LATIN CRIB

Googlianus

(Which it won't be, so I will look it up using Google)

KING GEORGE VI

Lot of hullabaloo over the movie.

The ruh ruh ruh ... real thing.

How His Majesty actually sounded.

By the by, I haven't the foggiest how I hit on the Greek imdb - terribly clever and I'll never be able to do it again.

More stammer stuff.

FUCK YOU

~ in sign lingo ~

BULLET THROUGH THE BRAIN?

Gabrielle Giffords' bullet hits have baffled those who seem to think that a bullet to the head will do the job.

Wrong.

I have no intention of surfacing on a Grik gurney, half my bonce blown away and me looking a right git.

It's the trajectory, stoopid.

So plan it, like any Evel Knievel or Ken Block.

Rifle and chair?

1. Check angle

2. Ensure chair not one of those plastic ones that slip (like those on our patio)

3. Clamp gun in vice so it holds tight

CHAS ADDAMS NOTE

Oh my effing Christ! This is the murderer Jared Loughner?

All I'd seen was that swivel-eyed hoody pic and the fresh-faced kid in a T-shirt - both looking around the 22 years mark.

This Charles Addams freak is scarey ... I mean, if I was a cop? And I saw this walking towards the fragrant Gabrielle??

Fu-u-ck ... boum! kaPOWW!

I wouldn't mince small chat over whether the punk felt lucky:

Gun it down

Answer t'Supe's questions plus tard.

Defender ~ Interesting to see that Judy 'Una' Clarke has been hauled in to defend.

LORD OF WAR

Treasure trove squeals if Russo armourer deals

Damn! That guy looks cool and dangerous. I bet the film-makers wish they'd got him for the role.

But i tell you, they will break him - sneak him off to somewhere where the interrogation methods are 'robust'.

But before that the Russkies will have got to him ~ if they're that worried, he's a goner.

That's one tough hombre but he'll be found 'suicided' and the reason given will be that he clearly couldn't stomach the thought of horrid policiers shouting at him and threatening the Comfy Chair.

Shudder. Watch this space.

Hello, Muddah; Hello, Faddah

Well, if I can refer to my angels as Cost Centre 1 and Cost Centre 2, it's only fair that we become Parent 1 and 2.

But there's a distinctly thin and Orwellian wedge to this sort of re-naming.

Penis Fail: I know that to become one one has to have one, but doesn't that cover title look a leetle too much as if it's spelling it out?

NIGGARDLY

~ nigger nigrah neejair ~

My guru Chris Howse nails it.

"Striking out the word nigger every time it appears in Huckleberry Finn is a kind of ethnic cleansing, a pretence that in the land of the free no one referred to black people by a demeaning term once the Civil War had been won."

Remember that pol who correctly used 'niggardly' but resigned on the instant when ignorami went on the rampage?

I'm past despairing.

England has now overtaken America in this gadarene kneejerk asinine pol correctitude.

Captain Underpants ~ Nouveau Yorkeur.

Moral Hauteur of the whites ~ Chris Caldwell, FT Jan 8

SPEED TRAP ALERT

Like tax avoidance (not evasion), I hold it my civic duty to alert my brothers and sisters to such filth wankery.

Cee-Lo to those fuzz shirtlifters!

Green off!

40 Amazing Attributes

The latest from the amazing Louise du Toit.

Do check out HerSpace page.

100 Most Beautiful Words

All I need do is post this and step back ...

Mellifluous
Dalliance
Demure
Dénouement
Imbroglio
Ingénue
Insouciance

BWAAP!

'Ace' Baddeley in uppity mood, coming over commentical as is his wont.

Quoth:

"Enough of this wordery.

What about Jason and the argot?"

By the Cresta of Cremutius Cordus! One arbre-evading slither down a snowy slope and these Generation Silvers are suddenly "'Nuff off verbal wankery - Pah! Where's that woman? Carrie, onward to Base Camp 3.

Where we's going we don't need sleds!"

Carrie [for it is she]:

"Sweetie darling, is that really wise?"

[Note how accurately the poet captures the voice and dulcet tone of Madame Ace]

"Extroadinary achievement. A triumph of oldie agility made a paean to snowboredom thanks to the author's genius for distilling the latent dullness from each dramatic slide.

