A not so light take on the news

Oh dear, Donald Trump is back. Remember 2020? Apparently, that time, the elections were rigged and the wannabe tangerine tyrant encouraged and instigated a coup on January the 6th. But it doesn't appear to have mattered. 

Remember the pandemic? He claimed that it would disappear as if by magic. When it didn't and thousands of people were dying, he had many solutions; horse medication, malaria medication, a shot or two of bleach and if all else failed, he suggested shining a light where the sun literally doesn't shine. But it doesn't appear to have mattered. What mattered is that bacon was cheaper when he was President.

Remember his debate with Kamala Harris? He suggested that Haitian migrants were eating people's pets. Yes, according to him, Haitian migrants were living the high life, consuming dog tartare, cat fritters, not to mention foie gras, courtesy of geese captured in public parks. But none of that matters. What matters is that bacon (bought legitimately from a grocery store, not offcuts of pet pigs) was cheaper then.

Remember his recent rallies? The usual name calling (thankfully, he didn't manage to get one to stick to Kamala Harris), the hateful rhetoric that had the maga crowd braying their approval in unison, the town hall Q&A where he swayed to music for forty minutes. (I'm tempted to start a novena to Mary to help wipe out the memory of him swaying to Ave Maria.) Most importantly, remember his enactment of 'Fifty Shades of Orange' with a hapless microphone? But none of that matters. What matters is that bacon was cheaper then.

Remember Trump's far right version of Woodstock at Madison Square Garden, where a comedian said that Puerto Rico was a 'Floating island of Garbage?' Not funny and not even intelligent because garbage may float but islands don't. But it doesn't matter. What matters is that bacon was cheaper then.

Remember when he was convicted of 34 felonies? But that doesn't matter, what matters is that bacon was cheaper when the Godfarter was the President.

Remember when Joe Biden stepped down and made way for Kamala Harris? The promise of hope and help to the 'sandwich' generation, so that their parents may have home care if they need it and their children could have help buying their first home? Remember that she kept repeating it (and her other policies) every time she spoke but some people couldn't hear it because they didn't want to listen. The optimism didn't matter, the policies/promises didn't matter, the joy didn't matter. None of it mattered. What mattered is that bacon was cheaper then.

So, in conclusion, it appears that Kamala Harris lost to a pig.

A lighter look at the news (in quite sometime)

It has been quite a while since I wrote my last blog post. Why now? Because, when I need a distraction, I find that taking a light hearted look at what's happening (or happened) in the news, is quite therapeutic. Also, a lot has happened. 

We, here in the UK, acquired a new King. Charles promised to modernise the monarchy. And true to his word, he rocked up to his coronation in a golden, horse driven, carriage, resplendent in a bejewelled crown, a cloak that looked like it had been lifted straight out of Cruella de Ville's closet and clutching a staff in one hand ('Holy Moses' was my somewhat apt reaction).

I wish I could tell you more but I stopped watching there. I may've been tempted to continue if Louis had been one of the Pages. I can imagine him yanking Cruella's cloak or snatching the staff out of grandpa's hand and bopping people on the heads with it. Alas, he wasn't, so I switched off.

We also got a new government. Conservative Prime Minister, Rishi Sunak, unexpectedly called for an election and not unexpectedly lost to Labour. I don't know much about our new Prime Minister, except that his title and his name rhyme - Sir Keir. I also imagine, if I asked to speak to the manager at a Waterstones book shop, someone who looked like him would turn up to talk to me.

Talking of British Prime ministers, Liz Truss, has been seriously fangirling over Donald Trump. Honestly, the lettuce that outlasted her tenure as PM, would make a better salad than words coming out of her mouth. It makes me quite cross that she can, if she wishes, pocket a six figure annual sum of money for her 45 days of chaos.

I also hope Rishi Rich doesn't claim any money, simply because to him, £115,000/- is like loose change in the pocket of his ready-for-the-floods-at-anytime, ankle length trousers.

For sometime, politics across the pond was a snooze fest (and I mean that literally).Trump frequently fell asleep during his hush money court trial. At some point, he woke up to find that the jury had found him guilty of 34 felonies. It should have been 35 but he got away with the charge of causing unease due to his gaseous emissions. That charge was dismissed  on the grounds of reasonable doubt, what with gas being invisible.

Then there was the much anticipated 'Debate' between Joe Biden and Donald Trump. Unfortunately, President Biden had an out of body experience. The lights were on but nobody was home. The man on the other side, predictably lied through his teeth and every pore of his orange tinted skin.

Undecided voters in the US wrung their hands in consternation. However were they to trust an elderly career politician who had a senior moment (albeit one that lasted for almost 90 minutes) as compared to an elderly, career fraudster! It started to get tense, as the fraudster appeared to be gaining favour.

