It's a bit unsettling, all this election/ government/ have we got a new Prime Minister yet malarkey, isn't it? Fascinating stuff, of course, despite the maths, but I can't help thinking that the longer the main parties are taking to sort themselves out, the more their 'cordial discussions' could be disintegrating into petty squabbling.
'I know,' says Mrs Pumphrey, who is true Prime Minister, but no-one of any intelligence ('cept me and Andy) has yet recognised her as such. 'I keep telling them. I keep saying, 'Dave, Nicky, calm down. I'm sorting it out, okay? And Gordon - get back in your box and count your fingers. But will they listen? Will they cocoa.'
This morning, when still no news was to be had, I thought, I bet they're arguing over billing rights. You know, the tricky negotiation that theatre stars undergo when deciding whose name goes at the top of the poster when it comes to joint appearances. It used to be that the biggest crowd pulling star would go first. The Royal Shakespeare Company list everyone alphabetically, no matter the star status.
And thus, I think, goes the current conversation behind closed cabinet doors.
Nick: So, Dave, with both our surnames beginning with 'C', whose going to get top billing on the posters at the joint party conference in the Autumn?
David: Well, Nick, I am more famous than you, so I really ought to be on top.
Nick : But I am a fresh young thing, and also slightly taller than you, so I think I should go near the top.
David: This is true. And I understand your argument completely. But, I should also like to point out that the letter 'D' for David comes before the letter 'N' for Nicholas in the alphabet, so I have double the right to be top of the poster.
Nick: Actually, Davey, my real first name is Aardvark Alfonso. And Clegg is an Anglicanisation of my true surname...'
David : Which is?
Nick: No, let me finish...
David: ...I am...
Nick: Oh, right. Er....yes, Clegg. Anglicanisation of 'a la Clegge,' from the French you know. With a soft, elongated 'g'.
David: Whilst I don't doubt for one moment that your true name is Aardvark Alphonso a la Clegge, I would wish for you to provide sustantial proof. Until the evidence if proven, I would like you to consider also that the second letter of my name is 'a', whilst yours is 'i'.
Nick: Now you're being petty.
David: I think not. I think you started it by being completely incapable of accepting that I am more famous than you. Before the first leaders debate, it was 'Nick? Nick who?'
Mrs Pumphrey: Bok, bok!
Nick : Who let that chicken in here?
David: Don't change the subject.
Well, it's either that or they're arguing about what biscuits to have during tea-break.
Showing posts with label election. Show all posts
Showing posts with label election. Show all posts
Sunday, 9 May 2010
Monday, 3 May 2010
Bank Holiday Malarkey
I am glad it is a bank holiday today, because no way was I going to work when I woke this morning. I had far more important things to do than educate the young, who, quite frankly, often don't realise how lucky they are to have a free education.
For a start, Andy and I had to get the back garden ready for Bee-Hive Number One (the hive will be given a witty and topical name once I can think of one). The back garden has been looking a right old tip, so some heavy duty tidying was called for, so that once our hive is sited we won't do any unnecessary bee enraging by having to move it once the colony is settled. Also, I had a pile of summer bulbs to put in - gladioli and irises. The chickens came and helped dig the bulb bed; Mrs Miggins indulging in the sport of extreme digging i.e clambering atop the fork for prime worm viewing position.
It's surprising what can be achieved in three hours. The weather threatened to spoil our fun a couple of times, but we held out and managed to create the illusion of more space than we've actually got by the time lunch started calling.
'It looks okay now, doesn't it?' said Andy, standing back to admire our handy work.
'Indeed,' I agreed. 'But now I am pooped so am going inside for a Bank Holiday afternoon slump.'
And so far this afternoon I have caught up with some letter writing, nearly finished another book by my new favourite writer, Marina Lewycka, read a bit more about bees, and drawn a plan of how I imagine our dream-house-and-garden-smallholding-combo to look. I have tidied out my knicker drawer, and am about to continue sewing the picture I started when Kayleigh was born which is for her nursery and if I carry on at the rate I am going with it so far, she'll be able to hang it on her wall when she is about 13 years old and drooling over some vacuous, floppy-haired boy-band.
And then I am going to scour my cookery books for some good vegetarian recipes that in no way, shape or form involve tofu. Have you ever eaten tofu? Can I suggest you don't? You might just as well eat slivers of bath sponge dipped in a soapy water solution. Yuk! I believe tofu is derived from soya bean curd, and to be honest, the words 'soya' and 'curd' in the same sentence should be enough to put anyone off trying this poor excuse for a meat substitute. It's supposed to be tasteless and will therefore take on the flavour of whatever else you soak it in or cook it with. Well, all I can say is that the stuff we had last night in our Chinese takeway must have been soaked in molten playdough. Double yuk!
And this evening I am off out with Mrs Pumphrey to do some last minute canvassing before the election on Thursday. She wants to kiss some babies and I have to be on hand with the beak muffler. The latest polls suggest she is in with a good chance of becoming Prime Minister, thank goodness, because she can't do any more harm than the current shower, can she?
Although she did call Tango Pete a fascist gigolo the other day. And abusing your electorate is never a good idea. Is it, Gordon?
For a start, Andy and I had to get the back garden ready for Bee-Hive Number One (the hive will be given a witty and topical name once I can think of one). The back garden has been looking a right old tip, so some heavy duty tidying was called for, so that once our hive is sited we won't do any unnecessary bee enraging by having to move it once the colony is settled. Also, I had a pile of summer bulbs to put in - gladioli and irises. The chickens came and helped dig the bulb bed; Mrs Miggins indulging in the sport of extreme digging i.e clambering atop the fork for prime worm viewing position.
