A lighter look at Christmas Carols

 

I was just cooking dinner and decided, with Christmas Eve almost upon us, that I would listen to some Christmas songs. After listening to Michael Buble and the Puppini Sisters jingle their bells, an unfamiliar one came on. I would hazard a guess that it was a girl pop group. One of them implored Santa (although it seemed almost like a threat) to please get her someone special for Christmas but to make sure that he'd still be around next year. In other words, a boyfriend with at least a one year guarantee.

Imagine putting all that responsibility on a man whose sole profession is to simply work all year around, with elves, to produce toys for children all around the world (with the expert supervision of Mrs Claus of course). And then to have this grown woman, not only whingeing about wanting someone but inserting her own terms and conditions.

This got me thinking about other Christmas songs. For example, 'All I want for Christmas Are My Two Front Teeth.' As I said, Santa provides toys for children globally and it is an all year round job. It may take one night to deliver them (thank goodness for timezones) but it is a mammoth task. When exactly do you think he will get the time to get a degree in dentistry? 

Don't get me wrong, if it is a self concious seven year old making that wish, they get a pass. But, if you are an adult who imbibed too much of the happy juice at your Christmas party and face planted on the dance floor, do not bother Santa. Shell out whatever eyewatering sum you have to, at your emergency dentist's appointment.  Lessons will be learnt. 

Don't even get me started on Eartha Kitt and the copy cats that followed (I'm looking at you Kylie and Buble), with their transparent flattery. Calling an older man of indeterminate age, 'Santa Baby' and using suggestive innotation, is not going to work. It might've worked if your list was somewhat practical- most men are suseptible to flattery - but that list for a sable coat, a yacht and a '54 convertible, is ridiculous. The miracle worker is the child that Mary gave birth to, not the jolly man in the red suit who takes modest requests from children.

As if that wasn't enough, demanding that he hurry down the chimney, is downright rude and unthoughtful. I suspect that sliding down millions of chimneys, particulary when one is portly, probably causes quite a lot of stress. I have heard a rumour that poor Santa goes on a ketogenic diet at the start of December. He really doesn't need you urging him to hurry down your chimney, with your materialistic gifts from the North Pole.

The one song that encapsulates the spirit of Christmas and shows us Santa's true nature, is 'Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer'. He obviously had a diversity plan in place when he hired Rudolph. What he did not count on, was the shallow nature of the rest of his reindeer. So, wise old Santa chose Rudolph to steer his sleigh on the most important night of the year and lo and behold (and possibly to ensure their future employment) the rest of the sycophantic reindeer 'loved' Rudolph after that. Oh deer, how very shallow of them.

On a more poignant note, we have lost some wonderful artists whose Christmas songs will live with us for many years.  Maybe it is coincidence, but poignantly they've passed away around this time of the year; Dean Martin and 'Let it Snow! Let it Snow! Let it Snow!' (25.12.1995), Kirsty Maccoll and Fairy Tale of New York (18.12.2000), George Michael and Last Christmas (25.12.2016)and now Chris Rea and Coming Home for Christmas(22.12.2025). 

Ultimately, Christmas Carols and Songs are part of the festive season and inspite of poking fun, I guess it would just not feel like Christmas if we didn't hear them on a loop at this time of the year. 

Wishing everyone a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. 

Fingers crossed that the coming year brings lighter news and more peaceful times.

 

 

 

 

 

Confessions of a Windmill

 

I'll start with a confession. I am not actually a windmill, I am a wind turbine. But the person I am going to talk about, calls us windmills. I guess he has a very low intelligence quotient.

It was a normal day by the shore in Aberdeen. The sun wasn't shining but it wasn't raining either. My friends and I were chilling -  just shooting the breeze, so to speak.

But then, we got wind of a developing situation (that's how we usually get our news). Our arch enemy, a man whose name I cannot bring myself to utter (hint: the first three letters of his name rhyme with 'Con'), was crossing the pond to visit his golf course. In other words, President Flotsam was going to Jetsam across the pond.

