Personal Travel Advisers are about to be unleashed upon the unsuspecting public as part of the government's Sustainable Transport Strategy. They will be calling door to door, as many times as necesssary until they catch you in, to interrogate you about your travel habits and to advise you of ways of reducing your carbon footprint, for example by providing maps and timetables for public transport. They will even offer incentives such as vouchers for discounts at cycle and outdoors shops.
One of my neighbours took advantage of a little heard of government scheme whereby if you cycled to work, or said you did, even if it was only one day a week, the government would contribute considerably to the cost of a bike. Being a good, solid, new labourite my neighbour( two car family, holiday home in France, two children both grown up, left home and working) took up the offer, although I'm sure she never cycled to work(however she did occasionally work from home so maybe she got on her bike and cycled from the garage to the front door) Anyway, she bought this mountain bike for an exhorbitant sum, about £1200 I believe, of which the government contributed 75% or thereabouts and then, guess what? she gave up work two months later. Did see her loading her bike onto the back of her car yesterday though so she could go for a ride. We live on the edge of the Peak District, why does she need to drive anywhere to go for a bike ride?
But I digress on that little personal rant. The question is, how thick does the government think we are. Here's the answer, a couple pictured in today's Times to illustrate the article, claim that although they had seen a bus passing close to their house for several years they had no idea where it went. I suppose we ought to be grateful they recognised it was a bus. One really can't expect them, given today's numeracy and literacy problems to have read a destination, usually displayed on the front and nearside of buses or to recognise the numbers displayed on the front and rear of buses. It is obviously too much to expect that thay would think about going to the local bus stop to see if there was a timetable (Duh 1x2=2)or contacting the transport company for information.
Transport for London's Director of Travel said, "Often people have not used buses since their youth. All they need is information about routes, times and fares." Which surely can be found by any self respecting human capable of breathing and walking at the same time without a tax-payer funded squadron of super-nannies to come and sort it out for them.

Its scarey night.

Though psgan I don not really do Halloween being far more attuned to the solar than the agricultural calendar ( the pagans had two New Years. You have to hand it to them, they knew how to throw a party.)

I am hover a huge fan of Gothic Horror and its been my habit to post a spooky poem themed on the supernatural Authorsden for the past few years.

This yeards is Sceadugengan, based on the Anglo Saxon myth of the shadow walker and the very modern menace of stalking.

You might also enjoy Beloved Succubus, a mini verse drama for two voices, the story of a lover haunted by guilt.

The Headless Horseman is another audio presentation. This ballad written in the style of William McGonagall and read in the style of Private Frazer from Dad's Army is just plain daft.

Days Upon The Year is a warning to the south of Watford brigade of what they might encounter should they stray north at this time of year. The ghost of a wronged woman takes revenge on any passing traveller.

Irish influence is prominent in The Hounds Of The Morrigan, a story of the goddess of retribution.

Strictly for fun but a bit creepy too.

It had to happen.

Saga, the company that sells 18-30 holidays to people who wear slippers and smell faintly of Olbas Oil have launched a social networking web site for older internet users.
Not so much Facebook as Your-face-is-familiar-but-I-don't-recall-your- name-book. It is a myth of course that older people are baffled by technology. We have mastered so many technologies in our time that we just struggle to find the new stuff among all the junk. Age iS just numbers, memories are never deleted, they are just downgraded to the brain's equivalent of the Google supplemental index.
So often when an older person wants to sign in to their A_Nice_Cup_Of_Tea_And_A_Sit_Down.com profile they find themselves entering in the login dialog box the brand name and model number of their first record player.

Ever eager to keep abreast of the latest trends in new media Boggart Blog will shortly open a group of new blogs for users in advancing stages of decrepitude. These will include:

NO_NEED_TO_SHOUT,_I’M_NOT_DEAF.com

I'm seventy-nine you know, but I don't feel it.com

and

Who are you? you're not my child, I never had children; you're after my money.com

MORE HUMOUR OR HUMOR EVERY DAY FROM BOGGART BLOG

So after all those moralising lectures about hazardous drinking from Nanny State, it turns out we are not drinking enough red wine. Me and fat sally knew this of course and we suspect most of our regular readers did too.
We will cover the story in detrail tomorrow, for now sally is opening another bottle of the Cotes de Beaune. Got to stay healthy.