He appeared to gain even more favour, when an assassination attempt was made on his life. A bullet, shot by a republican, whizzed passed his ear, taking a few skin cells off his pinna with it. Sadly, someone did get killed while trying to protect their wife and daughter.

With no pressure put on him at all (except perhaps from Clooney, Pelosi and maybe a few other prominent democrats) President Biden came to the independent decision to step down. He invited his VP Kamala Harris to step into his place. And suddenly, there was music and dancing, optimism and good vibes, and most importantly, joy.

On the other side, there was, and still is, whinging, vitriol and dour predictions. And, I imagine, there's more than just tomato ketchup being flung at the walls. There appears to be the toxic trial name calling to see what sticks (Kambala, komrade, crazy and that old chestnut, 'crooked'.) But nothing appears to be sticking. It's as if the walls are coated with teflon.

On the one hand, Kamala Harris' VP pick, Tim Walz, appears delightfully charming and exudes joy.  On the other hand, Donald Trump's VP pick, J.D. Vance (he of the obnoxious 'childless cat ladies' fame), has all the charisma of a disgruntled turnip.

So, whilst Harris is dancing with Walz, Trump has no choice but to dance with Vance. 

The US elections have gone from being boring to being exciting and I can't wait to see it unfold.

Until next time, try and keep it light.

 

 

A lighter side of the news

Remember those days when we lived in bubbles? Every household was a so called 'bubble' and we were not allowed to mix with other bubbles. We were warned that if we did, that spikey, invisible menace called covid-19, would burst our bubbles and we would be doomed!

How terrifying is that? So, for our sake and for the greater good of humanity, we faithfully followed our Government's strict guidelines.

Indulge me, as I further jog your memory to when Matt Hancock was our Health Secretary. He earnestly implored us to stand or demurely walk, at least a metre, preferably two metres, from the person in front of us. Alright, I exaggerated, he didn't use the word 'demurely' (it was implied).

Mr. Hancock was then caught playing that non-demure sport called 'Tonsil Hockey', with a married aide. Alas for him, he wasn't very good at it. He was caught cheating and he also scored at least two own goals - he lost his wife and he lost his job. Not sure if he lost Mrs Bonas as well. Not sure if I care. Not sure if you care. If you do, try Google.

When the furore died down, we thought that was it. But it turns out, that wasn't it. 

While weddings that took months to plan, were being cancelled, milestone birthday parties were being celebrated over Zoom and people were being buried/cremated with only their immediate family (those family members were deprived of comfort or support from extended family and friends), the staff and residents of No. 10 were partying.

Apparently, they worked so hard at those 'Thou shalt not do this' and 'Thou shalt not do that' guidelines, the poor dears had no choice but to decompress with booze and sitting on each other's laps.

Boris, of course, tried to bluff his way out of it but it did not work. There was an enquiry and he was fined. He still did not resign. Finally (talk about not taking a hint), his Chancellor, Rish told him to 'Go fish' and so did Health Secretary, Sajid Javid. It was bye, bye Boris time.

Which now begs the question, who is going to replace Boris? Will it be Richie Rish or will it be Brazen Hussy, Trussy? It may even be Cruella Suella (as a fellow person of Goan origin, I apologise). Unfortunately, I can't think of a rhyme for Jeremy Hunt, so I'll leave it there.

We could, of course,  ask Boris himself, but he's probably hanging from a zip wire somewhere, trying to endear himself to the British public once again.

We could also ask the lady in red but she is so enjoying herself (and Craig David) at this very legal party, it would be rude to interrupt.

Meanwhile, across the pond, Elon Musk and Donald Trump, are having a war of words (the tarsal bones in Shakespeare's 16th century boots must be quaking). 

Given Trump's limited imagination and vocabulary, it won't be long before he is reduced to mocking Musk's name. Something along the lines of 'Elongated Musk-ing tape'. 

Who am I kidding? Considering his previous unimaginative nicknames ('Sleepy Joe', 'Crooked Hilary'), my bet is either 'Junk Car Elon' or 'Rusty Rocket Elon'. Either way, both men deserve each other.

Side note to one of the men: for a couple of million quid, I will be happy to come up with retaliatory nicknames for the former Tweeting Tangerine (there's more where that came from).

Finally, I am happy to let you know that I have managed to come up with a rhyme for Jeremy Hunt - 'The Blunt Hunt'. Phew! I thought I was losing my touch.

Until next time, try and keep it light.

 

A lighter look at the news

Prince William was in a spot of bother this week. He and Kate, visited an Ukranian Cultural Centre in London and during a conversation, he made an observation, alluding to the fact that it felt very alien for there to be a war in Europe.

In 1999, one of the most used words in my 3 year old daughter's vocabulary was 'Kosovo'. She obviously picked it up from the television and from listening in to our conversations. She knew it was a place where something dangerous was happening. How do I know? Well, one day in a fit of pique, she suggested that I pack a suitcase and go to Kosovo.

