Good God!

I found this little gem on the internet and have been listening to it more or less incessantly ever since...

... and the host is parodied to excellent advantage by Messrs Fry and Laurie, but alas YouTube doesn't have a clip. Heigh-ho.

Without a trace...

Yesterday, worn down by a mere 5 hours sleep, I took a rapid train from Paddington Station to Oxford, where I am partaking in a 3 day long Festival of Research Methods - the kind of tedium an Inquisitor has to subject himself to in order to remain competent, and sadly especially important if one has taken a break from the daily nitty-gritty of one's work to go undercover in the Orient.

The first 2 days have proceeded well. Today I attended an excellent class on Latent Class Analysis, which presents some fascinating methods for keeping track of all the Enemy's tricks. The less said about the multi-level modelling topics the better; and the Data Visualisation sessions were disappointing, though it was interesting to learn that they are now building Difference Engines so powerful that they can paint by numbers. I have to watch those Difference Engines, lest one day they build one smart enough to do my job for me. Rest assured, the day will come!

Of course, I wasn't sure what to expect from a trip to Oxford - one never is. Since the last time I visited, deconstructionism and post-structuralism have become all the rage, and I had heard that the entire place has been deconsructed by a band of post-colonial crazies. I was right to be afraid, too - even the railway lines have proven vulnerable to this mob of foreign idealists, so when I arrived at the station to come home there was no sign of the train or the tracks, and a bunch of solid-looking working class chaps were wandering from platform to platform, trying to recover the linear model of space, time and causality so that they could get a train running. It must be terribly frustrating trying to run a service business in a post-structural academic town!

Still, despite the strange post-modernisms of the roadways and the oddly invaginated building, I was able to slowly stagger my way around town, and some of the older colleges have survived the predations of the new-fangled critical mob, standing in stately repose amongst the confusion. On a sunny day their ivory towers are stunning, the greensward of their commons most inviting, and the whole place resplendent with the pall of history. Oh pleasant green land! I thought as I picked my way past these splendid centres of learning, wandering through the mess of the deconstructed modern world, and wondering exactly how splendid would be the college where my conference is located?

Unfortunately it wasn't to be. My college proved to be a modern redbrick monstrosity, so overrun by the deranged ideas of modern "sensibility" that its avenues and byways made no sense, and I was constantly getting lost. Even the ducks in the estate managers pond were strangely misshapen, so profound and all-encompassing was the post-phenomenological rot beside which they must live. A most confusing edifice of confusitive confusion! Though once one found one's accomodation, one was reminded of the vast resources the colleges have available to them - my room was vastly superior to a typical hotel room, with a view of a commons and a river, and all the accoutrements of studious retreat one would expect of Oxford.

I was, of course, invited to dine at the high table in my first day of attendance. Quite a rare pleasure, to be waited upon by attentive and admiring students while one eats one's fill of the fine booty of 1000 years of scholarship! There were no dancing girls though, which is at least one lie my Cambridge-educated fellow Inquisitors have been caught out in. I shall berate them for it, and also for not advising me to bring a helmet - one needs all the protection one can get when the foundations of traditional English Intellectualism are being torn apart around one!

Follies of the Nouveau Riche

After my enlightening trip to the refugee camps of Finsbury Park, I made my way by train and dirigible to the suburb of Dulwich, to the family home of a colleague and friend from the London School of Tropical Hygiene. Dulwich, as I've no doubt our dear reader is aware, is a suburb of London located in the clouds above Brixton. As one can see from the silhouettes on my dirigible in the picture, most of the residents of Dulwich are academics or their misshapen research assistants. My colleague Miss A, dear girl that she is, still lives with her family, about whom I didn't ask but I presume they are academics. I'm sure that such respectable folk would be driven to drink were they aware of Miss A's antics with her dancing troupe[1], but then some of these modern academics can lean terribly to the port side, as it were, so I shan't deign to judge. I also shall not infer anything about Miss A's personal propriety from the fact that she lives at home - while it might seem that only the most Upright and Proper of girls are still at home these days, the sheer cost of finding independent accomodation worthy of a Lady of Means in the city would surely drive even the most licentious of bawdies to stay home (and perhaps to set up a knocking shop in their parents' bomb shelter - as I say, I shan't judge).