We hoped that it was just a rumour but alas, it was true. The day arrived and we saw him in the distance. We were paralysed with fear. We'd heard that he had once queried whether a hurricane could be stopped by a nuke. None of us were taking the risk. The only blades that moved were those of the tall grass nearby.

However, when I could bring myself to cast a cursory glance at our Don Quixote on steroids, he was just a hunched over old man with a silly hat on his head. Nevertheless, we did not move our blades, for fear of drawing attention to ourselves. Apparently, his hatred for us is because we kill birds and make annoying sounds. (He's a good one to talk).

Unfortunately, keeping still was a losing battle. While we could easily handle the strong North winds, we were unable to withstand the hot air that emanated every time President Flotsam opened his mouth to speak. Despite our best efforts, our blades started to move reluctantly, in a desperate attempt to disperse the hot air and the accompanying odour (which leads me to suspect that the hot air was not just emanating from his mouth).

Fortunately for us, he was distracted by the people with cameras and note pads, shouting questions at him - the name Epstein seemed to come up quite a lot (not quite sure why they were bringing up The Beatles' manager after all this time). But then again, maybe they were not asking about that Epstein because the name seemed to trigger him so much, that a convoy of golf carts were summoned and they drove away to the accompaniment of Memories from the musical Cats. Apparently his favourite musical is 'Cats', yet he claims to hate us because we kill birds. 

As he drove away, our blades, in unison, hummed 'The Windmills of Your Mind'. How we howled with laughter for the rest of the evening (some might've called it our Stormy revenge.)

We saw him on two occasions after that. One was in the evening when he appeared at the entrance of his resort, flanked by the Prime Minister of the UK, Keir Starmer on one side and his wife on the other. (Keir Starmer's wife, not Mrs Flotsam). 

Poor Mrs Starmer looked like a wax work from Madame Tussauds. She stood stock still and expressionless. But then again, she was standing next to him, so she could well have been holding her breath.

The last time we saw him, he was standing in front of a red ribbon, his two sons on either side of him. Interesting looking men. The bearded one looked like he had a bladeless wind turbine indelicately rammed up his spine (apologies to my fellow wind turbines for that analogy) and the other son looked like he'd been blessed with a double set of teeth (or cursed with an extra small mouth.) Either way, they looked like the perfect casting for a reboot of Dumb and Dumber. Dumbest then proceeded to cut the red ribbon and once again opened his mouth to speak. Cue for our blades to start spinning furiously.

Finally, we got wind that he was back in his country. We really would be useless without our friend the wind. 

With him gone, things could return to normal again. Can't say the same for his country. But then again, they are a democracy and they chose him (again). 

They could have chosen an intelligent, qualified woman but they chose a dumb, unqualified man. As they say in his country, Go figure.

A lighter look at the news

 

Jeff Bezos sent his fiancée and a few celebrity friends, on a joyride in his Blue Origin space craft, to hover over planet Earth. Eleven minutes later, they were back. The first to emerge from the capsule was fiancée, Lauren Sanchez, who appeared to have missed him for every single second of every one of those eleven minutes. 

Next to make an appearance, was singer Katy Perry. She shot out of the capsule like a firework and proceeded to sink to her knees to kiss the ground, thereby appropriating Pope John Paul II's signature move. Apparently, whilst up there, Katy Perry sang What a Wonderful World.  Mercifully, she didn't burst into I Kissed the Earth and I liked it, as she arose from the ground.

Also, appropriating John Paul II's signature move was Oprah's best bud, Gayle King. Joining them in this physical display of affection for Mother Earth, was none other than Jeff Bezos himself, albeit, involuntarily. He was walking around the capsule and tripped on what appeared to be a pothole masquerading as a crater from the moon. Down he went, planting a smacker on Mother Earth with his whole face. 

