LENS LIBRARY ALERT!

~ calling all snappers and true ~

* Achtung! * May Day * Bandits @ BAPLA o'clock *
* Scramble scramble, if not Σκαρφαλώστε Σκαρφαλώστε *
*Αναρριχώμαι σκαρφάλωμα!*

You knoww  when I use Rockwell Extrah BΩld for a headline that's it's red alert time for Hasselblad-hefting Corfucian Irregulars to whip off the Clark Kent specs, de-knee that κούκλα and plod into action.

There's a loada BAPLA crapla going down on Vine Hill London EC and my Main Man, the nonpareil Gwyn Headley (whom God preserve), is on the warpath.

Which, citoyens, means we too sharpen the flints, daub up and pull our f-stops out.

Sérieusement, Gwyn is founder of the inestimable (and much-mentioned in these pages) fotoLibra ~ the open access market place for buying and selling image rights to and from the gentry - and now he's now being dissed, dumped, plagiarised and every other -ised by a right bunch of scally-wags.

And so is his lady:

See those eyes up there?

Could you deny them anything?

Too right, butty, so it's Urddas i Gymru and Swords of Avalon at the ready.

See that face stage left?

Could you ... sorry, what's that, Simon? Yes, old boy, very sad ... trot along now, there's a good lad.

Point made.

Loipon:

1. Gwyn's Blog
2. fotoLibra Pro Blog
3. Gwyn's original letter:

"We're having a small dispute with BAPLA, our trade industry body, which is setting up in business in direct competition with fotoLibra, one of its own members.

Crudely put, but that's about the bones of it.

You can read the story in the fotoLibra blog firstly here and secondly here ~ and you can read BAPLA's version of the events in answer #8 to the first blog, and subsequently here

If you can possibly spare the time, we would really appreciate it if you could post a comment to one or other of the blogs.

I'm not asking you to take sides; just comment as you see fit.

Or blog it yourself!

Gwyn Headley
gwyn.headley@fotoLibra.com * Follow me on twitter * fotoLibra PRO BLOG * Gwyn's personal blog * www.fotoLibra.com"

Well now - when was the last time you were asked anything  so politely, let alone the simple assistance to stand up for fair play?

Hammer of Justice, Bell of Freedom stuff, what? Just up my homies' e-hood.

Do read all the links I've laboriously incorporated ~ at considerable inconvenience to my elevenses cocktail hour, I'll have you know ~ and do also read crapla Bapla's drippy response, the one that affects crocodile

"sadness [with which] we at BAPLA read the latest post on the fotoLibra blog, a blog that was full of misconceptions that led to many inaccurate statements.

Due to the potentially destructive and libellous accusations, BAPLA is forced to respond to reassure members and the industry that fotoLibra is completely mistaken in its perception of BAPLA’s future plans."

A propos of nowt, I checked with Ariadna on the etymology of Μπαπλα:

Moi: "If I recall from my Oxford salad days, 'Μπαπλα!' was the cuss of choice aboard the Argonaut whenever those wave-hogs of Pelias cut Jason off down that fast stretch on the Black Sea.

'Μπαπλα Malaka!' they'd bellow from the poop deck with many an unambiguous finger gesture.

Bit of the old Pony Spanker, I'd wager?"

A: "Is close, Sir Chris, except for subtle difference from 'wanker': Μπαπλα doesn't convey quite the same sense of respect."

Ayup, lads, there you have it - and I know you're out there with your Brownie 127s, packed lunches and battered Herodoti and Homers.

Thanks, guys. You help my homie, you help me.

Προσφέρουν βοήθεια σε έναν καλό φίλο

Psst ~ if any of you hard-hearted locust munchers need any further persuasion, voilà a furtive snap from the Blackberry of the fragrant Yvonne bawling her heart out on pensive Gwyn's puissant thigh.

Oh woe! Who will do battle on her behalf with the BAPLA bullies' boorish bandit ways?

Sob, heave - I know, like todally not Yvonne, but work with me, babe.

Distress Alert! Dishy Damsel in Despair.

Dept of Who'd be a Captain of Industry?

Who'd be a Millionaire, indeed?

I used to envy my old mucker Gwyn his 4D fotoLi-bra cup of dosh, hot wheels, beautiful aviateuse  lady but I think again since BAPLA-gate.

My language would be off the scale but read how "Folly" Hedders keeps his cool.