If I recall, it was because she wasn't getting her way over something. Turned out to be a double defeat - she still didn't get her way and I did not pack my suitcase and go to Kosovo.

My daughter is 25 years now and I believe William is 39 years old.

Someone needs to be on hand with smelling salts when they tell him about the two World Wars.

Does anybody know what's happened to the Inquiry into the social goings on at No. 10 Downing Street during lockdown? 

At the time,  Boris Johnson would appear on our screens at 5:00pm, like a modern day Moses, minus the burning bush but with a tablet of commandments:

'Thou shalt honour and pay heed to thy Saviour (me).'

'Thou shalt only promenade with a single friend and promenade six paces to the side or behind thy friend.'

'Thou shalt not invite thy friends into thy dwelling..'

'When thou enters thy dwelling, thou shalt wash thy hands whilst singing a song of praise to celebrate thy birth, even if it is not the day that thou usually celebrates thy birth.'

After this tedious list of instructions (which were important at the time), Moses walked off, turned into Boris, laid his tablet down and boogied with his staff. To be honest, I don't know if there was any booging or Boris dancing involved. But it has come to light that there was a whole lot of socialising and drinking.

Meanwhile, at those briefings, we also had to listen to Matt Hancock give his two bit worth. He then went off to meet his two bit worth, to practise tonsil hockey. At least he managed to adhere to the 'meet just one friend at a time' rule, even if they then went on to practise the opposite of social distancing.

Where politicians are concerned, sometimes fact is more surreal than fiction.

Going back to the Ukraine crisis, I feel that in a short time we know quite a lot about Zelensky. Not so much about the other guy.

I learnt that Zelensky is a brave leader, who has chosen to fight alongside his people, instead of seeking refuge in another country. That he is a family man with a wife and two children. That he can boogie (but knows the right time to do so - pay attention Boris). That he was a comedian. And most importantly, that he can rock a pink suit.

About the other guy, I know that he has a penchant for riding horses bare chested. He sometimes flexes his pecs - one pec at a time - while riding on said horse (poor horse) and he always keeps a helipad distance between himself and whoever he is meeting with.

I've read somewhere that there are people who are already fast forwarding to the possibility of a Hollywood film being made about these two. When I read that, I wondered what they would call the movie. 'War of the Vlads' sounds like an obvious choice, but the UN would not approve because apparently they do not want it to be called a war. Somehow 'Conflict of the Vlads' does not quite ring a bell.

Maybe something along the lines of a James Bond film. One of the two Vlads could be Bond (no guesses who) and the other could be the villain (once again, no guesses who). 

Instead of a pussycat, the villain could have an orange lapdog. The lapdog would be living his best life, sleeping contentedly on his masters lap, with just one flaw  - from time to time he would bark, 'It was a rigged election' before sinking back into his master's lap.

I think, 'From Russia Without Love' could very well be a blockbuster in the making.

Talking about the orange lapdog. He had a wonderful suggestion, worthy of a genius five year old.

His suggestion was that the US should put Chinese flags over Fighter jets, bomb the s**t out of Russia, say China did it and sit back and watch.

I think he should go back to his 'Person, Woman, Man, Camera, TV' lessons. He seems to have lost the couple of grey cells that helped him remember that sequence.

Until next time, stay well.

A lighter look at the news

 This may not be popular, particularly in recent times, but I have a confession to make - I am an anti-waxxer. And before you ask, no, it's not a typo. If you started reading this because you thought that I was a fellow anti-vaxxer, please stop now and go get yourself inoculated (maybe that word will work).

I am an anti-waxxer simply because I cannot imagine why in the world anyone would want to pour molten lava on their legs and other delicate parts of their body - like their arm pits (didn't think I was going to say that, did you)? The only hot brown liquid I will tolerate (dare I say, even enjoy) is if the word Brazilian is followed by the word coffee.

I am not saying that women should necessarily sport the hairy Mary look (although I have great admiration for those who go down that path). All I am saying is that, it is as if at some point women thought monthly cramps and labour pains weren't enough, they had to incorporate some more painful challenges into their lives. Cue, hot wax and strips of fabric.

I have just one word to suggest an alternative - razors. That God given implement (apologies to Wilkinson if they beat God to it), widely used by men to get rid of unwanted hair.

At this point, I feel a full disclosure is in order. My legs and arms are pretty much hairless. But before you go hating me, my upper lip, if left unattended, would give Tom Selleck a run for his money!

If you're wondering about my uncharacteristic mental ruminations, I recently had an eye operation and wasn't able to do a lot, except listen to podcasts and ruminate. Now that I am healing, lucky you, I can share my ruminations (I promise that's the last time I'm going to use that word, not least because I'm beginning to feel like a cow).