Anyhow, the purpose of this note is not to inquire into the precise goings on in Miss A's parents' bomb shelter, but to note that her home actually had one!! That's right! Some discussion was entered into on this topic, and it was revealed that this Bomb Shelter is not a sensible response to the dangerous times we are said to be living in (after all, one cannot take one's bomb shelter on the Tube, can one?) Rather, Miss A's suburb was established in the '20s by the Nouveau Riche of the time - vulgar Nylon Baronets, retired Burlesque dancers, newly made Cigarillo Heiresses and the like - all the sorts of horrid social climbers made newly-rich by the mad scramble for wealth in the post-world war 1 era. Obviously the greatest of their Nouveau Riche follies was the elevation of their suburbs into the clouds[3], but within the homes of those who live there now, one can see the remnants of a time when any kind of bawdy excess was considered a mark of exquisite taste by those who had covered themselves in gold selling French Porn to the masses between the wars. To whit:

1. Miss A's home had a bomb shelter. This was built in the interwar period, when these new rich thought they could elevate themselves in status above even Her Majesty, who as we all know would trip down into the underground to sit out the bombings of the Ferocious Hun, and would never deign to seuester herself away from those she (gently and kindly) governed. The bomb shelter was at the bottom of her garden,
2. which had a water feature[5]! This proves that Australia is 70 years behind the British in bad taste. While the new rich in Dulwich had water features in the '20s, the Australian vulgar classes only started adopting their water features in the '90s
3. But worst of all, in the kitchen above the entryway was an old-fashioned box with two rows of lights, and above each a label depicting the room to which it corresponded. One of the other party-goers suggested that this was a device for the husband to call his wife from anywhere in the house, but I maintain that the architecture of patriarchal oppression is much less organised than this [6], and it must be an alarm for a butler. Of course one would expect the new rich to have a butler, right? Upon investigation with Miss A, she revealed that current theory on the matter suggests it was a fake version of such a box - the first inhabitants and designers of the house were so tasteless as to be unable to afford a butler, but to want to maintain the semblance of one[7]!

Of course, Miss A is from a much nobler family, and in their City residence, though I've no doubt they could afford much more than a mere butler, they choose to live according to the proper dictates of modesty - forsooth, they even mixed their own Pimms! Which could explain why a portion of the evening is somewhat blurry... perhaps in future I should insist on Pimms mixed only by professionals...

---
[1] although judging by the amount of Pimms[2] consumed at the party, perhaps Miss A's parents have driven her friends to drink? Or perhaps it was the surroundings... more of that above.

[2] Ah, Pimms! If someone had said to me when I was in deep cover in Japan that the Upper Classes had taken to entertaining themselves with a combination of cucumber and booze, I would have been struck dumb with horror. But it really is the perfect thing for a summer's party!

[3] we should take this as a reminder of both the very low price of energy and labour in the interwar era, and the remarkable state of advancement of English Plumbing at the time - quite unlike the degenerate state of Paris at the same time - but it should always be remembered that the provision of greater resources to the nouveau riche simply enhances the many opportunities for them to show off their vulgarity[4]

[4] the most obvious modern example of this being the proliferation of appalling ditties on the average micro-electro-encephalitic telegram machine since digito-electro-encapsulation replaced wires

[5] though to their credit, Miss A's household had converted the water feature into a rather tasteful pond and traditionally-styled bridge, where one could listen to the frogs were it dark enough

[6] and besides, were this the case, the box would surely have been set in the sewing room...?

[7] Perhaps this is what the Prime Minister means when he refers to "aspirational voters" - the sort of people who, while washing their own dishes, can look at the fake box over the door and say to themselves "one day, when I have sold another 50,000 cluster bombs[8], I too can afford a butler!"