Polls published in the United States last week show that 34% of people in American believe in Ghosts. The same number as believe in UFOs according to another poll. The most amazing coincidence though it that the number believing in ghosts and UFOs is exactly the same as the number who now are opposed to the war in Iraq and believe American troops should be withdrawn at once.
These figures are not just interesting in that they make is think “if our government polled us on interesting topics like that maybe I’d response,” but also in that they may hold the key to success in the 2008 Presidential election.
Assuming that the Ufos R Us people and the ghost people divide equally on party lines but a majority of the anti war people lean to the democrats we instantly understand that only a small swing of ghost and UFO believing Republicans to the democrats could decide the election.

More humour (or humor if you must) from Boggart Blog with new posts every day.
This means the two parties are frantically looking for candidates who are pacifists, talk to imaginary people, look like aliens. This is easy for the Republicans, most of their senior politicians look about 500 years old, the outgoing President shows all the signs of being an alien so all they need to do is find someone who stand to make more money from pulling the troops out than from continuing the occupation.
But where can the democrats find a suitable candidate? Could this be the new career opening Michael Jackson has been looking for?

Bonfire month is upon us once again. Wasn't Tony supposed to have done something about this? The local hoodies have been letting off fireworks for over two weeks now. Funny how the police never seem to notice the noise or the rockets lighting up the sky.
Then Mr. Fuckwit up the road has a firework party on Saturday for his daughter's 10th birthday. Of course he doesn't start letting off his fireworks until about 11pm, which is, as I'm sure you'll all agree, an appropriate time for a 10 year old girl's party.
Organised bonfires will be taking place on Friday 2nd, Saturday 3rd, Sunday 4th and Monday 5th November.
Then, of course, there will be some people who were away at the weekend as it is half term so they'll probably have fireworks the weekend after.
It's no wonder the gunpowder plot was discovered if poor old Guy was going down to the cellars and setting off a bit of gunpowder every night for a month.
Of course it's not just the fireworks. Practically since the little darlings went back to school shops have been stocking up on witch, costumes, broomsticks and pumpkins. There were some children out trick or treating last weekend. The fact they didn't have costumes and didn't want a treat suggested to me that they were effectively demanding money with menaces, presumably to go and spend on fireworks which they can then let off on the rec or the slag heaps any day except November 5th.
Boggartblog readers I call on you to join us in reclaiming these traditional British celebrations, anybody caught with a firework on any day but Nov. 5th should have it shoved where the sun don't shine and when the little bastards ring that doorbell and threaten you with the crazy string just shower them with flour and eggs, then dunk their heads in a bucket of cold water and explain that it's called apple bobbing.

New humour every day from Boggart Blog

Headline in today's Guardian:

SAS drops aircraft after crash landings

Shouldn't that be

Crash landings after SAS aircraft drops

or

Landings crash after SAS drops aircraft

or

SAS aircraft drop after crash landings

or

Landings drop after SAS aircraft crash

Here we go fishing for a high profile court action again...