Now, back to my usual rant. As I mentioned, I had an eye operation, which of course meant that I had a couple of visits to the hospital. During those visits, not once did I see a single person, be they patient or staff, unmasked. Not one single person.

So you can imagine how irate I was this week to see that bumbling bloke we call our Prime Minister, walk through a hospital corridor without a mask. 

Not even a token mask under his chin or dangling from his ear, to give the impression, false though it be, that he had just removed it.

Such a shame that one of the staff, who he merrily elbowed by way of greeting as he strode down the hospital corridor, didn't miss and get his chin instead (and alas, he wouldn't even have had the protection of a chin mask).

I have a suggestion for the next time he visits a hospital and goes mask less - have him zipwire through the corridors. And if lightening strikes again....

... well, I heard that the waiting times in hospitals can be quite long. 

In my ruminations (I apologise, please don't moo), I imagine Matron bustling by with a stern, 'Should've worn that mask Prime Minister.' And she would be right. We do live in a democracy after all.

Apparently, Camilla Parker Bowles was subjected to a low and slow, prolonged, emission of gas, by none other than President Biden. I am not sure if there were witnesses but she is said to have blushed on hearing the gaseous eruption.

I am surprised, after all I wouldn't think this would be the first time Mrs Bowles would be subjected to such emissions by the elderly. But then, what does one know? Perhaps royals do not produce wind. After all, there's already one royal who does not produce sweat.

Until next time, try and keep it light.

A lighter look at the news

 

It has been quite awhile since I've blogged but how can one resist when Prince Charles informs us that his Aston Martin runs on cheese and wine?

Surprisingly, I do agree with him. From personal experience, I run better on cheese and wine myself, so why should it not work on His Royal Highness's Aston Martin?

Mind you, it did put me in a quandary the other day. I discovered a mouldy piece of cheese at the back of the fridge and was torn between the petrol tank of my VW UP! or the bin.

Fortunately, one wasn't running on cheese and wine at the time, so one made the right decision and threw it in the bin.

This week, a 67 year old man on LBC radio station, called 19 year old Tilly Ramsay, who is taking part in Strictly Come Dancing, A chubby little thing. And on GMB today, Richard Madelay asked a young woman, who is a victim of drink spiking, Did you watch your drink the whole time to ensure it was safe?

Why are these misogynistic, middle aged men still giving themselves licence to talk to young women in this manner? I suggest that they be put out to pasture, where they can ruminate and exude their hot air through whichever orifice they choose.

A Facebook employee turned whistleblower, recently told us what we already knew, about the social networking company - that encouraging hateful rhetoric gets more engagement (and more money) than safer content. The company was so embarrassed, the first four letters in their name turned bright red.

They are now looking for ways to make amends and do better. After what I assume was much soul searching, they have come up with the perfect solution - change the name. Thank goodness for that. We can now all heave a sigh of relief and relax. 

Although I said earlier that the whistleblower told us everything we already knew about fb, there is one thing I confess that I did not know. I did not know that their Vice President for Global affairs is Nick Clegg. Yes Britain's very own ex-Deputy Prime Minister!

Nick Clegg and Mark Zukerberg - now, that's a match made in Heaven...or should I say the Multiverse, which apparently, is where Facebook is heading.

I don't often have second thoughts, but despite my cynicism about Facebook's name change, I actually think it might work. All they have to do is remove the third letter in the name and replace it with a 'k'. Fakebook - clear and transparent.

The suggestion/offer is free. No need for any payment at all but if Mr. Zukerberg insists, I wouldn't say no to a few shares in the forthcoming Multiverse venture. It would be rude to decline.

Talking of rude, remember the US President before Biden? The one who was impeached twice? The 'Person, woman, man, camera, TV', sharp-as-a-tac, genius, former President? Well, he's now set to launch a social media platform called 'Truth'.

I apologise but I have to end here, pick up my jaw, retreat to a corner of the room, wait for my eyebrows to descend, while clutching my ribcage, to ensure no hairline fractures occur from the resulting uncontrollable mirth that name has induced.

Until next time, try and keep it light.

  

A lighter look at the news

 

After last week's deep and heavy (for me) post, I thought I'd keep it light this week...well, light-ish.

I thought I'd write about the three Bs. Actually two of them are double Bs and one's an M. 

I'll start with the M - Boris Johnson. If you recall (I flatter myself) my blog last week was about the England Football Team taking the knee. At the time, our PM refused to censure those who booed whilst they did so. Some people might say that not condemning such behaviour implied complicity.

In the aftermath of the distressing and disgusting racial slurs and violence that followed England's defeat at the Euro 2021 finals, Boris Johnson decided to tweet against the racist behaviour of those fans. 

Racism can be viewed as a huge gaping wound and like most gaping wounds, it needs protective covering to prevent infection. No one was asking the PM to kneel alongside the England team (heaven forbid) but calling for the spectators to show respect and for the booing to stop, may have at least provided a flimsy bandage. Instead, he belatedly shows up, waving a teensy plaster.

