What Jeremy did next
Health Secretary Jeremy Hunt voted early this morning, and the bookies were offering 125-1 that he voted Remain. As you can see, the staff look thoroughly at ease with Huntstruck, and he looks ill at ease in his skin. Sadly, there is no dermatological cure for his ailment. If we stay in the EU, TTIP will declare the NHS to be a terminal case of leprosy, and replace it with Washington’s utterly sh*t-ridden health insurance system. That’s not a ‘scare story’: read the leaked TTIP clauses and EC/Eurogrope reactions to it.
So as usual, Jezzer voted with his wedge. Look, in the absence of a soul the guy did the best he could. We mustn’t be judgemental. We should just make sure that, as and when Camerlot decides to legalise obligatory euthenasia, a clerical error puts Mr Punt at the top of the waiting list.
Le confusion Français
A few years back, a close French friend here – with an excellent working knowledge of English and its odd idioms – said there was one piece of our sexual slang he didn’t really understand. In the spirit of all those gagging to leap where angels fear to tread, I asked him which one.
“Well,” he began, “why when you are off in search of sly sex do you English always ask after the health of my Dad?”
“But your father,”I enquired sensitively, “has passed on, has he not?”
“Yes,” he agreed, “many years ago now”.
I felt I had leapt into very deep waters indeed.
“So what’s that got to do with the English sloping off for illicit sex?”
“Well, you always say ‘I’m going for a bit'” he explained, “‘Of ‘ow’s your father'”.
It was impossible to argue with him. For once lost for words, I simply nodded in mutual ignorance.
Does anyone tuning in tonight know the derivation of this phrase?
Cheatiamo Italiano
There is, on occasion, such a thing as natural justice. What follows will be dismissed by the Pinched Goblins of the Correct Left as my racist Xenophobia, and all I can do in response is hope that one day some especially vengeful form of natural justice is about its work while they’re standing in the way.
Last night – having nearly wept at the defeat of Ireland 3-0 by the Sprouts last Saturday – I switched on my 4G “smart” wall telly to hope, pray and otherwise fantasise about les verts beating Italy.
With all the attacking ambition that has come to typify the Italian game (in La Ligua these days, 1-0 is a crushing victory) the Italian national side chose to defend their honour against de Boyz by various pulling shirts, backheeling genitals, falling down every time an Irish player got past them, or rolling around on the pitch a lot for no apparent reason. Like most foreign officials these days, the referee missed every tug, but believed every last bit of hammy amdram.
But in the last five minutes, the hero Brady did this:
This means that Ireland now go through….with Wales, Northern Ireland, and England…sorry, Eng-er-land.
So 25% of the teams left in a pan-European footie tournament come from two small islands off the West European coast….and 75% of these want to Brexit.
I sincerely hope you took this crucial statistic into account when voting today.
In the meantime, these were my fellow sufferers watching the Belgium game last weekend:
Sure, me mudduh was de orange and me fadduh was de green. But it made no difference to us, and a fine time was had by all.
But finally, I must just add that, if you’ve ever wondered what a Belgian wears under his kilt, the answer is nothing.
And we have the photographic evidence to prove it.
The Slog 