Twain

The furrowed lines on Dr Saul Bollock’s forehead are explained by the sheer offort of thought that goes into his thinking. Mind you, there is also his oft-repeated allegation of little green men running a plough across his brow. But our unshakeable belief in Saul’s genius remains unstirred.


I am delighted to announce that I have been appointed Reality Commissioner to adjudicate between the massed forces of Neocon and PC Liberal versions of what real is, in the context of their respective appreciations of it. Between you and I, I welcome this appointment, not least because I am – apart from the generous offer of €3 a year from Mr Slog to write a column for his much deprecated site – between engagements at the minute, and thus sorely in need of an Austrian Schilling or two.

We had an initial scoping-out, flag-saluting, common ground, when is a mouse an elephant session this morning in the offices of those fine ecological mammonists Greenpeace Sachs, and I must equivocally report that there was 100%  agreement between all sides that today is Thursday.

On a more personally avaricious note, I found the Islamic representatives’ concern about which way the day was facing especially encouraging: at this rate, I’ll be picking up my £50,000 a day attendance fee for many years to come.

By the way, during the negotiations for this appointment, the senior deputy under-secretary for Betweenment procurement referred to the daily fee on offer as “a Dave”. Can anyone shed light on the derivation of this unit of currency? I couldn’t help wondering why, at these rates, anyone was surprised that there is No Money Left.

It is high time that the crypto-Bolshevik Waspis took this particular version of reality on board.


I hear that Sir Phillip Green saw red this afternoon as lots of MPs claimed he had beaten BHS pensioners black and blue, and then been brown-nosed by lots of MPs who were keen to recruit his golden bank account for re-election purposes.

Stirling Naisal-Hare (Conservative, East Midwitch) became purple with rage as he called the infamous retail financier “a bronzed and grey-haired guzzler of pink champagne” who had left loyal old workers “in a state of destitution quite unthinkable under the azure skies of Twenty-first century prosperity”.

In my humble opinion, Mr Naisal-Hare speaks with the authoritative voice of an expert currently employed as Assistant Junior Silly Excuse Shrinking Violet at the Department of Work & Pensions. Yesterday during PMQs, he bravely praised Choo fetishist Theresa Maybe for her snow-white stand against the scarlet women waging a War of Terracotta in pursuit of pensions illegally promised to them by Lady Clementine Attlee in 1047.

What I say is, this Yellow Peril of foul harpies must be scattered to the four corners of the Earth. We, the proud descendants of Orange Billy, must not allow our tough, mahogany will to be coloured by those with rose-coloured spectacles. In these times of unavoidable Osterity, we must all be proud to wear the red-white-and-blue of Blighty.


hillbuttons

I have been sent this picture of an old lady modelling what I’m told is the very latest in Anti-Collapse protective clothing. The manufacturers assure me that – due to the outfit’s unique bounce-back rare sponge padding –  the wearer will become upright again before any papparazi can capture the collapse.

However, having sent the image to an American friend of great wisdom, I am shocked by her assertion that it is in fact a Presidential candidate sporting a spoof outfit codenamed Tellytubby Bad Taste #1, in order to establish her as a sold-out frump lush no longer interested in the firebrand policies of her youth.

Designed by the much sought-after Wall Street tailors Bankfine Dimon Morgan, the rigout has been insured by Sunshine Umbrella Life of Fukushima for a sum thought to be in the region of ¥560billion.


Earlier at The Slog: Mammoths in the padded cells of the politically correct