Amidst the revolting behaviour, there were heartening moments. One of them was the quick covering up of the graffiti on Marcus Rashford's mural, with flags, posters, words of praise and messages of appreciation.

In the meanwhile, the other two (double) Bs, Branson and Bezos were revving up their rockets. Branson managed to beat Bezos in this space race. His Virgin rocket took him to the edge of space and lasted all of 59 minutes, with just a few minutes of weightlessness.

Branson's Virgin Galactic Rocket

Bezos' rocket is yet to take off. Well done Branson. At least England won something on Sunday. 

When he was up there, Branson had this special message, 'To all you kids down there, I was once a child with a dream, looking up to the stars.'

To which, the parents of the kids down here may well reply, 'To all you billionaires up there and down here, please give our children a better chance of realising their dreams...start paying taxes.'

Bezos is set to fly on 20th July. I am not sure if his rocket will take him further than Branson's rocket. 

I do have a concern though. I hope Bezos doesn't stick his head out of his rocket while in space - we mere mortals on Planet Earth might well think we're looking up at two moons.

Bezos' Blue Origin New Shepard Rocket

Before I finish, if you haven't guessed it, the 'M' stands for millionaire and the 'B's for billionaires but if you thought otherwise, I wouldn't blame you.

Until next time, try and keep it as light as if you were floating in space.

Taking the knee

The Euros have come and gone but amidst the heartache (if you're an England fan) I look for the positives. And the one positive I found through the whole tournament, was the kneeling of the England players before the start of every match.

Unfortunately, it appears not everyone shares my opinion. I was surprised to see on fb that there was quite a negative reaction to this gesture. 

Curious to find out why anyone would have a problem with all players in the England team uniting to reinforce racial awareness through a fairly harmless gesture, I encountered comments such as, 'All lives matter', and 'Kneeling is only for church' and 'Enough is enough'. Unsurprisingly, most of these comments were not from people of colour.

If you are one of them, please let me recount something that may help you understand why that simple, united gesture, means so much to some of us.

Just two days ago, I walked into a shop and looked for a particular item. Not seeing it on the shelves, I approached the till and greeted the person behind the till (no reciprocal response) and asked him if they had the item I was looking for. All I got was a pointed finger in the direction he had seen me coming from. 

As I took a step away, another couple came up to the till and were greeted with a 'Hi, good morning, how may I help you.'

Because I am undaunted by this type of behaviour, I picked out my second choice of item and proceeded to chat with the man. He really wasn't a terrible person, it's just in his DNA to unconsciously  respond in a more positive way to some people than to others.

At this point, I would like to point out that this isn't the first time this has happened and sadly, it won't be the last.

So, if you are a person of a privileged race, perhaps it may be wise to refrain from commenting on players kneeling for racial equality because, even in this day and age,  although all lives certainly matter, some appear to matter more than others.

Just saying...

 

A lighter look at the news

 

Oh dear! Our Health Minister (the one with all the sex appeal of a shoe string) was caught performing an unofficial test on one of his aides, without the use of any PPE, whilst practising, what can only be described, as the opposite of social distancing. After watching him swab the aide's tonsils, the result is unanimous - ew.

Instead of rapping the knuckles of Matt Hancock's  once splayed hands (which, alas, I can't unsee), good old Boris has accepted his apology and has declared the matter closed. In a world of decent, good, human beings, how did we end up with these goofballs governing us?

One might argue that it is between Hancock and his wife and the aide and her husband. But it isn't. He is our Health Minister and the last time I checked, covid-19 hadn't checked out. 

The pandemic, which is sprouting variants, is still around and our Lothario of a health minister (a week ago, you would've knocked me down with a cue tip if you'd told me I'd be using that word to describe him) never tired of telling us to wear masks, socially distance ourselves from one another and wash our hands. I can only hope he did the latter (while singing 'Happy Birthday' for twenty seconds) before splaying them on the aide's lower back (I am being polite).

To be fair to Hancock, he does seem like the type who's easily confused. Perhaps he thought that the Government had resurrected its 'Eat out to help out' scheme and he was only doing his bit to help. 

One might wonder how Mrs Hancock is handling the situation. Apparently, she coiffured her hair and took her dog out for a walk. Her actual dog, not her husband. She may well take him for a walk later. Possibly, to the cleaners.

Across the pond, an employee of the former President (the one who didn't lose the election 😂) is under investigation. His name is  Mathew Calamari. I looked closely at his picture but couldn't tell if he's battered, breaded or stewed. He does, however, appear to have tentacles above his upper lip.

Until next time, try and keep it light.

ps: Since posting this blog, Matt Hancock has resigned. 

A lighter look at the news

Recently, a York University student posted a picture of a (supposed) Mallard duck that stood head and shoulders above the rest. One might say, a giraffe among its peers. 

