Week 119, The Captain Darling Moment

With the Trumpocalpyse on the horizon I'm put in mind of this:

Captain Blackadder: How are you feeling, Darling? 
Captain Darling: Ahm... not all that good, Blackadder. Rather hoped I'd get through the whole show. Go back to work at Pratt and Sons, keep wicket for the Croydon Gentlemen, marry Doris... Made a note in my diary on the way here. Simply says: "Bugger." 

I'd quite fancied the idea of making it to pension age without some utter arse-gravy smearing fuckwit causing it all to go tits up.  Still, it might not get to that.

In every direction, war graves, cemeteries.  The real signs of invasion, not the scare-mongered, weak, frightened panic of the bigot.

I'm sure - as those who haven't made any effort to check out how complex it all is might say - it'll be alright.

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Week 118, Gimme shelter

Hells Angels vigilantes providing security for the inauguration of the first last President of the United States of America.

What could possibly have gone wrong...

At least they didn't stab anyone to death this time.

Fingers crossed we won't be needing the security of one of these places pictured below when the giant, lying toddler gets fed up of not being worshipped by the people he desperately wants the affection of, starts crying and then has a tantrum.

If it comes to that it'll be a time after which he'll be worshipped only by marauding biker gangs as they search for the last drop of gasoline, hoping that the tears of their messiah will provide them with fluid of the required octane rating.

Obviously that isn't going to happen is it.

Is it?

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Week 117, Launch Tower

The operatives, unseen in the image below, are busy at work installing the propellant which will carry Number 5 Tower beyond our atmosphere.

After decades of work, while the tower was camouflaged as The Grosvenor Hotel and the subterranean bar The Wapentake, the preparation is coming to a conclusion.  Once the blue touch paper has been lit and the Master of Flammability has retired to a safe distance, the great flaming edifice will be off.

With any luck the entire operation will fail miserably, Number 5 Tower will coming crashing back to Earth and land on Trump, Pence, Farage and the rest of the privileged elite whilst they're wearing gold lamé underwear and involved in a ritualistic, bed-wetting circle jerk.

I say luck, while climbing over the fence to sort out the 'failure' I tore my jeans so it had better bloody work.  Although I fear it will bounce of their collection of brass necks and Trump will reopen it as some sort of theme park devoted to Putin and the legacy of Communist architecture.

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Week 116, The rubbish chill

Down these mean streets a fridge must go that is not itself mean.

This fridge clearly is tarnished, and given that it has fallen down into a position of submission it is also afraid.

What is the hidden truth behind this juxtaposition of objects, a truth which may remain perpetually hidden, a mystery.

Or perhaps it would be as easy to just nip into Scotts Pantry and ask.

...

Apparently the fridge is broken.

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Week 115, Relish the old

As the previous year is brushed aside by the unlikely appearance of a clock's sweeping second hand, take a look a the good stuff that happened previously on "Chronoligicarse: the everyday story of our mooching about."

January

This month saw the end of the use of relish as a condiment; January has now been renamed Endo's to commemorate the event.

February

Finally the word 'cupcake' has usurped the once dominant term 'fairy cake'.  Fairies everywhere were up in arms, now having to clamber into giant 'cups' or paper bun cases.  This had been coming for some time.

March

This month saw the start of the season of spring, or 'series' as it would more accurately be known.

April

Come she will.  We're still waiting - that's climate change for you.

May

An interesting prediction by this month, apparently, if correct, we would have another woman PM before the ides of July.  Unless there had been an oracular translation error, in which case Ian Duncan Smith would become a woman MP before that date.  We eventually discovered it was one or the other.

June

Nothing to see here.

July

The anniversary of the first moon walk, an event watched live by a young Michael Jackson and which inspired him to go on and reach for the stars.

August

Some character called Rube Goldberg started to be invoked on occasions where it would be more culturally appropriate to mention Heath Robinson.  I can only assume the complexities of Heath Robinson were too much to comprehend, hence this interesting, yet sub-standard alternative.

September

The season of mists and mellow fruitfulness started here.  Not sure why we aren't still calling this 'fall', perhaps by the next time swallows twitter in the skies we will be.

October

Bon anniversaire, bliss was it in that dawn to be alive, if rapidly increasing in age.

November

Nothing stark staring mad or dumb-as-fuck bone-crazy happened here, oh no.

December

With an emphasis on the pronunciation with an Edinburgh Morningside accent.  It is not unusual at this time of year to attempt regional accents, this is not racist, usually.


So, all in all a rather quiet year, apart from the odd bit of cultural fuckwittery.  A seasonal gang ye well, and during the long cold months may your socks never turn to clooties.

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