Read his patient long-suffering response to even the looniest illiterate swivel-eyed nonsense. The man's a hero:

"We all have to live with spam, and if a blog or a site is widely read or visited, we have to accept that among its users there will be people who hold violently different opinions to the majority.

Do we allow them their comments, or not?

Well we do, even when the one tired old fotoLibra Stalker, frothing over his keyboard, posts another gratuitous assault on the company he loves to hate. It’s his point of view, warped and twisted though it may be, so up it goes.

If anyone is remotely interested, I’ll post the story of how many years ago a sad man flagellated himself into this state of apoplectic rage.

On the other hand, we will delete out-and-out spam and comments which have no relevance. Someone posted something like “Way – Hey! R E E E S P E E E C T!” on the BAPLA Shock Horror blog posting the other day, so as it added nothing to the debate I deleted it.

Back came a resentful “So much for Open Access.” I deleted that too.

If you posted those and you really want to contribute, why not say what you want to say instead of just shouting incoherently? It will be published.

I have to scan through all the spam that’s picked up by the excellent Akismet plug-in for WordPress, because something genuine might slip through. Sometimes they make me smile with their guile, but this one brought a tear to my eye:

"Copywriting: Good copywriters are very well considerated because they achieve very good results.

For exemple, a good headline can make that much more people read your post."

The person can’t write English. Yet he’s offering copywriting services. Very … very … very; good … good … good — two words repeated 6 times in 33. Bad style, I’d say.

“Considerated”. Is this George W. Bush coming back to haunt us?

“For exemple”, for example.

“Make that much more people”? Wrong, wrong, wrong!

I wouldn’t dream of going to Saudi Arabia and setting up as a Hafiz. What makes this guy go to the lengths of spamming something which proves he’s incompetent?

What hope! What confidence! To set up a spamming business offering something you so clearly cannot do! It’s like the fotoLibra Stalker deluding himself he’s a photographer."

Dis donc. I'm sorry my thrusting boss copy applic for a copywriter post was de-considerated. The man's just jealous.

I crafted it specificiously to catch his eye.

Methoughted, "OK, my "Folly" Gwyn bro's a busy man, got a business to run. Woman to keep in mink.

He needs a Power Wordsmith, a well considerated dictionary-whupping expertista who'll achieve very good results.

“Way – Hey! R E E E S P E E E C T!”

Yessir, that were me aussi: Maestro of Dictionarial Disguise.

Didja notice how GH totally missed both those killer copy lines?

Wealth slows a man. Age. Loses him touch with selling copy how she is wroted.

Sisters of Shame

I'm still laughing at the latest offering by my Google Corfu Alert - I knew it would pay off in the end.

Not laughing at the poor mutt in the photo, of course.

Terrible things done to animals all over the world and one needs crusading types to expose the evils, altho' more often than not in my experience - Hong Kong and around SE Asia and now here - there are swivel-eyed types who ruin it for the others.

Anyway, I click on the Care2 link to stir my conscience and start reading the responding comments and just fall about guffawing.

Read them for yourselves: they've totally taken their eye off the ball and are moaning away about some holy order of the Sisters of Tsagaraki. There's even one ignorant detour to smackmouth the Vatican.

Do your homework, guys ... they're not a religiosa bunch, they're firkin SISTERS, fer chrissake (to bring religion right back in, lol).

Andrews and Beverley Sisters? The Brontes? Mary-kate and Ashley? Joan & Jackie Collins ... Kylie & Danni ? Wake up, you midnight hags!

Now look what they've made me do, reveal where my true culture tastes lie.

Actually, to digress (as is my wont), in the Texan recovery pub after the birth of my first daughter, I was sitting nursing a scotch and savouring the feeling of being an actual dad when my neighbour - big bloke - turned to me and asked,

"Do you know when Mary-kate and Ashley turn legal?"

This was Feb 1984 so that was a valid question albeit on a suspect premise. I didn't and told him so and he told me back that, well, I should because ... it's coming up.

Actually, it wasn't but I was now so fixated on the momentous date that I went round asking people - not a good idea for a new father anywhere but particularly dangerous in Texas.

So, back to the Sisters of Tsagaraki ... how thick can you get?

I mean, really.

What is it about people who care deeply about animal safety and wellbeing that they tend to be such nutters?

Sheesh - poor animals to have such off-putting advocates.