The duck was named Long Boi, causing ruffled feathers among the other un-named ducks.

'What are we, chopped liver?' they asked.

'Oui, oui,' said the French.

Speaking of Long Boi, John Barrowman has been accused of regularly  waving his around, like a three year old with a magic wand.

Cheshire cats all over the world, feel vindicated. For years, Barrowman has been appropriating their smile. 

Experts are urging the Government to extend the  lifting of overseas holiday travel restrictions from the 17th of May, in order to avoid spreading the covid variant in the UK.

I can't wait for Boris to give his usual crystal clear guidelines...try to have a staycation but travel if you must, which means only if it is imperative that you have a holiday overseas but if you can avoid it, stay home. If you can't, try to socially distance when you are abroad and avoid crowded places. But if you find yourself in a crowded place, use a face mask. This means, use a face mask as much as possible, unless you are outdoors but, then again, if it is crowded outdoors, use a face mask and do your best to socially distance. Unless social distancing is impossible. Then wear two face masks. But the best advice is to have a staycation.

According to a BBC documentary, Dolphins have learnt the secret to getting 'high' - a nerve toxin released by certain Puffer fish. Because they are intelligent (dolphins, not puffer fish) the dolphins know the technique to manipulate the puffer fish to release the exact amount of nerve toxin, which can otherwise be deadly.

They then pass the puffer fish around for a 'toke', after which they all rise to the surface and listen to 'Lucy in the sky with diamonds'.

I do wonder what happens to the dolphins that get hooked on puffer fish. The ones who go around offering their right fin for an extra turn at a puffer chew. Do they get sent to detox School called Pod save these Dolphins?

Until next time, try and keep it light.

 

A lighter look at the news

If you are one of those unfortunate people who suffers from an inability to nod off at the end of the day, I have good news for you. The ex-Vice President of the US, Mike Pence, has signed a double book deal.

If each of the books is around 365 pages long (I just plucked that number out of thin air) you should be in for a snooze fest for the next two years, at the very least. A page a day, should keep your insomnia at bay.

Now, if per chance, they are stuck for titles for said books, I have a few suggestions. 'Lord of the Fly', 'One Pence worth', 'Hangin' with Trump' or 'My fling with a Fly'.

The last suggestion of course, may upset his wife Karen, so the second book could be called, 'Mother knows best'.

Having said that, considering his four years in the White House,  'Eyes Wide Shut', is probably the most apt.

This week, Louis Vuitton had a handbag out on sale. A slightly quirky, aeroplane shaped brown bag, with the trademark LV dotted around. Nothing special, except for the price. Now, you may want to fasten your seat belt, before I reveal the price of $35,000/-.

Blink as much as you like, none of those zeroes is going to disappear. Although, to be honest, even if all the zeroes were wiped out, I wouldn't be tempted to buy one. 

Safe to say, it doesn't rock my boat, or in this case, cause turbulence in my aeroplane. I know, I've deviated from the chartered course, so I'll stop before I crash. In my defence, I lost track when I read the price tag.

In case you think that the grapes I have ingested are on the sour side, I did ask myself that all important question. What if I had a spare $35,000/- lying around, would I still feel this way? 

The honest answer is probably not. I would however expect it to take my little Shih Tzu for a joy ride... a couple of loop the loops in the air every morning, before landing on my arm. 

(In case you're wondering, my little Shih Tzu is as much a figment of my  imagination, as the spare $35,000/-).

Fans of Bridgerton are dismayed and surprised in equal measure, that Rege-Jean Page won't be part of the second series. To be fair, not all fans are surprised (although all are disappointed). 

Those that have read the books, have taken it upon themselves to, in a slightly superior fashion, chide the rest, for their ignorance.

'If you had bothered to read the books, you would know that the Duke does not feature from hereon', they decry, bosoms a heaving (sorry, I got carried away).

Not to hit a discordant note in their Gallopade dance but personally, I don't know where from cometh their disdain. I suspect, reading  Bridgerton books, would be akin to reading Barbara Cartland on steroids.

If you have read the books, and your bosoms are heaving with ire borne of indignation, that I have audaciously opined a critique of such repugnance to you, I do profusely apologise.

Post scriptum: Don't forget to rearrange the ruffled frills on your frock... you don't want to seem unladylike.

Until next week, try and keep it light.

A lighter look at the news

 

Donald Trump who is, in President Biden's words, 'the former guy', got impeached for the second time and then got acquitted. The most regrettable part about him getting acquitted, is that he has found his voice again. For a few weeks, he was quiet and it was bliss. Never was the saying silence is golden more apt (you can look for a pun in there if you like). 

There was an almost audible, peaceful global sigh, as we all took a break from listening to mocking nicknames, nasty comments and misleading lies about imagined landslide victories. 

