Aha – Splainsalot

The Effinghams were in town. If you know then you know, if you don’t know then it’s not for me to tell you. I didn’t get where I am today, Reggie, by explaining.

Took a rather splendid couple of hours to turn the Cardinal about-face the other day. Not, as the more cynical of you might suspect, a disastrous multi-point manoeuvre, but a simple cruise-ette up to the nearest winding hole and back. Some five miles. When the boat’s (considerably) longer than the water is wide you can’t just bung in a handbrake or J-turn. Hecksville, it takes two or three bites at the tiller to turn even in the average winding hole. Back almost to the inch in our starting mooring, but we’ll soon be a real gone kid again; things to be (elsewhere), people to do.

Father Nature is seeking to close down navigation wheresoever he may.

This morning it is raining. The sort of rain that is obviously going to be falling for hours and never varies in intensity. I hope never to be in conversation with aliens noting that we are composed mostly of H2O, utterly dependent on the stuff, and asking from where we obtain our supplies…

‘Oh, it just falls from the sky on a random basis. We let most of it go to waste and back into the global cycle again, and the fresh stuff that we do have access to in rivers and canals gets raw human sewage pumped into it by companies that we pay vast sums of money to to not pump raw sewage into our supply. A third of anything that makes it through that process is wasted in leaks and the rest is dosed with fluoride. We generally drink dinosaur p*ss filtered through French companies such as Evian. Come back! Why are you running back towards your flying saucer and shouting Doris – start the FTL Engines, we are leaving…’

Autumn, such as it is, is sliding into Winter, such as it will be. Natural long-term cycles, Father Nature’s whimsical plan, the Grand Solar Minimum and manifold other happens-with-or-without-the-actions-of-hairless-industrial-apes factors are blurring our seasons. Concomitant Seasoning Affective Disorder With Added Species-Wide Insanity is on the horizon and pedalling its little tricycle furiously towards me, ting ting tinging the bell on the handlebars.

I shall be spending hours sitting nose to flame with my little hygge-koselig candle, and grasping my friluftsliv wherever and whenever I can, when I am not under two duvets and a pile of “Native American” wool blankets, adjusting my crocheted nose-cosy and wondering whether it really was wise to leave the tub of Country Life Slightly Salted on my head under my Thinsulate sleeping-beanie so that it will be “spreadable” for toast in the morning. I’ve lived in a (splendid) caravan for years; I know enough to pull the wool over my own eyes.

England continues to be cringe-inducingly tragic in its politics, and for this I would like to extend my sincere applebogies to any and all of you trapped in The Abroad who may inadvertently have witnessed that which, once seen and heard, may not be expunged. I maintain that Those Who Be, while thoroughly amoral and self-serving, lying on the Bell Curve betwixt Clinical Sociopath and Clinical Psychopath, are not – in the main, there are exceptions – so stupid as they obviously believe that we (the peasants) are. The underlying purpose is always money, power, and sweaty clandestine collisions with the youngest, fittest, unpaid intern possible, but purpose there always is, in everything that they do. Nothing is random.

The difficulty lies not in identifying their duplicity, but in identifying the purpose of that duplicity.

Never ever believe what you’re told, only believe what you can see in action.

Today’s sermon from the mount was from The Book Of Revolving Revelations, the sad tale of St Grumpatious of Cardinal; Bewilderment Is Mine Sayeth Eton And Rugby. Something is afoot when Diane Abbott would be the best candidate for Chancellor and Cameron appears to have possessed the largest moral compass (just ask that unfortunate orally-raped roasted pig).

Ten thousand years ago England physically separated itself from the mainland of Europe with the flooding (by Father Nature, no Human effort involved) of Doggerland. Our current task would appear to be separating ourselves from the last vestiges of sanity.

A process that Dr John Campbell, long-time eager and energetic expounder of Establishment ethos, appears to be struggling with, as (even) he gradually, eventually, embraces the elderly elephant in the room. Poor chap, he’s done immense damage in his immense efforts to do good, and due to his similarly immense sincerity I do fear for his health as the penny finally drops. Will he, like that Welsh chap who penned the minutiae of most of their “El Lockdown &etc” legislation in somewhat indecent and unprofessional haste, soon be ‘sadly found in the woods near his home‘? Just a(nother and another and another and another) coincidence, nothing that you want to see here, move on, move on, move on…

Talking of vestiges, I mun dig out my selection of (lightly-stained) winter vestiges string, vestiges horse-hair, and vestiges cotton from their vacuum-packed storage. That, and nip along to the chandlery for another One Gallon tub of Slatheron’s Patent Goose Grease.

Slatheron’s Patent is the only goose grease tested on a wide variety of laboratory animals and certified by the Board of Trade as safe for use in groinal and armpit areas, effective in maintaining thermal undisequilibrium down to -20°Celsingham if liberally applied.

A swift shadow-selfie in t’Cheshire countryside.

I love looking at the countryside. Can’t step on most of it of course, it’s all privately owned, but it is splendid to look at. The scene in the phomatograph above is where some years since I saw a full-blown horn, hounds and pinks fox “hunt” passing. Some of the hounds were so far astray (and out of control) that they were on the towpath. The untouchable, unidentifiable and unspeakable in pursuit of the inedible, on the inaccessible, and still largely unfathomable.

Lots of magnificent, fully-grown trees about in England; not so many (not any) freshly-planted saplings. Still, who cares about the future, eh? I’m sure that there’s a profit-motive buried somewhere deep inside unfettered Capitalism that will take care of that.