I love animals and hate to see them in any distress or pain and would gladly contribute cash or lend muscle to any cause that would improve their state ... but it would mean mixing with exactly the shrill types who bang on here and in thousands of other websites.

They mean well but are their own worst enemy and consequently also of the very creatures they seek to save.

But back to the laughter, do read the thread - there's a Pythonesque genius in how each writer caps the previous one in daft misunderstanding.

Hot with a Rod

What's hotter than an attractive woman in her early 30s?

Une gutsée petite who can handle a gun and take a few shots herself.

America will go crazy about this honey.

Parades, ticker-tape, streets named after her ... talk shows, signings, instant book ... poor darlin', everything she'll hate and if it goes wrong (as it always does in that country) ... her life changed forever for the bad.

But what a gal. Look at that face. That gaze. A straight-shooter in more ways than one.

Couldn't have happened to a less deserving victim of the lionisation to follow.

"Kimberly Munley does not look as if she would be much of a match for a heavily armed US soldier on a murderous rampage. But the slightly built 34-year-old civilian officer was first on the scene after Major Nidal Malik Hasan began firing on comrades at Ford Hood in Texas as they prepared to deploy to Afghanistan and Iraq

Thursday afternoon, Ms Munley was doing her usual job of directing traffic on the sprawling base. By chance, she and her partner happened to walk past the Soldiers’ Readiness Processing Centre soon after Major Hasan — armed with two handguns — cornered his fellow soldiers.

Ms Munley succeeded in bringing him down by shooting him four times, even after being hit by a bullet that passed through both her legs."

Remembrance Day 2009

Straight to the British Cemetery, Corfu, to honour the dead and light a candle on my father's grave, gone these 28 years and missing from my heart.

It is the first Remem' Day for Father Gulland and he acquits himself well.

The bugler is the same from last year and has a glorious tone. He plays both 'Last Post' and 'Reveille' from music but this year takes both at a ... I was going to say 'funereal' pace but that's how LP should be taken ... he plays them agonisingly slowly.

He remembers me from last year when I cornered him after and praised his tone and asked to come to any jazz gigs he plays at. He does not play jazz.

I ask him about the change of pace and whether the World Council on Tempo has downgraded the beat, or does his metronome simply need new batteries. He gives me a 'look'.

Then back to the church for canapés kai krasi courtesy of the Vice-Consularium. Our distractingly attractive V-C, Mrs Sarah Ticherou, is there and I ask her what the official line is on the recently found wreckage from the Corfu Channel incident.

She has not heard of it so I slip her one of the copies of Malcolm Bradbury's ace report which she reads with great interest and takes me a little more seriously than just another ogler and adorer.

BT-L takes me aside and tells me she is married. To a Greek. I tell him I know that and that is precisely *why* I press my attentions on her.

He gives me a 'look'.

Still basking in her gratitude for the Incident update, I wave at her and she waves back with a beatific smile.

"Oh God, that is disgusting," hisses BT.

Maman is in her element, be-ribboned with Dad's gongs and holding court as only she knows how.

Vicarine Mary Gulland has us all eating out of her hands and I feel my default iciness towards the clergy and all who sail in them begin to melt.

Will have to watch that.

My enemy is there and I make a beeline for him to engage him in my lightning chit-chat that he so despises.

He is soon for the boot by his coltish girlfriend but he does not know that and nor am I supposed to, except that I can keep my trap shut which makes me irresistible to gossipistas manquées.

He asks if dad's title made me anything on his death. I ask him does he mean did I sell it to some rich American and he stammers and says no, of course not.

I look grave and explain that I don't like to talk about it all that much. He looks surprised at my uncharacteristic modesty.

My mother looks so smart and so not her 89 winters.

My father would be proud of the way she has soldiered, hacking a garden out of the wilderness that is on the visiting list of all discerning gardening clubs.

I don't tell her this, children don't and there's the tragedy.

I want to write a Living Years song for her but every time I get close to the right chords and right words, I tear up, as Anna would put it.

The weather is clearing and the wine is going down and people are opening up and sharing indiscretions which is of course my b&b.

I am asked what am I "up to these days" and I answer with a different lie to each one.

I wander out to get the papers and a Greek woman stops to ask me if there's anything special going on, so many people. I search for the Greek for 'remembrance' but can't recall it.

When I get back I ask around and am told that there *is* no word for it. Hmm, rum. I must ask further. Sinbad would know but I am too proud to ask.