Then came the acquittal and alas, the voice is back. Once again, the media have started covering him almost incessantly. The irony that I am grumbling about his media coverage, whilst writing about him, is not lost on me. However, I am a blogger, expressing my irritation, not part of big time mainstream media.

Meanwhile, Texas is undergoing unexpected, dreadful wintery conditions, with no power and broken/frozen water pipes. In the midst of all this misery, their senator, Ted Cruz decided to hop on a plane with his family, to Cancun. 

When he was discovered and the proverbial hit the frozen fan, he shielded himself behind his children. He claimed that they were the ones who wanted to go to Cancun and, good dad that he is, he obliged. (Someone give the man a Father of the decade trophy).

In fact, he should have sat his two daughters  down and explained that as a Senator, it would be the ethical thing for him and his family to stay and go through the same hardship, as the people that elected him.

Yes, pigs would probably be flapping around in gilded wings before that would happen.

Talking about gilded wings, I noticed that a few people thought it was funny to taunt Cruz by calling him Rafael...apparently his whole name is Rafael Edward Cruz. 

I happen to not think that it is funny. Raphael is the name of one of the original archangels and this man is anything but an angel. Now, if his first name was Lucifer...that would be funny.

Not all news is doom and gloom this week. Harry and Meghan are expecting their second child. Now you might say, what on earth difference does it make to anyone, other than them. I agree. But many don't. 

You only have to mention Meghan's name and the professional haters here in the UK (otherwise known as the gutter press) start foaming at the mouth and bringing up their all too familiar vitriol, followed by the usual online trolling.

Unfortunately, before the inexplicable rage had a chance to dissipate, it came to light that Meghan and Harry were going to be interviewed by Oprah. The bilious floodgates were once again flung open and  Piers Morgan emerged... imploring her Majesty to strip this couple of every title they possess and assuring her that the British people would not mind.

Just want to say two things to Piers Morgan (or Fierce Jargon as I call him).

First of all, if I ever need a spokesperson, you are the very last person I would choose to speak on my behalf. Secondly, when are you going to realise that drinking verbal poison and expecting it to harm this couple, is ludicrous and not a pleasant sight.

Before I end, I have a question for all the online haters. What happened to the #bekind that was trending after Caroline Flack took her life? 

Perhaps it's naïve and silly of me not to realise that it had a short expiration date.

Until next time, try and keep it light. 

post scriptum. Hear ye, hear ye. It is hereby declared that Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth the Second, does payeth heed to Piers Morgan the First (and hopefully the last) and has decreed that the Duke and Duchess of Sussex shall be stripped of their titles. They will hereby and henceforth be addressed as Harry and Meghan, names that they have hitherto been called on account of said names being bestowed to them at birth.

A royal correspondent explained that the decision to strip Harry and Meghan of their titles had something to do with geography. 

Makes me wonder...if a certain non-perspiring, prince crosses the pond to the same geographic location, to assist the FBI, would they lose their title as well? 

Just idle curiosity, that's all.

Ding, dong, the King is gone!

 

King Frump ruled his country for almost four years. Alas! During those four years, King Frump had forgotten that he wasn't actually the King of the country that he ruled. In fact, his country practised something known as democracy.

King Frump didn't like that word, on account of it meaning that people got to choose who could rule them and King Frump only liked the dimly frumpy people who liked him and wanted him to rule them forever. 

The people who were dimly frumpy and wanted King Frump to rule them forever, got very cross with the people who liked democracy and wanted to choose whether King Frump should continue ruling them or whether Toe Hidin' should rule them.  (They wanted Toe Hidin' on account of him being kinder than King Frump, who was only kind to himself and his daughter).

This made King Frump so apoplectic with crossness, that foam and froth started to bubble from his mouth. Some people said that it wasn't crossness that was causing this. They said that he was drinking too much of his special drink known as covfefe

King Frump, who was a very clever man on account of the jeans he inherited from his scientist uncle, came up with a plan. He told the people that if he won, it would be fair and if he didn't win, it would be unfair.

The dimly frumpy people, who preferred a demagogue to democracy, thought that this was a very clever plan. 

King Frump went on the platform that was social and tweeted his clever plan, many, many times. The people who liked Toe Hidin' and democracy, said that King Frump's clever plan was excrement from a bull.

Mr. Hidin's assistant, Tabla Paris told everyone that he would be a marvellous King, even though he had a toe that was shy. People believed her on account of her being very clever. She was cleverer than King Frump because she inherited her jeans from her mother.

King Frump's assistant, Bike Fence was unable to help him. People said that he once took a swipe at a fly and that the ghost of the fly now stalked him. Even Mother could not help him get rid of the fly.

But that didn't matter, on account of there being many people who were happy to spread Frump's excrement from a bull. One of them was a woman called Dayleigh Macaroni, so called, on account of her using words that were twisted like macaroni, every day, when she spoke to the people with microphones and cameras. 

