingham University (where incidentally he was indirectly my daughter's employer when she worked as a lifeguard at the University Pool - small world we live in!).

Predictably, after our prodigious efforts against Millfield, we were rubbish in our next tie in the Plate competition and got well tonked. C'est la vie.

This encounter with rugby's royalty was not, however, the only highlight of our day. On our journey home we went to the station buffet at Bristol Temple Meads (named after a New Zealand rugby great) and partook of that rare delicacy Oxtail Soup. Served with two slices of bread and butter, this was the food of the Gods. Now I doubt that this was a speciality of British Rail's catering (all nicely nationalised in those days you see). It probably came out of a tin, but to a bruised and battered sixteen year old it tasted wonderful and I can smell its aroma as I write this drivel.

That delicacy in full
(though we didn't do garnishes in those days,
and certainly not napkins - far too elaborate)

The source of said tit-bit

Of course, I didn't realise the real source of this comestible in those days, so it's only fair to show you where it actually comes from;-

There you have it then, from the Honours System to cows' arses! Some would say it's not too big a leap.

P.S. I saw this headline on the Beeb website just now;-

Gay Priest in action against Church

I decided I'd better not go there!