Watch out for cameo appearance by Silvio Berlusconi coming a cropper atop his customised board, 'Rosebud Jailbait' (€2000 + blingy necklace, from a high school near you)

Worth borrowing only for its marvelous portrayal of The Wife.

Humdinger of a role for Ms Streep, but Central Casting will be hard pressed to plumb the depths of its Rolodex to come up with feckless enough an 'Ace' Baddeley." ~

TLS (incorporating Dun Sleddin')]

THE BEST OF BADASS

Coming soon ~ a dedicated page to all the sassiest of Sinbad's super submissions.

The lad sends in corrective comments and often clever links ...

I shall be pooling them so all YOU lot have to do is log in here to the Confulminator, click on Badass and voila, the good stuff.

First off ~

"On words again. I'd forgotten this MP sketch Good and Woody"

A propos de quoi, I in turn was reminded of this amuse-bouche.

EPIPHANE 2011

'Live' at San Luca ~ Open Day Epiphany knees-up.

Wine, nosh, chill breeze, God-fearing church-going guests, churlish host ~ who could ask for anything more?

I used to include my own friends on the list but it's such an horrific occasion that I've stopped depressing them and me.

Maintenant le Déluge

2142hrs, Jan 7, 2011: I dread these events.

I never feel more alienated or spiritually adrift and it seems no longer possible for me to dredge up those stretch-mouthed hypocrisy politenesses of yore.

The ordeal has a life of its own.

• Decision to hold the Epiphanic Open House - my mother's annual 'doing right by the Church'. Yakkety yak on that theme
• Endless draftings of the guest list. FFS, I tell my mother, it's Open House. We have no idea who'll turn up. Blah blah on.

• The dread day draws nigh, time to plan menu which, no thanks to my mother's lack of short term memory, changes daily.

• Shopping day and list drawn up. We give ourselves an hour, decide on the order of shops to visit, off we go.

• 20 mins on and we still have not trolley'd a single item on the list. My mother is wandering around plucking completely irrelevant fodder from the shelves.

  The Day Before, against the clock, I am suddenly asked to take time away from our preparations to perform some drudgery on my mother's hobby, gardenry.

  

• Mission creep: suddenly my mother decides she wants a Christmas tree in the hall. Kosta has to whip one up and I have to spend an hour trying to get the star staight. As usual, the whole project going askew.

• Night before party ~ start cooking etc.

• 0900hrs: Morning of party ~ much to do in the kitchen. Mum has asked Tassia to come and help, me to collect her. I adjust my plans accordingly. Twenty mins later, No - Kosta said he'd bring her. Re-adjust plans.

• 1100hrs, no Tassia. I suggest calling and of course she is waiting to be collected. Where things haven't yet gone wrong, we will fuck them over.

• Guests arrive: they are charming and friendly and bring gifts and offer to help. I feel like the Man in the Moon and gape aghast at the invaders.

• Somehow, we get the food out and the guests helping themselves.

• Commotion in the kitchen, mama has fallen and cut her hand on shards of the glass that she was holding. Absolutely typical and to be expected and my first hope is that, here finally is the message rammed home to stop frigging around with the events.

  The ladies leap round my mother who is sat down and her hand dressed, blah blah.

  Again I think: If this puts paid to this entertainery idiocy, the gash will have been worth it.

• The weather had kicked off gloomy, much to my relief: no garden strolls, no naffing blah blah blah on the subject.

  But it improves, God is rightly on mum's side and teaching me a lesson.

• The wonderful vicar's wife is wonderful and knows exactly how to treat my surliness: jolly me along and ignore my mood.

• Countering Madam Vicar, one of the denser guests takes me to one side and bends my ear with some cod shrinkery roobish.

• He totally doesn't get it and I wish I had the showmanship to tell him to his blank expression that I must have expressed myself badly.

• Then take my recently-purchased gun, turn away from him as I go down on the barrel ~ and blast the back of my head off - bang splatter thwap! straight into his silly moon face, blood and grunge partout.

• 'Does that help? Now do you see my point?' - except that I'll be free and floating pretty, quit at last of this accursèd coil. God! Just thinking of it makes me sick of this whole freakin' affair.

  Interestingly, the shop where I recently bought the gun [see right] has inexplicably closed [left].

  Phew! Just in time.

  That probably makes my shooter the last sold by the emporium for the purpose of caterpulting the owner into the Happy Hunting Ground.