[8] or pairs of used school-girls underwear, or high-tar cigarettes, or electric blue g-strings, or whatever other monstrosity the modern social climber peddles to an unsuspecting public in order to finance his or her velveteen tracksuits

Oberon in the Sky with Diamonds

I'm not sure what it is about Her Majesty's Government, but they do seem to have an obssession with surveillance. Perhaps it is a common trait among members of the House that the conservatives like to wear tights and be whipped, and the Whigs like to watch. But it seems passing strange to me that even when they are announcing a Good Thing - such as a program to prevent deforestation in former French colonies (those damned Frenchies were hardly the enlightened administrators we proved to be) - Her Majesty's Government must support the policy with an extension of their bizarre surveillance fetishes. In this instance, they are to mount cameras on giant firecrackers and launch them into space[1]. Can't they just hang a few illegal foresters and be done with it? That's what we would have done in my day, none of this poking about in people's underwear drawers to find out if they're hiding a woodchip or two. Damned peculiar behaviour, I do say!

---
[1] Isn't it remarkable what they can do these days? But how in the heavens they will stay up I shall never know...

A squirrel of one's own

The weekend rolls around again and, weary from another week of administering harsh probings on behalf of the Inquisition, I found myself taking a trip to Finsbury Park.

Finsbury Park is a suburb named after the park in its midst and, depending on one's view of these things, either a haven and beacon of hope to people fleeing fashion tyranny and colonial oppression, or a seething, heaving mass of the Great Unwashed. It features prominently in various scenes from that great documentary Children of Men which was on at the talkies a few years ago, and indeed from the moment one emerges from the underground, one feels one has walked straight into the filming of that epic. The woman giving instructions in the tunnel, the dirty and grimy nature of the tunnel, the derelict building whose ruined front[1] greets one as one emerges from the railway tunnel, and the thronging masses of people from all over the world - these are boiler plate scenes from the factual episodes depicted in that documentary. Though of course there are many more children in Finsbury Park than in the documentary - not sure what the filmmaker's problem with children was, perhaps he had a bad time at school, but for some reason they were noticeably absent from the doco.

I should not of course dwell on these disgruntled artistes and their unpleasant opinions of our Noble Commonwealth. This disturbed vision of the United Kingdom of England and The Brummy Isles does not have any thing to say about the UK's civilising influence on the rest of the world. As we have seen when our genteel football lovers promenade through European towns displaying their gracious English manners; when English dramatic productions (and especially our musicals) are lauded from New York to Beijing; and when English food is served in every restaurant around the globe; the benefits of English culture are understood and loved throughout the world. And nowhere is the global community's desire to rush to England to partake of it more clear than in places like Finsbury Park. For it is here that the world's huddled masses have come to find respite from their troubles under the great and comforting mercy of our benevolent Queen. For Finsbury Park has actually been turned into a huge refugee camp, where those fleeing persecution and terror come to nurse their hurts and start again. It is nothing like the camp depicted in that bitter documentary of course - one can enter and leave (by train!), and there is a thriving community composed of every race and creed on the Earth, all gathered in the one place to make their fortune.

Being new to London, I decided to wander through this great camp to experience its full rich texture, rather than circumventing it along one of the main shopping streets. Some of the refugees I saw being sheltered by our beneficient state included:

• Refugees from fashion tyranny: As the reader is no doubt aware, since we graciously agreed to relinquish our (enlightened and enlightening) grip on the African colonies, some of them have slid into ruin and terror. Fortunately for these nations, the enlightening touch of British civilisation, though brief, has stopped them from being capable of committing any great cruelties to their own kind, and the tryanny of their new masters expresses itself through the capricious oppression of all forms of interesting fashion. These cruel leaders require their working classes to dress entirely in black or grey, with all forms of colour outlawed. Naturally people flee such unjust treatment, and the first place they flee to is England, so famous around the world for its fine fashions and devotion to the tasteful use of colour. So it is that as one wanders through the western side of Finsbury park one can find the newly-liberated, browsing a shopping arcade lined with shops selling multi-coloured dresses and gowns, having their nails encrusted with multi-coloured jewels, and having multi-coloured hair extensions attached to already bedazzling coiffures. Anyone who questions our enlightened refugee policies should surely only need to see the joy on the faces of these simple folk as they mix red and fuschia ballgowns with yellow nails and electric blue shoes, to know that a good deed is done every day in the Capital.
• Refugees from the sun: there are places in the world, particularly the middle-East, I am told, where the use of any form of sun screen or sun protection is banned. By the time they reach puberty, young women of these countries are so damaged by the sun that they begin to show signs of premature ageing, and by their twenties they are horribly disfigured. Sadly, these countries were never English possessions (some of them were conquered by Europeans!) and so have never learnt the sterling English practice of politely looking the other way; and so naturally these young ladies must cover up completely to avoid the discrimination which attends facial disfigurement in these countries. Some of the more enterprising of these young ladies, no longer able to work due to their disfigurement, and unable to leave home without the protection of a male bodyguard, flee oppression and come to London. Sadly, they have so long been covered from the world, and are so soaked in the anti-sun-screen propaganda of their home countries, that they cannot quickly adapt to our British sun-loving ways. Fortunately the British government has held the line against calls to ban these young ladies' strange clothing, and one can see them occasionally on Finsbury Park streets, not yet settled into English ways, and so scuttling furtively from doorway to doorway, swathed in black from head to foot, cleaving wherever possible to the shadows. Poor dears! But I'm sure in time they will be brandishing their sunburnt cleavages with the best of the British lower classes; and if they can never adapt, surely their daughters will grow up with the freedom to be as brazen as our own English lasses!
• Refugees from childbearing: it is worth noting that there are some (like our dear own Oscar Wilde, about whom I believe none of the rumours) who do not wish to engage in the great British practice of beating one's own young, and so to avoid the discrimination which attends such a lifestyle decision in most parts of modern England, they flee to Finsbury Park, where one can do and be anything one wants. I have it on good authority that there are many from parts of Europe - particularly Eastern Europe, where beating one's own young is almost as much a national pastime as it is here in the UK - who flee to the UK to better construct a child-free life. Naturally these folk like to make friends with others like them, and in time, rejected by much of society, they form very tight and close bonds with friends of the same sex as themselves. Perhaps there is some kind of consolatory aspect to the friendship one forms with another childless person of the same sex as oneself? In any case, it is endearing to see the sweet and enduring friendships these childless folk form. One can see them walking about the streets of Finsbury Park deep in conversation, holding hands for all the world like they were very close siblings. How ennobling to have such a close and platonic friendship with an adult of the same sex, and to be unconcerned by the public opprobrium which is sometimes visited upon the childless! I envy them their platonic closeness, and devotion to a lifestyle choice.

Naturally some refugees do not flee to Finsbury Park, but are able to settle into an existing community. Some of the refugees I have not yet encountered in London, but hear are to be found in different places, include:

• Antipodean Big Brother escapees: As one is perhaps aware, a rite of passage for our bizarrely grotesque Australian cousins is to star in that most grotesque of stage shows, Big Brother. Those who fail to star in this show often recreate it in large, impromptu gatherings in public parks and Public Houses throughout the towns and cities of the Nation on Friday and Saturday nights. But wherever there is art there is snootiness and discrimination, and some Australians are excluded from these rites because they are considered to be too uncouth to take part. One can only imagine, what a person must be like to be considered too uncouth by an Australian! Fortunately the UK extends her welcoming embrace to all who flee any form of discrimination, and our Australian cousins who are rejected from even the rudest of Antipodean society are welcomed with open arms here. So it is that they are able to form their own groups here, where they can recreate the Big Brother stage show they love free of discrimination. I hear that their antics in so doing are quite offensive, and fortunately they have been corralled in their own camp around Shepherds Bush. In time I am sure I shall visit and see one of these shows. I hope I survive the affair to report upon it in these notes.
• American Christian escapees: a large and noisy bunch of Americans lives just Northwest of me, freshly escaped from the tyrannical grip of their fundamentalist churches (or at least, that is my conclusion judging from their behaviour). They have secluded themselves in a suburb which recreates American life in its entirety, though their protestations about the presence of public transport, pavements ("sidewalks" - I ask you!) and gun control laws have fortunately so far fallen on deaf ears. One can only hope they remain as powerless here as they must surely be in America.
• Jungle fliers: my own genteel suburb has its own African (or perhaps Australian) escapees! Yes, dear reader, even Willesden Green must play its part in offering safe haven to the world's dispossessed. I do not often welcome the hoi polloi in my own neighbourhood, but in this case I do not mind so much, even though they may take up residence in Willesden Gardens itself... for they are parrots! That's right, dear reader, there are parrots in Willesden Green, spotted a week ago flying from tree to tree. Noisy blighters, but much more harmless than most of the other noisy blighters in my suburb. I just hope they don't befoul my gargoyles.