It's surprising what can be achieved in three hours. The weather threatened to spoil our fun a couple of times, but we held out and managed to create the illusion of more space than we've actually got by the time lunch started calling.
'It looks okay now, doesn't it?' said Andy, standing back to admire our handy work.
'Indeed,' I agreed. 'But now I am pooped so am going inside for a Bank Holiday afternoon slump.'
And so far this afternoon I have caught up with some letter writing, nearly finished another book by my new favourite writer, Marina Lewycka, read a bit more about bees, and drawn a plan of how I imagine our dream-house-and-garden-smallholding-combo to look. I have tidied out my knicker drawer, and am about to continue sewing the picture I started when Kayleigh was born which is for her nursery and if I carry on at the rate I am going with it so far, she'll be able to hang it on her wall when she is about 13 years old and drooling over some vacuous, floppy-haired boy-band.
And then I am going to scour my cookery books for some good vegetarian recipes that in no way, shape or form involve tofu. Have you ever eaten tofu? Can I suggest you don't? You might just as well eat slivers of bath sponge dipped in a soapy water solution. Yuk! I believe tofu is derived from soya bean curd, and to be honest, the words 'soya' and 'curd' in the same sentence should be enough to put anyone off trying this poor excuse for a meat substitute. It's supposed to be tasteless and will therefore take on the flavour of whatever else you soak it in or cook it with. Well, all I can say is that the stuff we had last night in our Chinese takeway must have been soaked in molten playdough. Double yuk!
And this evening I am off out with Mrs Pumphrey to do some last minute canvassing before the election on Thursday. She wants to kiss some babies and I have to be on hand with the beak muffler. The latest polls suggest she is in with a good chance of becoming Prime Minister, thank goodness, because she can't do any more harm than the current shower, can she?
Although she did call Tango Pete a fascist gigolo the other day. And abusing your electorate is never a good idea. Is it, Gordon?
Thursday, 29 April 2010
Killer Bees, Election Fever and Bungo Womble
There was a report in today's paper about a colony of bees that turned on a bee keeper and stung him to death.
'I think,' said Andy, 'that we should go and buy bees suits on Saturday.'
'This bee keeper was tending his bees bare chested, with no protective clothing whatsoever,' I said.
'Even so,' said Andy. 'And I think we should also go for the more expensive, thicker and therefore more protective option of bee suit.'
'He was being bit devil-may-care in his bee keeping,' I said.
'Even so,' said Andy.
'The report suggests he was tending them wearing little more than his bare skin,' I said.
'Extreme bee-keeping,' said Andy.
'Like extreme ironing?' I said.
'I think not,' said Andy.
So on Saturday, we are going to buy bee suits.
The second thing that is causing slight friction at the Manor is the forthcoming General Election. There are three candidates - General Motors, General Custer and General Misunderstanding. Of course, I jest. But Andy is disappointed that I like David Cameron. It is something he cannot get his head around and he looks at me reproachfully during party political broadcasts and prime minesterial debates, like I am going to waste my vote in some unlawful way. Equally, I am disappointed that Andy insists on sitting on the wobbly LibDem fence built by someone called Nick Leg. Still, we'll muddle by until next Thursday and then all will return to normal.
And the third thing that caused a mild contretemps this evening was the existence of Bungo the Womble. And Wellington the Womble. Now I remembered them very clearly, being an avid Womble fan when I was a child. But Andy was very suspicious.
'I don't remember them,' said he.
'That's because you're from up North and telly hadn't made it past the Watford Gap back in the 70's,' said I. 'Because of the risk of the annode ray tube shattering in the cold.'
(I like to get a Northern jibe in occasionally. It bolsters the feeling of superiority in my more advanced Southern brain.)
Anyway, via the medium of the Interwebbly, I proved the existence of said Wombles and a Womble identity crisis was thus avoided. It reminded me of the time I had to convince Andy that Barney Magrew from the Trumpton fire station was only one person and not two.
We really should get out more.
'I think,' said Andy, 'that we should go and buy bees suits on Saturday.'
'This bee keeper was tending his bees bare chested, with no protective clothing whatsoever,' I said.
'Even so,' said Andy. 'And I think we should also go for the more expensive, thicker and therefore more protective option of bee suit.'
'He was being bit devil-may-care in his bee keeping,' I said.
'Even so,' said Andy.
'The report suggests he was tending them wearing little more than his bare skin,' I said.
'Extreme bee-keeping,' said Andy.
'Like extreme ironing?' I said.
'I think not,' said Andy.
So on Saturday, we are going to buy bee suits.
The second thing that is causing slight friction at the Manor is the forthcoming General Election. There are three candidates - General Motors, General Custer and General Misunderstanding. Of course, I jest. But Andy is disappointed that I like David Cameron. It is something he cannot get his head around and he looks at me reproachfully during party political broadcasts and prime minesterial debates, like I am going to waste my vote in some unlawful way. Equally, I am disappointed that Andy insists on sitting on the wobbly LibDem fence built by someone called Nick Leg. Still, we'll muddle by until next Thursday and then all will return to normal.
And the third thing that caused a mild contretemps this evening was the existence of Bungo the Womble. And Wellington the Womble. Now I remembered them very clearly, being an avid Womble fan when I was a child. But Andy was very suspicious.
'I don't remember them,' said he.
'That's because you're from up North and telly hadn't made it past the Watford Gap back in the 70's,' said I. 'Because of the risk of the annode ray tube shattering in the cold.'
(I like to get a Northern jibe in occasionally. It bolsters the feeling of superiority in my more advanced Southern brain.)
Anyway, via the medium of the Interwebbly, I proved the existence of said Wombles and a Womble identity crisis was thus avoided. It reminded me of the time I had to convince Andy that Barney Magrew from the Trumpton fire station was only one person and not two.
We really should get out more.
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