• The guests have a good time and leave on the appointed hour with many an embrace and the huge politeness to thank *me* when all I've been is a glowering presence, emitting my Sunday best vibes for them to hurry up, get their visiting rocks off - and piss the heck out of here.

• As soon as they do, I grab a bottle and a full pack of Karelia and dive into my anaesthetic.

THE AFTERMATH

Here beginneth the rough part, the endless endless post-mortems, made screamingly hard to listen to because of maman's 'Groundhog-Minute' memory dementia that causes everything to be repeated every 12 minutes.

Hit Parade - favorite topics

1. How well it all went

2. Everyone enjoyed themselves

3. What a good crowd

4. Miraculous non-appearance of the 'usual dreary old lonely-hearts club band' - adjusted the next day to 'the usual old soaks'. Yeh yeh, we get the drift.

5. [jan 13: newcomer to the charts, in just under the old soaks - 'so pleased i've decided to give my easel to mary gulland; she has artistic daughter; susie card doesnt do big paintings so wasted on her; very historical easel, belonged to dame laura knight, bought it at a gallery, so glad i thought to give it to mary; wonder what dame laura's dates were.]

6. Must write to Bishop Geoffrey.

7. Must write to Clifford

8. How lucky we were to be saved the usual drunken bores. Hey! Don't forget me - I was there.

9. We forgot the smoked salmon, we forgot this, we forgot that ...

GARDEN TOUR: this deserves a vitriolic post of its own but I'm too busy scooping up bits of my brain.

At some point some simpering twerp comes up with the usual "Mweh mweh, we'd love to look round the garden some time."

My best response is to quote my mentor, the brilliant Cee-Lo Green (rather a good name for a song invoking feelings over my mother's hobby).

I want to hurl them from the patio and wipe the Uriah Heep expression from their mewling gobs.

"Listen, you selfish simpering twats - when you say you want to come round, that is the start of endless tidying of my mother's hobby but it's me who gets crapped on.

The labour I perform because you couldn't keep your trap shut never ends because there's always one more bush to trim, one more piece of lawn to comb.

An intolerable treadmill of futility - it's only a fucking hobby, you jerks - and it's not even my hobby.

And what do they do when they come? They sit twittering on the patio, taking not a blind interest in the ruddy garden.

PHOTOS: I want to illustrate this dulcet post with snaps because not even my deathless purple prose can do justice to the menagerie of grotesques that rolled up.

You won't spot them because, next to my stinging reference to the Stupidest Man in Corfu, I shall juxtapose photos of my favourite beautiful people and most scintillating wits.

See? No-one in that photo across there who could possibly qualify as a SMIC prick. Glad we cleared that up.

Same with the wimmin - a chatterbox bore haggard before her time will be represented by a desirable young chick to have the gemmun drooling.

ACCIDENT UPDATE: latest news on maman's cut hand - since more people seem to keep abreast of this blog than actually own up to doing so. I know this from the regular solicitous enquiries over the girls' heirlooms, of which updates appear only here.

So ... those who attended our Epiphany knees-up/fall down: my mother slipped and smashed a glass she was holding and cut her hand. [Completely sober, the ordeal had hardly started].

She well cared for by all the ladies there but did not go to hospital - it being blanket holiday - and nor the next day, nor the next, pleading that it was fine.

Finally got her to the Therapia on Tuesday 11th and of course it could have done with stitches there and then.

ALL A GAL NEEDS KNOW

The barbecue chapter will strike a chord - I mean set up a wail - with yon Zacharia Works of Drifter's Parish.

With TX-born Georgina born in San Antone within the sounds of Jim Bowie finding bone for his steel, and Spitfire Anna born Hong Kong, I want my gals to have all the chatter when they find themselves in convo with a rich man in need of a good wife. OK, strike the 'good'.

And dude! not to say 'Pon my soul, here in the Dec 18th edition of The Economist is all the Cliffs Notes cheatsheet a maiden could need.

Fire in the Hole - and I did NOT know that 'barbecue' is a noun, not a verb.

Elegy to the British Pub

[by my troth but I do pull orf decorative posts, what?]

Now I think of it - and it's perfect for "'ZonGrep ~ The Musical" - a killer cameo would be me in Full Faugh Fauntleroy Faggoty Frasing, in convo with some good ol' boy but reeling off alla data from the Econo' piece.

Meanwhile, Zach in parlance with some tweed-'n-watch-fob toff gent spouting deep knowledge of Le Pub Anglais.