Maman is being surrounded by the happy-clappies so I tell her I am bringing the car, which I do but the handicapped space is hogged by a grim looking hag with the emergency lights flashing.

I tap on the wheelchair badge and look pleading and she nods and moves out without checking if the registration on the Rolls matches the number on the sign.

By now it is sunny and we drive home in sunny mood and chat merrily about the morning. I tell her she is looking absolutely stunning and the medals make her look like a Mistress Big despotine and all she needs is a pert cap with scrambled egg on the brim.

Home and the hound does his Baskerville thing, barking and snarling as he sees off the last of the (non-existent) intruders:

"See? Clean plate? Not a single Albanian in sight ... but it took some doing. Talk about the Alamo. They was everywhere, nasty buggers, too, didn't think I'd make it but training kicked in ... wossat, guv, a nice biccy? Don't mind if I do. All this killer mastiff stuff takes it out of a bloke, know wot I mean?"

We read the papers and irritate each other by interrupting each other's reading by reciting passages aloud that we'll come to anyway when we swap.

A light lunch as only my mum can whip up with wizardry and then I shuffle off with guitar to work on a song.

My composition palls and I sing some oldies that I wrote for my girls as they grew up and about which they feigned embarrassment at the time.

But when I sang a one for Anna at my Seattle folk club she stage-hissed that I hadn't explained it was for her.

"I'm sorry. I have a Spitfire daughter in the front row who wants me to tell you that I wrote it for her."

Straightening of shoulders, punch of air. High-five with her neighbour.

"Yaayy, dad! Way to go."

Remembrance.

Dept of Not a Lot of People Know This:

That frau Wilhelmine was Phil the Grik's nanny.

Quite a few Germans buried there - not any more, last calls called and also on purchasing ahead.

If you search this blog and my evil twin nonsense, Busker, you'll read my rants about how the wonderful George Psilas is criminally taken for granted incl zilch moolah for his efforts.

He has never been visited by the German konsul chappie out here, not even for formal ceremonies.

I worked on one of my mean-spirited prose gem razor jobs, not a word mis-chosen or out of place, incl how many times I had tried for an audience to discuss this disgraceful state of affairs, but then I lost my heart to une allemande  who asked me not to put the boot into her good friend and I wimped out.

My beautiful Eszter is back

And see below for how she looks au naturel , giggling over the early morning metrio:

 

E-MAIL SLEUTHER

Folks now and then ask me how I matched their emails to their "real selves".

I thought everyone used this handy email tracer.

Not foolproof, but you lot not being fules won't worry since y'all cover your tracks so well ... but vaut le détour for an evening's innocent entertainment.

GUINNESS ADVERT

Something about bringing something to life, but I just like the sheer bigness of whole thing and the gritty quality.

Good Vibrations: And this one had me thinking ... worrying about the balance when they replaced the bottle on the babe.

DEL DAY

Watching the Iranian troops' dulcet delrovian treatment of their own countrymen and women reminds me that we're coming up to the Smellie-cop-ter's day in court.

A mere 9 days as the truncheon flies:

16 NOVEMBER 2009

Culture of Impunity: The reminders just keep coming in of what sort of job environment 'Tony' grew up in and certainly grew used to. Plus, having bulked up in his youth to flatten Smellie père for not changing the name by deed poll, by the time he joined the Force, he was such big fellah that he was prolly Walking Impunity itself and set his own culture.

The Beak will take a dim view of this but I think it should be used in mitigation: the Big Guy never stood a chance. I don't know what his IQ is but if you study his expression in the photos, there is not a huge array of alert emotion there ... he would have absorbed the Impunity vibes around him and been shaped accordingly ... anyway, only NINE days to go and all will be revealed.

SKY NEWS ~ 'Enough Evidence To Charge Cop': Just when I think the meedja has gone depressingly quiet, into my email alert box plonks this reminder that the Crown has enough on Big Del' to wag a disapproving finger and make him stand in the corner complete with Riot Squad Dunce Cap.

Don't you love the directness of Sky's headline? No roobish about "Sufficient information to warrant closer scrutiny" or some such namby-pambia - straight to the chase: Enough evidence to charge cop.

Charged phrasing in itself. One can almost hear Stalky removing the cane from the glass-fronted cabinet and resting it against the armoire in readiness for the "Bend down!"