My purpose in visiting Finsbury Park was not entirely pleasure, however. A group of Inquisitors in Finsbury Park run a kind of commune for Inquisitors, somewhat like the country estate of debauchery maintained by Miss Woolf[2], and I had been offered an opportunity to join their commune. I was visiting the country estate in question to determine whether I would prove debauched enough to join their bacchanale. It seems I am, so a few minor details notwithstanding, I should learn this week whether I am able to move from my temporary and rather cramped 10 room dwelling at Willesden Gardens to the spacious country house of my debauched colleagues. One can only hope! Soon I shall be able to enjoy the fervent sound and activity of British mercy as it is dispensed to the dipossessed of the world every day, as I ramble from the commune to the railway station. How exciting! I wonder if the Delightful Miss E will purchase multi-coloured jewel-encrusted nails?
---
[1] I think actually this building was ruined during the final confrontation linked to above - not sure where the sea is though, I get deuced confused by all the roads and byways in London but I could have sworn there was no body of water near me when I emerged from the station, and I couldn't find so much as a tunnel to the Thames. But forsooth, I didn't look very hard. Children of Men is a factual account, so it must be there somewhere.

[2] this commune is described rather dourly by Miss Gardam in Crusoe's Daughter, and it is this Wollstonecraft-like quality to the arrangement which inspires the title of this post . For while laying out (as it were) my debauching testimonials for the edification of the other commune members, I spied a squirrel outside the window. Upon further discussion I learnt that yes, in fact, this commune's grounds are graced with their very own squirrel! Lucky me!

Between the Sea and the Moat

Hullo Ladies and Gentleman! My apologies for a week spent away from the Notes, but I have been busy at The Inquisition - why, on Tuesday we even had to administer a severe probing to the head of one of the Parties in the Commons, so you can imagine I have been very busy exercising my Inquisitorial talents.

Now I am resting for the weekend, however, I can tell the tale of my adventures in the area of Shoreditch, so named because it lies between the bank of the Thames river and the largest waste disposal area in Europe, which used to be called "the Ditch". I was dispatched there by the Delightful Miss E, who rather fancies it might be the spot for us to purchase a Mansion or two (as I have mentioned before, Willesden Gardens is merely temporary digs).

Here are some of my impressions of Shoreditch, which is a passing strange spot. Some of my comments are footnoted, and will require attention at the bottom of the page [0].

1. the whole area is covered in pigeon poo. This strange circumstance has come about because a rare pigeon lives around the area, and some paper pusher at Tower Hamlets Borough has decided to follow European Environmental regulation to the letter, so has introduced Extraordinary Pro-Pigeon policies. For example they employ a lot of the lower classes as rat killers (it is said that rats kill the chicks of this rare pigeon), and the good Townsfolk are required to have pigeon roosts on the eaves of their homes (if they have proper homes). So the automobiles, wagons, omnibusses and pavements of Shoreditch abound with the leavings of this blighted bird, preventing outdoor dining, the cultivating of gardens, or any kind of casual promenading with one's mistress. In fact, one is likely to see even on a fine day like today the occasional young lady, dashing down the street in her finest frippery, protecting her bonnet with a cheap umbrella encrusted in the stuff - and on every street corner there is one of these vile rat-faced rat-killer chaps, making money during the day offering to wipe the mess off a Gentleman's suit. Quite shocking! They're suicidal blighters too [1], swooping one's head all the time. The worst of it is, this blasted rare pigeon is visually quite indistinguishable from the pesky ones, so they can't enact any pigeon control measures. In fact, I discovered immediately upon entering the region that Hawking has been banned from the region by European Edict since 1999. How is a gentleman to get on?