Meanwhile, King Frump's wife, MelonYa? confided in a friend that she no longer wanted duck at Christmas. She was also sad that people thought that she did not think about anything, so she decided to think about something.

After thinking about many things, she decided to think about bullying. She called it MeBest, in honour of herself and her husband, who was also the King of bullies. (Many people said that no one could bully like him. He was the best bully there ever was.)

The day of Selection came around and the people chose who they wanted to rule them for the next four years. It was not King Frump - it was Toe Hidin'.

All the people in the Kingdom, who loved democracy, rejoiced.

This made King Frump lose the two hinges that kept him together. He kept mounting the platform that was social, and like an angry bird, he tweeted even more excrement.

The dimly frumpy people believed King Frump's angry bird tweets. They got violently dangerous and stormed up an important house on a hill, where there were lots of important people. 

This dismayed the un-frumpy people, on account of their Kingdom now starting to look like it only sold bananas. 

All this made the owner of the platform that was social, very cross and King Frump got pushed off the platform forever.

Alas! King Frump was not banished from the Kingdom. He still lives in the Kingdom, in F-a-r-t-o-go with MelonYa?

All the people (except for the dimly frumpy people) are happy that he does not live in the Bright House.

Toe Hidin' lives there now, with his wife, Dr Pill (so called, on account of her being a tonic to everyone who meets her) and the Bright House is shining brighter than ever.

Before leaving the Bright House, King Frump once again tried to impersonate a peach. And once again, Fancy Pay-Lucy was having none of it.

King Frump had a final wish as a king - he wanted the people to do something to remember him forever. They decided to dedicate this rhyme to him...

Ding, dong bell

Frumpy's in the well

Who put him in?

Fancy Pay-Lucy thin

Who'll pull him out?

No one... he's way too stout!

Until next time, try and keep it light.

A slightly less than lighter look at the news

On January 6th this year, one might've hoped that Presidente El Trumpo, would have a moment of Epiphany and realise that he had lost the US Election and that he did not stand a chance in hell of residing in the White House for four more years.

Well, one would hope but one would be rather silly to have such a hope, not after four years of watching this tweeting tangarine veer from offering ridiculous cures for the Coronavirus, to recently making a phone call to Georgia's Secretary of State, Brad Raffensperger, asking him to pluck out 11,780 votes from thin air.   

(On the bright side, I can stop calling him a tweeting tangarine, now that he can tweet no more. Thank you twitter....never was the saying, 'Better late than never,' more apt.)

Although the whole thing sounded like a tacky tribute act to 'The Godfather' (I half expected a horse's head to be dropped into the conversation), to be fair, he wasn't asking Mr. Rafensberger to do all the dirty work. He helpfully came up with a name to explain away the potential, miraculous discovery of precisely 11,780 votes - recalculation.

Unbelievably, quite a few people laughed it off as the rantings of a man who knows his days are numbered. 

Not sure if they are still laughing because on the 6th of January, while the electoral college votes were being formalised,  President Sh*tstirrer waved his tiny, black begloved hands and riled his slowpoke followers to such an extent, that they stormed the Capitol building, while he slunk back to the Whitehouse to watch the chaos unfold.

Now, one might ask, how did this actually happen? After all, we, the rest of the world, saw how efficient the law enforcement in the US can be. We saw many examples of this efficiency in the summer of 2020.

Sadly, that efficiency appeared to be missing on this occasion. Notwithstanding the presence of important politicians in the building, there appeared to be some reticence in coming down heavily on the slowpokes. A Tom Selleck wannabe policeman even got his 15 seconds of fame, as he happily posed for a selfie with one of the slowpokes.

Quite baffling, really. I mean, a man was allowed to recline behind the desk of the Speaker of the house, with his feet on the desk. I suspect if  that man belonged to different race, he would've been shot before his backside even touched the chair.

Who am I kidding? He probably would've been shot at before even entering the building, much less the office of the Speaker.

Another image I found striking, was that of a woman on the arm of a policeman, being gently guided down the steps of the building. Now, unless she was his grandma, who had inadvertently got mixed up in the riotous crowd, what the hell did he think he was doing.

If Granny slowpoke was fit enough to climb up those steps, she jolly well should have been left to her own devices to manoeuvre her way down. 

My guess is, once again, had Granny slowpoke been of a different race, the policeman would've helped her down the steps, only it probably would've been with a swift push in the back.

Joe Biden and Kamala Harris have their work cut out for them. It was unsettling to witness the most powerful, democratic country in the world, resemble a banana republic.

Hopefully, after the 20th of this month, President Tin Pot and his followers, the Slowpokes (I prefer calling them that, because Trumpists just perpetuates the name) fade away. The lot of them, whether they be a person, woman, man...lets hope they disappear from in front of camera(s) and TV(s).

Until next time, try and keep it light.