Given the weather today it’s only the hodilay boats that are moving, having set themselves silly mileage targets and needing to get the boat back to base or away as quickly as possible from base. The majority of other boats are moored, chimneys smoking gently as the stoves attempt to bring a little of that hygge to the cabins – or, more accurately, because the boat dogs took matters into their own paws and lit the thing themselves while their human charges slug-a-bed.

I shan’t be crawling back under the duvet until late this evening. I shall instead ward off the greyness of it all by slapping a Vesta Boil-in-the-Bag Squirrel Curry atop the stove, warming two of my best feet near the flames, and re-reading a Hornblower.

Or two.

Will someone please let me know when the siren sounds and we’re all to walk back to the Rift Valley and climb back into the trees and assume a renewed state of blessed extinction.


Ian H., Ex-Member of the I-Spy Club.


  1. That siren sounded the moment that Boris’s plane touched down at Heathrow following his return from holiday to enter the incestuous leadership race for our undemocratic latest p.m. (Sky News and BBC 24 are now running pay-per-view non-stop follow-that-plane channels, featuring the queen’s coffin on tour, Boris’s cancelled holiday return flight, Liz Truss’s U-turns and Ant & Dec’s I’m a Celebrity Fly Me.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. I am willing to bet that there are gagged and bound psychopaths in institutions the country over reading the politics pages of the newspapers and preparing appeals against their Sectioning based on the antics of Westminster. Boris’s little bit of “Economy Class” theatre was just to confusticate and play for time while Emperor Sunak bought his hundred party knackers. I mean backers.

      Sunak knows that money doesn’t grow on trees – he’s seen it grow on clever marriage arrangements. Expect a few dodgy deals being passed on the nod on behalf of his in-laws soon. PM – a chap who could cover the Euromillions pay-outs for a couple of months… and still have half a dozen homes around the world.

      Liked by 1 person

  2. Who wished Rishi on us? Comes from nowhere, parachuted into a safe seat and next thing you know he’s in charge of wasting public money. And, come to that,
    who took the stake from Jeremy ‘unt’s heart and let him rise from the grave to make us all pay for Rishi’s extravagances? And why?
    I think you’re right about the vodka….

    Liked by 1 person

    1. They are extraordinarily disconnected, aren’t they? Not one of them could boil a slice of toast or lace up their own merkin. Oddly though, there’s not one of them with anything approaching a personality, they all have the gravitas of a chihuahua with hormone problems. The old-style pottylicians were intensely annoying but at least they were entertaining too…

      I might begin on the sherry first, and work my way back to the vodka. The liver’s out of condition.


    1. If she had any integrity at all (yes yes, I know!) she would refuse both the allowance and the PM’s honours list. What she’ll actually do though is accept both, and auction off the honours to the highest bidder. They are shameless.

      Liked by 1 person

  3. I’m pleased you found the”Effinghams” & have beat a healthy retreat faf far away from them!
    Looking at the image of br 16 I think it’s high time you donned the fingerless gloves dragged out the loppers and chopped all those saplings down that are inevitably going to bust through the pilling within the next few year’s. CRT have not instructed the mower & strimmer brigade to cut them down so breaches will be inevitable very soon.🙄

    Liked by 1 person

    1. It is a tad enthusiastic at Br 16, not much room for manoeuvre. It was sort of comforting to find the Effinghams – it explained the noises in the night, and it let me know that I am – for the moment – now nowhere near them! Keep well, and keep on keeping on sir.


  4. I suspect 4D would make a better job than the current incumbents.
    As to wandering back to the rift valley and back to the trees, we’re well on the way. And the extinction is definitely on the cards, along with much of the rest of the varied life forms on this planet.
    We’re having more and more extreme weather events all the time, but those who can do something about it are doing precisely zero, while promising to do everything in their power. But if it impinges on their pockets, or profits, nothing happens, except things get more dire by the day.
    I remember, in the past, when Bonfire Night required thick coats, scarves, woolly hats and gloves. Even then we were grateful for the warmth of the bonfire. But now, a coat is barely necessary.

    Liked by 2 people

    1. I remember that too – as a child Bonfire Night was always a heavy coat job, steaming breath, hot baked potatoes and sparklers. These days it’s t-shirts and organised displays. Ugh.

      Liked by 1 person

  5. I once had a brown nobbly-roofed clock with a winding hole but I suspect that too would be a tight squeeze although something once managed it judging by the strangulated cries it would emit on the hour

    Liked by 2 people

    1. If politics continues in its current vein they’ll have to re-write Westminster Chimes into something far more jarring and discordant. My parents possessed a Swiss cuckoo clock with swivelling eyes, left-right on every tick-tock – I wish I had it now; it would make a fine PM. Tight is the best way to be in these strange times, I may well take up vodka again after a twenty-year spell of sobriety.

      Liked by 1 person

  6. I can’t bear to read the news now that even the better linens seem to have done away with copy-editing.
    But the social platforms are awash with updates from Downing Street, via Larry the Cat. Larry’s utterances are far above the balderdash of the elected rabble.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. They are indeed, and were it possible I’d vote for Larry The Cat. The general news – the “news” – is not dissimilar to watching some awful primary-school play performed by Class 4D as part of their “How to not soil yourself or lick inappropriate windows” curriculum. I’d love to know what’s going on elsewhere as we all laugh at it, totally distracted…

      Liked by 2 people

Comments are closed.