2. As perhaps our readers are aware, Brick Lane's famous Indian restaurants (see below) are quite a tourist attraction. Because of this, some jobsworth at the council has introduced special laws on the sorts of food that can be served in the Shoreditch region - specifically any food that is not "British" or "Indian" gets a kind of levy applied to it, and quite a vicious one, or so one of the obliging rascals loitering outside a chip shop was happy to tell me in between cursing and spitting. So even though the Shoreditch area is apparently full of the very brightest and finest Dandies in Europe, dressed in the latest and most daring cut in suit, with slanty hair and outlandish monocles, there are very few cafes within which they can practice their Bohemian ways, since coffee is Italian [2]. So in Bright Young Shoreditch, there are no bohemian cafes of any sort for Bright Young Things, and no gardens for cafes or pubs due to the aforementioned pigeon problem. Not quite what I expected!

3. Most of the Help in the Indian restaurants are from our new Eastern Principalities [3], and a lot of the willowy, extremely blond Eastern European young ladies are expected to wear saris by their bosses (who I rather suspect like looking at pale Polish pre-teen bellies). This looks really rather strange, and rather turns one off one's idlis.

4. Shoreditch has recently been acclaimed as quite a "happening", "cool" area of London [6] which means that, just as night follows day, so there must be a lot of street "art" scattered around the Borough. Unfortunately, in trying to live up to the expectations of the outlandish New World language with which it has been branded ("cool"! I mean really!) much of this art is truly really bad. I saw a young Mohammedan Lady, looking most oriental and exotic in full hijab, leaning on a yellow banana-shaped bollard which was actually carved in the exact likeness - I do not tell a lie - of a whopping todger, with a clutch - yes, a clutch - of stunted testicles at the base that doubled as a bicycle rack! It was one of a line of 6 erected (if you will pardon the pun) outside a sari shop. I didn't have the heart to tell the woman what was being done to her by the faceless, unseen sculptor of these obscenities. There were lots of other strange "installations" too - a line of fake dog droppings [7] on some shop's window, pictures of street urchins with new-fangled electrocephalic viewing devices for eyes etc. It was like Newtown in Sydney during the Walking the Streets festival, if that festival were arrantly "avant garde" as opposed to just face-numbingly boring.

5. There isn't actually much housing in the Shoreditch area, which rather let down the whole point of my journey. I had been promised by various of my colleagues and acquaintances here in London that Shoreditch has much "affordable" housing for young Couples of Means, while also being somewhat more interesting than much of the surrounding area. More fool me for listening to these knaves, damn their eyes! The reason housing in such a fashionable area is cheap is that the whole area is actually built on reclaimed wasteland and rubbish dumps, most of which now resemble nothing more than wind-blasted heaths. And on all these heaths, houses have been fashioned from what are now euphimistically called "mobile homes", i.e. gypsy caravans without so much as even the benefit of colourful paint [8]. So should one wander even one street East of Brick Lane - as one must if one is, as I was, looking at the houses rather than the restaurants - one finds oneself looking down over the heath, at these serried ranks of completely identical and rather tatty looking gypsy caravans ("mobile homes"), all occupied by the same Bright Young Things one can see in the Lane. So in the rows between the "mobile homes" are these dashing dandies with slanty hair and the latest black skinny hose, hanging their skimpy underthings and uni-klo [10] shirts out to dry on tiny clothes-drying racks on the street. A most alarming and confusing sight!

6. Brick Lane of course is not a lane, but a kind of converted elevated coach road (according to local signs, an "overpass"), and many of the "quality Indian restaurants" for which Brick Lane and Shoreditch are famous are actually either prefabricated buildings on, or squalid little converted sheds under the raised road. If one looks at a map one can see that it is an old section of road linking Whitechapel Road and Commercial Street (I think, from memory). Of course the Overpass is no longer used for coaches, which go on more modern nearby roads, but the overall effect is not quite the tourist attraction I had in mind.