Works: "Absolutely, Lord Wood - but do you know the Nacogdoches Arms off Crofton? Well, they do a lovely drop of Woutsa Perkulier".

Actually, forget Master Works because he's the spitting double of Jake Gyllenhaal's louche layabout elder beat-up elder brother - so fuck him, bird-puller par X-cellence.

And 'forget' his hot sister, too ~ that gurl needs a bending over and 6 o'the best.

But I digress.

Speaking of digressions, but still on pub chat and the favourite for the 2:30 at the Curragh, I was staying as a highly privileged guest at Glenveagh in the days when the saintèd Henry McIlhenny still owned it.

The mega-financier Charles Clore came to lunch, after which we were all off to the races in which Charlie had a horse running, on which of course we were all duty-bound to plonk our £s.

We being unmoneyed aristos [present company very much excluded], we resented CC's wealth and many a snooty sarcastic Etonian tones were there behind his Savile Row suited derrière.

Come the big race, Clore sent his minder down to place his bet on his own nag.

Me being the young 'un, and my dad wanting to show friendly, I was chosen to be 'runner' for the money.

Dad made sure that I had all bets precisely recorded against each name, and no wonder ~ there were some heavy 19-hand horse-fleshistas in the party - many of whom resented having to bet on cheval clore and hence lose money out of noblesse oblige politeness.

Every time I tell this - and i'm sure I've bored you with this unlikely tale here before - I feel I'm inventing.

Remember, O Ye Elders, this was in my salad days when the juice of the grape was new to me.

Down I went to the betting offices with a veritable WAD of notes, and duly joined the queue.

Now - and who knows? - say that Clore's ride was called 'Julie Vick' and suppose there was a rank outsider @ 40-1 against called 'Duly Pricked' - well, befuddled by bubbly I prolly stood in line long enough to be mesmorised by all those before me muttering:

"Begorrah, Dermot! Can ye imagine any eedjit placin' his bawbies on fokkin' 'Duly Pricked'?"

"By the prick of St Patrick! Will you lookit them odds against that Pricked carthorse?"

Fuck me if I didn't plonk the whole lot on DP.

"Are sure you want to do that?", asked the kindly colleen behind the glass.

"Yesh," I slurred proudly, "I know the owner."

"Well, God rest his soul."

The race ran. 'Julie Pricked' stumbled home thanks to cockups by the rest of the field.

"Oh, bad luck, Charlie," went up the cry.

'Shall I collect the money now,' I simpered.

Pitying looks

'No, Christopher, you see, you see you only make money when - Good God almighty! Patrick! Gavin! Look at this ...'

Turmoil.

'So shall I go and get the money?'

"No fucking way ... there must be ... Jamie, get some of the boys to go down with you and collect the winnings. No you sit tight, Chris - and will someone give this boy a glass of champagne?!"

The really ironic amusing thing was that, after that, no matter how I protested, these top-notch trainers and owners and hoss savvy types kept taking me aside and whispering

'Yes yes, I know you know nothing, damn'd right, light under bushel and all that, but what do fancy for the 5:30?

I'd thought 'Bezos Bedazzled' but you got the Clore horse bang to rights, no clogs for this muddy running - what's the word from the stables, hm? What've YOU got your farthing on? 'Joy of Jehanne'?

Go on, old boy - I won't tell. Don't want to spoil the odds, what?'

The best part was old man Clore at drinks later ~ bright button eyes boring into mine,

"Fair do, I've run some stings in my time, well done - but I'll have you".

ZACH BREAK

[Thinks bubble]:

'Hmm ... cute, but a little young ...

On t'other hand, I'm off to India tomorrer.

Nah, Holmesie and me are buddies.

I know that rattlesnake, years from now he'll shove it in some effing blog and I'll be looking at 10 years' porridge in San Bezos.

I'll be the one yelling 'get 'em orf!' on "Lady Ga Ga 'live' at Paclatraz".

Best stay in da queues ~ so where is this dude's frickin' stuff?

Give the Holmesette 'nuther 9 years.

NEW YEAR HONOURS 2011

~ the full monty ~

LEGENDARY BIRU

These must be such fun to make.

I love the biru bit.

Thanks for this - as for so many in the past - go to My Lord Moss of Ma Wan.

ANIMAL VOICE-OVERS

Rather good