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

 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 take on the news

Apparently, Donald Trump was quite the statesman when he toured Asia recently. That is, until his dear friend Kimmy decided to call him an 'old lunatic'. 

Hell hath no fury than the Donald scorned. How dare Kimmy call him old! In Mr. T's world, what can be chronologically proven, is apparently considered fake news but what is debatable, like being called a lunatic (although, in this case, not a lot of debate would be required I would imagine), is okay.

Anyway, the Presidential thumbs got busy and a counter insult was issued by way of a tweet. Mr T. said that he would never call Kimmy 'short and fat', thereby, calling him short and fat! Calling each other lunatics and fat .... I would imagine if the term 'takes one to know one' wasn't coined yet, it certainly would now. 

Theresa May seems to have found the key to successful Brexit talks. Her smile! Yes, it appears to be something as simple as a Tay May smile. Michel Barnier looked positively mesmerised as he sat opposite to her. 

The more she smiled - she even threw in an occasional beam - the more he appeared to acquiesce. Just as well they were sitting down, otherwise he 'may' have gone week in the knees.

At least, that is my take on it. I watched it for a bit on TV but didn't listen to any of it. No, May's hypnotic smile didn't cast a spell on me. The weather outside was depressing enough and seeing the PM smile after such a long time, gave me hope. False hope, most likely, but hope nonetheless.

Boris Johnson has at last apologised to Nazanin's family for his blunder. One would now hope that he keeps a low profile. Unfortunately, that doesn't mean that there aren't other Johnsons lurking about.

Papa Johnson is all set to appear in 'I am a celebrity, get me out of here.' How about, 'I am not a celebrity, don't get me in here'.

Remember Michael Gove? Former Education Minister, then Brexiteer, who tried to back stab Bobo Johnson to become Prime Minister? Fittingly, neither got to be PM.

Looking at him, one would think even an archaeologist would be hard pressed to find a single humourous bone in his body and one would think right.

In an interview with Radio 4, he likened being interviewed by John Humphrys, to walking into Harvey Weinstein's bedroom. Stick to back stabbing your colleagues Mr Gove - it's far less insulting and when BJ is at the receiving end, it may even be a tiny bit funny.

Last Saturday's Strictly Come Dancing was very enjoyable. Perhaps it's because none of the judges worshipped at the altar of Debbie McGee. They did still fawn but I can't imagine them ever not fawning over Ms McGee.

I suspect she could turn up in a sack and roly-poly around the dance floor and Shirley would say, 'I have travelled the world and seen top professional dancers  but I have never seen such graceful roly- polying with such amazing musicality and timing', before brandishing a 10!

Anton du Beke and Ruth were voted out. Quite rightly, I should think, although Anton did miss a trick. I have a feeling it was his wardrobe that kept them in all this time.

So, when they did their foxtrot, Ruth did do her bit by trotting for England but Anton did not do anything gimmicky with his wardrobe (this time). A foxes' outfit might have done the trick.  Sadly (I am being kind) Ruth, Anton and his wardrobe are out of Strictly.

Until next week, try and keep it light!

A lighter take on the news

Theresa May has declared that she is truly the Leader of the Conservative party and of Britain. Sorry to rain on our leader’s parade but does she realise that the last time she declared (over and over again) something along similar lines - ‘strong and stable government’ - she, and her Government, ended up being just the opposite and Britain got a ‘CONDUP’ Government.

To add to our leader’s woes, she has big, shaggy, blond Bobo Johnson yelping and snapping at her ankles. I bet Mrs May wishes he was still dangling from that zip wire he was stuck on sometime back.

Apparently Boris and that fine diplomatic President across the pond, are good pals. Perhaps BJ could have a word with Mr. T regarding his tweet, after the Parsons Green incident on the tube.

But then again, Boris had his 4000 word article published just six days after the incident, so maybe not.

Someone should be brave enough to stop the Orange One’s reckless tweets. His thumbs would probably get the shakes and have to go into therapy but surely it would be worth the sacrifice, to live in a Trump tweet free world.

Now, I am sure most of us don’t expect the offspring of celebrities to be rocket scientists (although Ella and Alexander Clooney may prove to be the exception). However, it is getting a bit predictable when they all appear to turn to modelling.

The latest young model to hit the runway, is Lennon Gallagher. Apparently, dad Liam said, among other things, that he would like a cut of his wages. To quote LG, ‘I am like, change your name to Lennon Kensit and see how much work you get...zilch’.

Now,  I am like, ‘Someone give the man ‘father of the year award’ or get the poor boy some therapy. I am talking about junior of course. Where Senior is concerned, that ship has sailed a long time ago.

If Liam is not careful, Noel won’t be the only family member he will be estranged from.

That, I am sure, is not the case with the Beckhams when their children ‘achieve’ fame. Even when Brooklyn managed to publish a book on photography before starting his course on photography,I can imagine David saying ‘well done mate’ while Vicky pouted proudly on.

While on the topic of Vicky and her pouts, prepare for a perpetual pout or for her pout to last until Christmas at the very least. Why? you ask. Well apparently Simon Cowell said that one of the contestants in X-factor sounded like Victoria Beckham (and he wasn’t paying the contestant a compliment).

I wonder what the ratings for the X-factor are. I only ask because Simon was seen shopping barefoot in LA. Perhaps he was taking one in the foot (or feet) for the show.

As they say, ‘no publicity is bad publicity’ even if you look rather silly walking around LA, as if it is your own personal Ashram.

Latest research shows that if you are very rich, you most likely are not happy. Good sleep and great sex apparently are the things that send your happiness barometer soaring.

Now, let it not be said that I don’t do my bit for humanity. As it happens, I am an insomniac, so my chances of happiness are as non existent as my ability to sleep. So, I suggest that you throw your millions my way. I will be a very unhappy rich person and you can live happily ever after. Yes, I know, I am all heart!