Maybe that is the Universe's way of telling him to stick to trying to clean up the environment of our planet instead of adding to its pollution with these (mostly) pointless jaunts. Especially when one of the highlights of the trip appears to have been the sighting of the Moon. I don't know about you, but I have spent many a cloudless night appreciating that same shiny orb in the night sky, from my back garden. Rumour has it, that if you view it through an instrument called a telescope, it's almost as if you are right there.

Katy Perry also made another discovery. She discovered the four letter word love. As I heard her gush, I discovered another four letter word but I shan't be using it. Not yet. I'll wait for Mr Bezos to offer me a ride on his Blue Origin and then I'll use it, followed closely by the two letter word no.

Since Ms Perry had to go to space to discover love, I have a thought. How about sending a certain President to space. It doesn't even have to be on Blue Origin. His chain saw wielding bestie could arrange it.

Talking about said President, his medical report got published and you will be relieved to know that he passed with flying colours. Colours that flew so high, they went beyond Blue Origin's all-female crew's joyride.

While most people chuckled at his purported weight in his medical report, my eyebrows shot up at his purported blood pressure reading. How can a 78 year old man, whose diet apparently consists mostly of junk food and whose cup runneth over with diet coke and malice, have such a text book, perfect bp reading? If true, I have this theory that President Don Chaotic's blood pressure decreases in direct proportion to the increase in blood pressure he causes decent people.

I shall now await worldwide recognition for this theory and possibly even a Nobel prize.

The stable genius continues to hold on to his title, as he has, once again, aced his cognitive test. Apparently, the doctor was totally awe struck, as he had never witnessed anyone ace the test like he did. He got a mark that no one before him had ever achieved. It is yet to be established if the doctor had tears in his eyes while extolling these incredible achievements.

Dumb-a-Lardo coyly declined to confirm if he had to memorize and recall the same five words that he did the last time, before admitting that he couldn't remember if he had to or not. But worry not, he did brilliantly and his stable genius crown is intact.

If indeed he did have to memorize and recall five different words this time, I'll hazard a guess that they were Groceries...Tariffs...Russia ... El Salvador...Golf. 

Until next time, try and keep it light. If you are having a hard time keeping it light, I'll end with Boris Johnson's latest escapade in a safari park in Texas. He got pecked by an ostrich. You are very welcome.

A lighter look at the news

 

Hold on to your wallets everyone, the Sheriff of Tariff is in town. With the exception of one obvious omission (Putin your own conclusion as to which country that is), almost no one was spared, not even penguins (those feet were anything but happy when the inhabitants of Heard Islands got the news.) 

Anyway, we can now unclench for 90 days, as Emperor Oranginus Trumpus has grandly decided to pause the tariff threat. As usual, having no shame, he is full of self congratulation because the stock market briefly went up. Makes me want to revise that old nursery rhyme to: 

 Ding dong bell, Kitty's in the well.                                                         Who flung her in?                                                                               Trumpelstilskin not-so-thin.                                                           Who pulled her out?                                                                     Trumpelstilskin stout.                                                                                                                                            To be fair, Trump does have depths of intelligence that he has been  modest about. For example, he has revived that old fashioned word groceries for us. I don't know about you, but I am delighted that I can now put a name to the list that I take to the supermarket every week. Shakespeare, nothing. This wordsmith and his rediscovery of the word groceries has completely changed my life. Trump voters must be so proud.

Also, while we guffawed at the thought of penguins being tariffed, he actually had a genius plan. Remember he won because of the price of bacon and eggs? Well, Mr Humble may not be bragging about it but he is only trying to fulfil his election promise. We all know that despite the inhabitants of Heard Islands being King Penguins and sporting dapper tuxedos, they don't really deal in cash. But they are birds and they lay big, beautiful eggs. Soon to be big, beautiful, tariffed eggs.

In 90 days, I predict the addition of another country to his big, beautiful list...The Bay of Pigs.

                                             

 

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

On New Year's eve, Pope Francis was going about his business, doing what Popes do - walking around St. Peter's Square, smiling, meeting the faithful, saying 'how do you do?' 