Also no gloss about our Tone's 'restraining' or 'cautioning' or 'shepherding' the young Brightonian or other mendacious euphemisms granted our demure constabulary.

"The beating of Nicola Fisher."

Bam! Jus' like that. No beating about the bush - just as the video shows no shilly-shallying by Delroy in his beating about Ms Fisher 's bush.

A fair cop of a somewhat unfair cop for all to see. It's official, what was dealt la Nicola was a "beating".

"Ms Fisher from Brighton was allegedly hit on April 2 as she walked to a vigil for Ian Tomlinson, who died the previous day."

Some sub obviously decided that one use of 'beating' got the message across and 'hit' would do thereafter. I trust Learnèd Counsel will stick with the former.

I assume that the Brighton Argus has its sharpest reporters on this sad saga of "Local girl duffed bad" - but wait! Wouldn't that be a clash of interests?

Surely it's the Argus that's "recruiting police community bloggers" for what must be the clunkiest en retard stable door white-wash since the infant Delroy chucked his Junior Nunchaku out of his security crib.

What a laugh - can't you just picture all the draft bloggings being logged up in anticipation of the Nicolagate verdict.

I will monitor these and report back with the more risible.

'Til the 16th and SmellieGate!

VANDAL: BEN HILL

~ Yob of the Day ~

• A couple who shamed a yob by writing his name in the window he smashed are told by the Fuzz to remove it ... "in case it harms his 'civil liberties'."
• Civil Liberate this, you idiots!

• Bravo Dennis and Christine Lusby ~ Name and Shame to your hearts' content.
• Defy the Rozzers
  • I mean, just look at the smug self-satisfied look on that oily mug over there.
  • That bulbous blob of an aardvark conk.
  • Too off-putting for words.

Den' and Christine: "We were warned by the police for writing it because they say it's taking away his civil liberties.

What about our  civil liberties?

We chose to quietly ignore the police advice."

^5, guys.

The drunken twit caused £3,000 worth of damage in a vandalism spree during which he smashed a window of a farmhouse, damaged a car and threw a boulder at another house.

He then turned his attention to the Lusbys' property, smashing the windows of their car and their shop, St Breward Stores.

Where are the Smellies of Dock Green when we need them, eh? I bet Del boy would have tweaked young Benjie by his shell-like and walked him briskly home for a right talking to by Mum 'n' Dad.

REAL CORFU ALE

To the splendid sprawling Scondo supermarket past Tzavros en route to Emeral coffery, there to shop for staples and check price of Ferrero Rocher against Diellas and AB.

My attention is drawn by my favourite Scondella to the brewer's lad stocking the shelves.

She knows I like good bière and what is he loading up but bouteilles announcing:

'Corfu Beer'

'Bitter'

'Real Ale'.

Canst be?

I am persuaded by Scondella's lovely smile to buy no less than **6** bottles.

I tell myself they are for toasting Gwyn's forthcoming triumph over the Midian hosts of BAPLA, but I know it is Scondella's beauty that won me over.

I am a fool but at least I will be a drunk fool.

Let me sip the brew and report back, both on the beer and BAPLA/fotoLibra outcome.

Corfu Beer

~ Non filtered, non pasteurised ~ product of Corfu Microbrewery, Arillas, Corfu, Greece.

Who's Scondo? ~

And while I'm about it, who the dickens actually owns Scondo? Can't for the life of me find them anywhere

Maman now swears by them and buys meat and veg from no other if she can help it.

The solemn butcher from Diellas has moved his op there and sits at the receipt of custom doing BAPLA all while his lovely wife and ace staff bustle around.

Special Alert: But what is this I see when I return today? Yet another brew - a 'Special', 'pon my soul, and crackerjack it looks too.

I signal Mother to place a brace in the trolley and shimmy off to find suitable junk food to accompany.

First thing on returning home, on with the drinking weskit and out on the terrace for a testing:

The 'Ordinary' ale? At first greeting, a toasty, oaky, supple, flinty taste, developing on further acquaintance to distinct bonhomie. Minimal lacing and delicate hoppy scent, with just a hint of biscuit malt and grapefruit.

The 'Special': Flavours that start out gently and proceed to embrace with a stronger grip.

Both pour a vivid mahogany with a thin head. Intense herbal taste, laced with a touch of strawberry and baking soda. Mouth-filling mouthfeel and long finish. Down the hatch!

Sugarballs

Alan Sugar is a tosser and a flake of the old school.