You would think those mega-rich media moguls who own HBO television would have made enough money out of peddling their mediocre, unconvincingly acted, poorly scripted celebrity vehicle shows like Five Go Mad In Manhattan – sorry, we mean Shite And The City – sorry again, we mean Sex and the City to a gullible world to be able to afford a little generosity of spirit. But no, in yet another example of how mean spirited and small minded great wealth can make people, the HBO boys (and girls) are setting their attack dog lawyers on anybody who dares to even go anywhere near close to infringing their intellectual property.
Calling a women's health and fitness centre Health and the City is an allusion to the HBO title but it can hardly be described as a pun, not even by the standards of tabloid headline writers. Sadly though, New Yorker Jennifer Cassetta finds herself fighting a legal move by HBO to force her to change the name of her business.
Jennifer is not alone, we hear they have also gone after Scents and the City, Flex in the City, Pets and the City and even Handbags and the City.
So it seems H.B.O (Horrible Bastards Organisation?) thinks it has a copyright on the words “and the City” or “in the City.”
So Boggart Blog says to HBO, “we fart in your general direction, and as for your hotshot lawyers, bring ‘em on.”
We refute HBO’s claim to copyright of the phrase “... and the City” on the grounds that our senior writer Ian Thorpe used that phrase in a poem written in 1969 so if copyright is being infringed it is ours. We reckon we are owed millions in royalties for unauthorised use of our copyright. We also contend that the title “Sex and the City” is dishonest and misleading and as such offends against advertising standards regulations in the UK and Europe. The title suggests the show is about the sex life of a city, but cities are conceptual entities, not living creatures and are therefore incapable of having sex.
We also refute the suggestion that the show’s title refers to the sex lives of the central characters who live in the city. Main lead Sarah Jessica Parker is as sexy as cabbage soup.
There is bonking in the show but showbiz bonking, with is contrived bounciness reminiscent of 1970s British soft smut movies such as Confessions of a Window Cleaner, has nothing to do with what civilised people would call sex.
The bonking in Sex and the City centres on the sexually repulsive Samantha (played by the devastatingly sexy Kim Cattrall here desexy’d by bad scripts and lack of production values) All sophisticated men of the world know women like Samantha. She’s the kind of girl who shags anything that moves but not quickly enough, and then runs round town telling everybody what a lousy shag her latest conquest was. But it is Samantha who is a lousy shag, she knows all the techniques but has none of the spontaneity, passion and humour that make a good partner. Bonking her has nothing to do with sex, you might as well hump a mannequin.
On top of all that, the female cast smoke like chimneys, drink like fishes and eat like pigs. Therefore they must have bad breath, lousy skin and lardy arses.
Sex is not the first word that springs to mind.
In view of all that, in addition to paying Boggart Blog what we are owed in royalties for use of our copyright and change the name of the show to Shite and the City.
Alternatively they can mail us and promise to leave Jennifer Cassetta alone to run her business in peace and we will leave them alone. If they do not comply we will start on The Tudors and its shortarse Henry VIII next.

more outrageous humour (or humor if you must) from Boggart Blog every day.

German police had to round up a cluster of crayfish after the crustaceans broke out of an Asian food shop and scuttled down the street in Stuttgart. A surprised pedestrian notified authorities after seeing the crayfish crawling down the road on Sunday. They had escaped by squeezing through gaps in the grating on their tanks and leaving by the shop’s front door, which was left ajar.

They were of course on their way to Britain to seek asylum.

The great thing about keeping live crayfish is its like having a tortoise for a pet. If they escape you can meet your mates, go clubbing, get bladdered, spend twelve hours sleeping it off and when you wake up and notice the crayfish have gone, they've only got twenty yards down the road.

The government's educational think tank has today decided that it woould be in the best interests of society if bonking was banned during November and December. The move comes after The institute of Fiscal Studies published research which shows that children born in August are significantly less successful than their older classmates. Children born in August were found to be more likely to struggle with reading and writng and to drop out of education at sixteen.
A spokesperson commented,"Education is a priority for this government and this government will do all in its power to raise educational standards. Whilst children continue to be born in August there will always be an undrclass of low achievers. By asking people to refrain from sexual intercourse to prevent conception during the months of November and December, we hope to give children the best start in life, and of course it means that would-be parents can carry on getting pissed all throught he festive season, thus increasing revenue for the government by raising the amount spent on alcohol....oh hang on, I didn't say that last bit, or any of it. Thank you."

I thought Authorsden was shite til I joined blog.co.uk

I thought blog.co.uk was shite til I joined blogger

I thought blogger was shite til I joined myspace

I thought myspace was shite til I joined facebook

How much lower can I sink?