He started to walk away from a group of people, when a woman (of unknown name, so we shall call her Ms Loon, for convenience sake) grabbed his hand and pulled him towards her.

By this time, mortification should have set in on her part but she is not named Ms Loon for nothing, so she carried on holding his hand in a vice-like grip.

Also, in my opinion, his security should have intervened by now  and extricated Ms Loon and her hands from his holiness and his hand.

Alas, they did not, so his holiness had to literally take matters into his own hands. A couple of firm smacks on Ms Loon's grasping digits and he was a free man.

He did what any 83 year old would do when physically threatened. However, he is the head of the Catholic Church, so he has apologised and sought forgiveness. 

I hope Ms Loon does the same.

Mind you, as a show of good will, the Vatican could offer to pay for Ms Loon to have a few therapy sessions.

Not because she appears to think nothing of grabbing and flinging the elderly about (although there is that) but - if you're Catholic - the Pope is the last person on God's earth whose wrath you want to incur. 

Until next time, try and keep it light and be kind to each other, especially the elderly.

A lighter look at 2019

It is the penultimate day of the year and I wouldn't want to make light of it on a personal level, so all I'll say is... thank goodness for celebrities (and Prince Andrew).

Gemma Collins (or the GC as she likes to call herself) took part in 'Dancing on Ice', a program that I choose not to watch. Even so, I was forced to read headlines about her diva tantrums. Until pride, literally came before a fall.

That certainly would qualify as the most 'ouch' moment of the year.

I am a bit conflicted whether to award the next person with the 'biggest knucklehead' of the year or the 'if it ain't broke, don't fix it' lesson of the year, and since I hate conflict, he that goes by the name of Jussie Smollett, shall be awarded both.

Imagine being a relatively successful actor and deciding that you deserve more and hatching a plan to get the more of everything that you think you deserve.

Unfortunately, there was just one flaw in his plan - it needed more brains. 

Hiring extras that are known to you and paying them with a cheque that has your name on it, is the opposite of a cunning plan.

Needless to say, the career of Smollett is now gonnett.

Another person whose career took a self inflicted nose dive this year, is Prince Andrew.

Like Mr. Smollett, the Grand Old Duke of York, also had a grand plan.

He would redeem himself by giving an interview to the BBC.

It is fair to say, he didn't just shoot himself in the foot. He shot himself in both feet, one toe at a time.

He certainly gets a clutch of awards. One would be for 'worst alibi' of the year.

'I went to Pizza Express in Woking that evening'. Impressive. I remember going to Pizza Express three months ago but do I remember the date or the time? Sadly, not.

But then again, one is royal, so a trip to Pizza Express and rubbing shoulders with the hoi polloi may well have been traumatic enough to stick in one's memory for a lifetime.

I wouldn't be surprised if one had demanded a decontamination wash down after the trip.

Maybe that's how one remembers where one was that evening but one doesn't want to say, lest one comes across as snooty.

He also gets an award for 'most deluded opinion of oneself'.

Talk about not seeing the wood for the trees, his honourable highness doesn't appear to see the wood or the trees.

What gets me, is that most of us (who live in the real world), have enough self awareness to realise when we've made jackasses of ourselves.

Not Prince Andrew. He informed Mummy that the interview went swimmingly well, until the entire nation informed her otherwise. 

One then had to issue a P45 to one's own son.

The judges on Strictly Come Dancing this year, decided to bestow 10s like so much confetti being flung by over enthusiastic (and slightly inebriated) guests at a wedding.

Except for Craig Revel Horwood. However, he doesn't get an award for being the most sensible judge on a reality show. 

He gets the 'foot in your mouth' award, for complimenting Anton du Beke on his wig, glasses and fake teeth...except Anton's teeth were (and still are to the best of my knowledge) very much his own.

The 'dancing queen' award is most certainly Tay May's.

She has now danced out of No 10 and may well be available to take part in Strictly Come Dancing next year.

If that happens, Anton du Beke (and his authentic teeth) will almost certainly partner her.