He'll always be a tosser because he lives in that fog occupied by those who huff n puff but are always the last to catch on when it's their mickey being extracted.

His pale pimping of the Donald Trump 'Apprentice' show made him a weekly butt of mockery.

Now he is pushing new boundaries of self-referential obtuseness, threatening clever Quentin Letts with a libel suit for outing him as 'stupid'.

Let's be in no doubt:

Alan Sugar is stupid. Unusually so. Even he admits he didn't know what 'taking the Labour whip' meant.

But that's not actually being stupid. That's just one of the many surface ignorances our seed-spiller thinks passes for a cloak of stupidity.

He mixes in the worst company - just look at the bogus types who turn up on his show.

So old hat that no one thinks to mention it any more, but Sugar only got his 'peerage' because of his high profile cavortings as a simian TV 'personality'.

Like all bullies, he is au fond a coward, hence his attacking Letts personally.

It will rebound and some eminent names have seen it off to a romping good start:

"Sir: We the undersigned wish to condemn Baron Sugar of Clapton’s threatened legal action against our colleague Quentin Letts for calling him a ‘telly peer’ who ‘doesn’t seem to have an enormous intellect’ on LBC on 20 July.

According to a letter Mr Letts received from Herbert Smith, Lord Sugar will issue a writ against Mr Letts for libel unless he pays his legal costs to date, donates an undisclosed sum to a charity and gives a written undertaking never to criticise him again.

When journalists have been sued by public figures in the past — particularly by Members of Parliament — the convention has been to sue the newspaper or broadcaster that provided them with a platform, not to pursue the journalist personally.

In this way, Britain’s libel laws have been kept on a level playing field, since few individual journalists can afford to fight a legal battle on their own.

However, Lord Sugar has dispensed with this convention. No corresponding action has been threatened against LBC, which means that if Mr Letts decides not to bow to Lord Sugar’s demands, he faces potentially ruinous costs a proportion — as much as a third — of which he wouldn’t recover, even if he won.

The absence of a First Amendment in Britain means that we depend to a great extent on the observance of legal convention to preserve our free speech. If parliamentarians are now going to threaten to sue individual journalists personally, members of the press will be inhibited from scrutinising them in future.

This is a particularly dangerous development, given how many journalists are now working as freelancers.

We urge Lord Sugar to withdraw his threat so we can continue to write and speak freely about public figures."

Roger Alton, Matthew d’Ancona, Liz Anderson, Martin Bright, Jeremy Clarke, Nick Cohen, Nicholas Coleridge, Lloyd Evans, James Forsyth, Julia Hobsbawm, Rachel Johnson, Dylan Jones, Mary Killen, India Knight, Rod Liddle, John Micklethwait, Fraser Nelson, Matthew Parris, Stephen Pollard, Hugo Rifkind, Andrew Roberts, Alan Rusbridger, Sebastian Shakespeare, Paul Staines, Sarah Standing, Mary Wakefield, Toby Young

Good jab by the acute Iain Dale and more to follow

The media likes rich blinkered thickos who blunder into the ordure up to their stubbly juddering jowels.

I sent the sensitivo Sugarballs a polite postcard (words of one syllable) showing our yobbiest resort. As I popped it into the box I commented to my companion that I should have appropriately addressed it to Lord Sugar of Kavos. Without missing a beat, she came back, "Lord Zakari of Naphos, more like."

Rather good, I thought; captures the precise tone of his ignoblement.

More, much more, to follow on the Sugarballs Express

To grasp the full hilarious magnitude of how Sugarballs just doesn't get it - and it's not just his age or commode-hugging insecurities - you have to hear for yourselves his mangled vocab and see his nervous twitching vacuity on camera.

Succherine Punch: When the gloves are off, it's sometimes necessary to fight dirty. Here, in all its gaffe naff laff gory detail, is the Wikipedia entry on Sugarbollocks. (Stop sniggering at the back! There but for one-handed pointy-capped Fate could have waddled thou)

Brunel Babble: the "real" sweetie

Woss Wankery: Alain Michel Sucre duels doltishness with the fop. (NSFW or after food.)

Just coz we're taking a merciless piss out of the gnome, doesn't mean we can't have a decent singalong.

Crest and history

Childish Games - a rather good blogarium I came across while trawling the Net for anything intelligent or impressive in 'Slowhand' Sugar's past.