The latest catastrophe to completely fail to knock the market forces worshipping Rabid Right out of their complacency over climate change is the fire currently consuming a huge tract of the most valuable real estate on the California coastline. Looking round American news and opinion blogs yesterday I was struck by the number of people enthusing about the business opportunities reconstruction will offer.
As usual their tunnel vision prevents them seing the big picture. But maybe Boggart Blog’s no nonsense approach can bring them back to reality.
The value of properties and woodland destroyed around Malibu is piddling; even the number of movie and television projects cancelled because stars faces, breasts and bulging biceps have melted is insignificant.
We only start to understand the scale of the disaster when we think about the cost of recreating that celebrity cosmetic surgery look so popular among showbiz people.
Hollywood insiders guess the cost of recreating Cher and Michael Jackson will bankrupt three major insurance companies. That’s bfore they get to Shron Osbourne, William Shatner and Joan Rivers.

Holy City

Research last week indicated that one in five pupils leave primary school unable to read adequately. No surprise there really. We are also told that trainee teachers who now have to pass a test in literacy and numeracy are allowed to re-sit the tests as often as necessary until they achieve a pass. Could there be a connection between illiterate and innumerate teachers and the pupils they attempt to teach?
During my career I have come across many teachers who mark maths work as correct when in fact it isn't. I have often wondered whether this was just laziness, going down the page just ticking, carelessness, not bothering to check the childs answer with the answer sheet, or plain incompetence, just not being able to do the sums themselves.
Whilst there is less opportunity to evaluate colleagues' spelling, as creative writng is not marked for spelling or grammar, I have come across these howlers on wall displays, all of them generated by teachers.
"resavor"(reservoir),
"sissors",
"insisor" on a tooth display and when I pointed this out the teacher responsible was adamant that this was a legitimate spelling,
"feild" Me, "Did the children put up that display?" Teacher "No I did."
Me "Oh, field is spelt wrong."
Teacher "Oh is it?" it didn't get changed though.
"There" and "Their" and "They're" seem to be interchangeable now, one just has to work out the desired meaning from the context.
Stil, hopfuly the nuw diploamer that mista borls is torking abowt wil inshoor that thows wontin too bee teechers wil hav the rite skilz.

Amid claims that class distinctions are what define British Society, an intriguing theory was put forward at the weekend. In view of the fact most of us are not in the class we think we are because we have no idea what makes anybody working class or middle class anymore, one writer thought our individual opinion of The Turner Prize contenders would reveal our true class.
If we think the shortlisted entries are witty, ironic and thought provoking, the theory goes, then we are middle class. If on the other hand we think the entries are shite (literally sometimes) we are working class.
This does not work for me and Daily Mail Readers will be up in arms. But if we leave the gutter press out of it and look through a critic’s eye at two leading entries, it becomes clear that though the theory might be onto something, its conclusions must be re-evaluated.

Two of the top contenders this year are a 150 minute video of a man walking around a big, empty room while dressed in a dodgy bear suit and another big empty room with a plank on the floor.

Now the bloke in the bear suit could be a witty and ironic post-modern statement about how modern man, detached by the social structures of the post-industrial world and divorced from the shamanic origins of his spirituality feels alone and alien in a life he no longer has control over.

Or it could simply state that the fancy dress hire shop had run out of pirate, Superman and gorilla suits.

A third, even more ironically radical possibility is that the installation reminds us the linear nature of time is a human delusion, the bear has entered 2007 through a timewarp and is looking for a can of Hofmeister.

The plank is even more fascinating, its title, threshold suggests we may see it as a boundary we cross at our peril, a threshold we must cross in order to achieve a higher state of being or as the symbolic doorstep we trip over as we look around the installation for some nice impressionist landscapes.

These works then show us that the discerning eye sees modern art not as painting and sculpture, works which use line, texture and form interacting with light to communicate ideas, but as ideas themselves. It is not the bear suit or the plank that express the idea but the artist’s ability to talk bollocks about it in order to get money.

So the case is resolved. Our attitude to The Turner Prize does indicate our class status, if you think this stuff is shite then you are clearly middle class but if you appreciate the art of talking bollocks to get money then you are working class. Talking bollocks to get money is a skill the working class perfected twenty years ago, after Thatcher’s government abolished proper jobs.

The government has come up with yet another brilliant plan, this time to combat child obesity. They are going to write to the parents of fat children to tell them their kids are fat! That's going to work then.
Thanks to Jenny, BoggartBlog has been able to make a fly on the wall documentary at the home of the Lardarse family.