These queer local rules and the completely unexpected nature of the buildings here combined to make me think it is hardly suitable for a gentleman of my background and character. What will our sophisticated European friends say when they come to stay in our mansion, but instead find us squatting outside a tiny gypsy caravan on a wind-blasted old rubbish heap, in a suburb with only one line of actual buildings, all of which are squalid Indian restaurants run by Eastern European girls in Saris, who look down on us from the rear of their restaurants from under pigeon-poo smeared umbrellas while they smoke cheap cigarettes and argue with their friends in Polish? It just will not do. Instead I think I will go and look at Greenwich next weekend, as I have heard the Museum of Ice Cream has been converted into quite affordable Mews.

Footnotes are below:

[0] some of my footnotes are also footnoted, which may lead to confusion of numbers if one does not pay attention.

[1] The pigeons, not the lower classes - well, I suppose those lads are too, if one considers how they performed at Waterloo, in the Zulu campaign, and more recently in Manchester City

[2] I've no doubt in fact that if they could the Council would levy a tax on being Bohemian, since it's a suspiciously Eastern European sounding practice (and jolly dirty too)

[3] Yes! I know, these Eastern European countries claim to be "part of Europe", but we know that under the new treaty - which it seems is falling apart under the influence of the upstart Irish [4] - "part of Europe" really means "a principality of France, Germany and the UK", or so I read in the Daily Mail, and I am a man devoted to Plain English, so I shall choose to refer to our - and I don't mean this in a condescending manner - lesser cousins from the East as being from the "Eastern Principalities" [5].

[4] and isn't it time we sorted them out (again)?

[5] At least until next month, since it seems the revocation of the Treaty of Europe is going to cause the entire fabric of space and time to unravel - at least in France - and so soon the Eastern Principalities shall become independent for a month or two, until they are swallowed up by the Russian Bear, after which I shall refer to them as the "Western Principalities".

[6] - heaven knows why they use this terrible language from the New World. Why can't they just say something sensible, like "it's the cat's meow" or "a terribly diverting grove" and be done with it? Isn't good, sensible English language good enough for our modern social commentators?

[7] apparently, according to the artist, presented "in juxtaposition with the omnipresent leavings of the Rare Blighted Pigeon, just as life's precious moments are in continuous juxtaposition with occasional moments of special joy". After this there was some poppycock about "the Abject as profound contradiction and erudition of the joyful and sacred" regarding this so-called juxtaposition. My god! I do declare! One could not make this stuff up!

[8] As we know, since the Daily Mail [9] and the other tabloids for the lower classes ran their campaigns against gypsies and travellers in the 90s, all those worthy members of the British Underclass have strangely disappeared, and their caravans been put on the market very cheaply. Even my own Father lives in one, down on his ancestral lands in Devon. Oh the shame!!!

[9] Incidentally, it is from the Daily Mail that I learnt some of the things about Shoreditch and Tower Hamlets Borough. In case you could not tell.

[10] For those not sure what this means, uni-klo is a company in Japan which manufactures cheap and very unattractive kimonos, which has opened many shops in London and is doing a roaring trade selling "cool" clothing for Londoners. One can see the many horrors being visited upon us by this adjective from the New World, can one not?

As a final note, I was inspired to this style of footnoting within an article of this sort by the blogging efforts of one Daniel Davies (aka dsquared), whose post on Budweiser beer at Crooked Timber is a truly splendid example of this style of posting at work. Full credit where it is due! (But not actual links, since I am lazy).

A trip to the zoo...

While engaging in a spot of Saturday morning reading here at Willesden Gardens, I stumbled upon an excellent article about this wasp, which turns its cockroach prey into a zombie before leading it to its lair and laying an egg in it. Quite revolting! The comments following the article turned into a tedious debate between creationists and evolutionists, but at comment #175 a boffin who has spent his life studying this charming beast popped up to give his learned opinion and answer questions from the reader. Most illuminating! His description of the stinging process, and how the cockroach plunges into a fit of grooming before zombification, is most disturbing!

But the most illuminating part of all - the London Zoological Society keep a specimen, and have daily displays of its egg-laying skills. I have been neglecting my professional contacts of late - perhaps a trip to the society to renew our acquaintance is in order...