Peabrain nominated Tory secret weapon

Prat - Wally - Dipstick and also here.

Clueless: 'no idea about apprenticeship'

Mensa-standard, IQ-bursting Enterprise sage: Quentin Letts good on "Sugarlump, his underling and a question of principle"

Minnows Couchant: Q Letts good on Sugarballs' quest to go armigerous.

Deft hint of disgust

Nothing but approval for Vogue cover babe, the unlikely named Liskula Cohen, but a shudder why she's even in the news: Ms Cohen has won the right "to unmask an anonymous blogger who called her a “skank” on the internet."

Apart from 'Nog-Blog being wrong, this is bad news because it also means that M'sieur Skank 'n' Spice can now 'unmask' me as the mystery sniper who's reduced him to such a bleating laughing stock.

ParkyBalls: Ayup, nowt as flakey as folk. Clearly unwilling to see Sugarballs take the Tosser crown unchallenged, our best known toy 'Yorkshireman' steps in with a saccharine-style gaffe to even the odds. You know, I've taken authors to Parkinson interviews and been a fellow guest at showbiz dos, even been in elevators with the great man ... and I have never felt any real confidence or honesty ooze from that direction.

Indeed, when he feels the spotlight is on him, Mr P ramps up the 'Yokel of the People' act to an extent that makes those around him positively titter (albeit behind their softie southerner paws)

Let's have another viewing of that classic Emu vs ParkyFlakes encounter. Note how Parkyballs loses all cool and cannot deal with it.

Club for foes of Sugarlump: What an excellent idea. Sign me up pronto. And what a good sort sounds Lord Evans of Temple Guiting (Lab). Zounds! I had no idea he was né booksy Matthew Evans, "husband of fizzing literary agent Caroline Michel", to boot. Gosh that takes me back to my own press hackery days under the genial lash of TG Rosenthal and the late great John Blackwell.

Plumbing new depths ~ Ace diarist Matt Bell spots a good one, and delivers a zippy quip about guarantees:

"Has Sir Alan Sugar been offered a two-for-one deal from his lawyers?

Not content with suing Daily Mail journalist Quentin Letts, Sugar has instructed City firm Herbert Smith to fire off threatening letters to plumber-to-the-stars Charlie Mullins, millionaire founder of Pimlico Plumbers, for daring to suggest the Government's Enterprise Tsar did not know much about apprenticeships.

Far from being cowed, I gather Mullins has hired top libel specialists Mishcon de Reya, on the principle that you fight fire with fire. This could last longer than most plumbing guarantees."

Gobfail: Such a pleasure to move Cojones Sucrés back into the charts with this wonderful report of him being typically him.

He's the spitting image of a Spitting Image of his dwarfish self. Voice-wise he's a gift and as for wot comes outta his marf, remember that SNL show when the Palin spoof was entirely her own words? Genius.

That's all the SI magicians'd need - to simply run the gnome's natter verbatim - and viewers would be calling in to complain: "Come off it, chaps - too cruel. No one talks like that, not even John Prescott ... very funny ha ha, agreed, but let's not get too carried away."

Oh Lord, what a funny little man he is, to be sure.

His pale-shadow effort to copy The Donald was up in the Blackadder category of knockabout comedy. And did you notice with what feigned respec' those mirror wanker apprentices groveled and mewled? I dunno ... woss it all abaht, eh Shoogyballs?

Robust

I've just caught up with le Carré's Absolute Friends, two pals who meet again in the looking-glass of Cold War espionage and, what le C captures so well, today's unipolar world of terror, counter-terror and the war of lies.

What brought me close to tears comes near the end when the author summarises the fall-out.

In my Hong Kong days I got to know a couple well, a New Zealander who got himself too deep into the dark side and his entirely innocent much younger Thai wife.

I knew nothing about what he did except that I wanted to know nothing, and he made sure that any 'advice' I could provide by way of ... well, no need say more because it doesn't affect my reference to the text I'm quoting.

Whatever my pal was up to, a wheel came off that particular operation and he had to make some very difficult decisions very fast, including sending his wife and child back to some safety of her family in Thailand.

In retrospect, everything had been suspiciously easily arranged - papers, permissions etc - and then the whole thing went from red sector to his director-in-field being removed and I heard only fragments after that.

But news did seep back about his poor darling innocent wife and I can only quote le Carré's brilliant cold prose by way of hinting at what her fate might have been:

"Zara, who significantly had fled with her son on the very day of the siege, was arrested on arrival and was presently being questioned.