I could go on, but I won't. 

I think there is enough here, no matter what sort of year you've had, to make you feel slightly better about yourself.

Until next year, try and keep it light.

A lighter look at Christmas Cards and letters

If you are of a certain age, you may remember the first time your family received a Christmas card that didn't feature the traditional Nativity scene or a Christmas tree or even a Robin red breast (that quintessentially native bird of Bethlehem). 

Instead, you opened the envelope to find the Browns, or perhaps the de Silvas, grinning at you from their bespoke family portrait card.

At some point, the senders of such cards, came to realise that there wasn't anything festive about a family posing for a nondescript  photograph.

So, with precise planning, they donned on Christmas hats in August and posed in front of a plastic Christmas tree, so that their perfect  Christmas cards were all printed and ready to be unleashed on unsuspecting family and friends, by early December.

Unfortunately, it did not stop there. 

Someone looked at their family Christmas card and despite all of them looking giddy with happiness and grinning like a tribute band to the Osmonds, they wondered how on earth would cousin Jenny know that their Bobby had been accepted into the 7th best University in the country.

(A point they were particularly keen to drive home, as Jenny's son had dropped out of Uni the year before).

Also, how would the recipient know that Dad had received a 'huge' promotion at work and that the youngest family member, Matilda, had been made captain of the girls' lacrosse team. 

Not to mention the fact that they, in their family home,  had hosted 81 dinner parties (Mum Maureen was such a dab hand at throwing these soirees) and had received 43 overnight guests,who would certainly, and individually, be named - not that one was looking to be lauded, or shown gratitude or anything crass like that.

And so, was born, the annual 'Christmas letter'. 

Three double sided A4 sheets from Uncle Caetano, waxing lyrical about his family, in painful, eye watering detail, and suddenly you find your Mum looking at you with the withering look of a let down and immensely disappointed Mother.

Nowadays, the 'keeping in touch to let you know how fabulous we are' letters have blissfully been confined to history, as Uncle C and his ilk have moved on to the 24/7, 365 days a year, preening platform, otherwise known as social media.

The family photo Christmas card hasn't disappeared altogether but seems confined to the rich, famous and photogenic, like the Cambridges.

This year for the Christmas card, they rolled out that most festive of all modes of transport.... a motorbike.

There's William sitting astride the bike holding little Louis in front of him. (Not sure why I emphasised 'little', one would hardly expect a big Louis to be sitting in front of the future monarch).

Kate is leaning ever so gently towards him, with one hand on the handle bars to the right.

A psychologist might have a field day with that but I am no psychologist, although I suspect the invisible hand of Granny is on the handle bars to the left.

George and Charlotte are standing in the side car. 

There you go, I have painted a verbal picture for you. If you want to see the actual pic, just use google.

Then there's the American royal couple and their family. The West/Kardashians, all assembled and sitting beautifully on the staircase of their family home.

They magnanimously decided to share their Christmas card pic with the world (it is the season of giving after all), so that their millions of followers could fawn.

Unfortunately, the fawning was accompanied by gasps of disbelief as accusations started to fly, that North West (the child, not the direction) had been photoshopped into the picture.

Mum Kim admitted that it was true. Apparently, North West was having a day. 'Does she usually have nights?' you might ask.

To which, I would say, 'Don't be silly'. She was having a mood, a strop, throwing a tantrum, doing a Mariah Carey - take your pick.

Anyway, North walked off (not sure which direction, could've been South).

But then, the next day,  North had another change of direction and wanted to be in the pic.

Mum Kim promptly said yes. Probably to avoid North having a week or possibly a month.

What surprised me most about the pic, was that Chicago (the child not the city), was sitting on her dad's lap, holding a cookie, not a pizza. Rare missed opportunity there.

Never mind, there's always Easter. They can congregate on the staircase again and Chicago can hold a slice of a certain brand of pizza...unless she chooses to have a day.

Until next time, try and keep it light and if you can't, indulge and have a fabulous festive season!