There was speculation that she had only been allowed to return to her homeland because Turkish interrogation methods were known to be robust ...

Recent reports from Turkish police sources indicated that Zara, though a tough nut to crack, was beginning to see the wisdom of cooperating with the forces of justice."

That was pretty much the agonised assumption around the FCC bar.

TWAT TWOT FRY QUITS QUITTING TWITTER

~ Boo hiss ~ Be a man ~ Jump!

Well, anyone could have told you that King self-referential Bore Fry wouldn't be able to keep his vanity digits away.

I don't know anyone who doesn't  find Fry's Dorkish Delights jejune and pathetic.

Is there a petition out there for stout yeomen to speak for England and beseech him, in the bowels of Christ, to think it possible he may be mistaken about resuming his inconsequential burbles?

More of the nincompoop and his faffing - plus clunky quotes from what I can only assume to be 'fans.

• What does  emerge from all this is how unclearly Fry writes, sounding in patches as if his exit might deprive  us of something and his staying on some sort of a carrot:

  • He's "embarrassed  about having raised the idea that he might stop."

    Do us a favour.

    "Arrived in LA feeling very foolish. Wasn't the fault of the fellow who called me 'boring', BTW.

    A mood thing. Sunshine will help. So sorry." he driveled on."

    Oy! No need to feel sorry. Just go. Nor, of course, is it a *fault* to spell out that the Fop's boredom level goes to 11.

    Nay, lad, that were a burst of clear-sightedness, nowt to do with mood or sunshine. Well done that chap who caught the mood and outed the Emperor's dreary clothing.

  • Even the writer of the piece can't find the right tone:

    "One of Fry's fans had the temerity to criticise Fry's utterances on Twitter as boring.

    "I admire and adore Fry," the fan said, "but his tweet's "a bit... boring... (sorry Stephen)".

  • Lucky blighter : "blocked from viewing Fry's Twitter feed".

  • And what's with this tangential bleat about bipolar disorder blah blah talking 'openly in the past about his struggles with the condition blah blah ... "

    Is that meant to mitigate his numbingly naff narcisistic keyboardings?

    Has it not occurred to anyone that Fry's bi-po' might be the cause for his Twitter tripe-o?

    Might that not be a reason why he is so preeningly dull? Double Duhhh ...

  • "With his ego bruised, Fry commented: "Think I may have to give up on Twitter. (Yaayyy!!)

    Too much aggression and unkindness around."

    In a direct message to the user who had criticised him: "You've convinced me. I'm obviously not good enough.

    I retire from Twitter."

  • Well effing do it, man ... don't just wank on about aggression and unkindness.

    Vamoose, fer chrissake ... have a good cry.

    Have two cries then on yer bike and put us out of our misery.

Somebody talk sense to the old softie and explain the public service he'd do one and all by moving his waffling elsewhere.

2010 Must-have Calendars

You know how deuced impossible it is to find a decent calendar in Prosperonia:

Ones with space to actually write stuff in?

One that'll tell me that First Sunday in Novembrios is All Saints' Day and when the first of the month coincides with Sunday celebrations and bands (not to mention those delicious young gels primped up in blazers and short skits)

Not that that makes up for access to HTC being cordoned off so Mama's unable to walk the distance, so we buy the papers and scoot home, there to start drinking 90 mins early which is not good for me, no matter how delish that first Bloody Mary tastes.

To booter (whine slime gringe), any usable calendars are usually sold out by the time Yrs Truly gets round to hunting one down, so we end up with Maman bringing back some planty nonsense to mock me over the next 12 months.

OK! Horticult-yer-eyes on this lot!!

Nudge wink say no more, squire.

Well, I have solved my calen-dilemma.

Also my Yuletide present for Vicar and Vicarene Gulland (whom God preserve).

Bet you can't spot the ones I've earmarked for the HTC Prefectorium & Sports Bar.

VIRTUAL AUTOPSY

No words need be said about this amazing site - courtesy of my fellow sous-le-pouce Daughter Doter, the equally remarkable M'lud Sedition of the Nite-Krϑe (Alberquerque chapter).

Duhh - I've just realised I coulda posted the seditious link itself. That way you also get to read his family-friendly journal, buy his cool stuff and make yourselves cool at the same time by Favoritising his site.