"Ere, Wayne, we've got a le'er from the govnment."
"Wot's it say Krystal?"
"Ang on, let me look, it says our Cherryade is obees.
Wot a cheek, she ain't obees. She jus got a bit of puppy fat is all. They always interfearing them govnment people."
"Wahh, wahh, sniff, wahh."
"Ere Cherryade darlin, wots the matter. Wot you cryin for?"
"Sniff, them kids at school, sniff, they call me a fatty, sniff wahh"
"You ain't fat darlin, you cuddly, ain't that rite Dad, she's not fat she's just cuddly!"
"Yeah come ere my little spacehopper, let's go and have a KFC family meal for ten, just the three of us, with extra fries and a gallon of coke. That'll make you feel better eh? That'll stop you cryin won't it love?"

And so we leave the Lardarse house, secure in the knowledge that the Government's letter has shown Mr and Mrs Lardarse the error of their ways and encouraged them to put little Cherryade on a low fat, low sugar high fibre diet.

It cost the Labour Party £1million to fight the election. What election? The election that is not happening any time soon. I have to say the postponement of the election shows Gordon Brown's political judgement is seriously suspect. After ten years in charge of the nation's finances if he does not know now just how much upshitcreekness the economy is suffering from and how bad things are going to get before he can again consider calling an election he is a worse politician than he is a comedian.
It is comforting to know we have such competent and decisive people in government, but if they can spend £1million on not having an election we can at least appreciate what stonking good value the £20billion or so pumped into the health service was.
After all, if it costs £1million to do nothing, managing to piss off the nurses, doctors, auxiliary staff and completely lose the trust of the pounters for a mere £20 billion starts to look like a bargain.

The Government’s latest big idea to instil in us a sense of Britishness, reinforce the national identity and turn us all into unthinking automatons who wave flags and sing anthems to order is to give us a national motto. This would be emblazoned over the portal of every public building and printed on every official document. But what phrase would serve to remind us of our patriotic duty to fill in tax returns on time, uncomplainingly pay ten million pounds each to obtain an ID card that informs the authorities of our whereabouts at any moment and entitles us to have information gathering probes pushed up our arses if we are observed doing anything suspicious like breathing.
What could the national motto be? Mine’s a pint? Want salt and vinegar on ‘em? Do you have a loyalty card? It will certainly be nothing to do with politics.

Other nations fare little better, their mottoes might sound cool in foreign languages but are crap when translated. America used to have E Pluribus Unum which was dropped in the 1950s as it means “no mixed race buses.” The motto was replaced with “In God We Trust,” which suggests that as a nation they are gullible enough to buy bottles of stuff that cures all known ailments, removes red wine stains and gets stones out of horses hooves.
France goes for “Liberte, Egalite, Fraternite,” a motto so crap the are too embarrassed to complete it. The final three words, “ou la mort.” (or death) are an open invitation for any foreign tyrants to say “OK then, death,” and nuke France to oblivion.
Greece follows France in tempting fate and goes for Freedom or Death, while most popular around the world, mostly favoured by disunited nations is “Unity is strength.”

Here in Britain, traditionally riven by property price differentials, the North / South divide, class, religious differences and increasingly partisan political ideology, the various groups have managed to rub along for over a thousand years without a motto. Unless of course it is the challenge we usually issue to those who threaten us “Come and have a go if you think you’re good.”

There have been many suggestions posted on the Government’s message boards, but all fail to inspire.

We suggest the motto should be decided by lottery, a National Mottery in fact. Everybody has to write down their suggestion along the lines of those great British mottos “No milk today; ‘ere we go ‘ere we go ‘ere we go; did you remember to feed the cat? Newton was wrong, the earth sucks; Johnny Johnny Johnny Wil – kin – son; sixteen pints of lager and a poppadom; did you get that from Primark? McLaren out! You’re ‘avin a larf aincha? Up yours. Delors;” and so on. The British are not motto people so much as blotto people.

Boggart Blog’s suggestion? “Never Let The Bastards Grind You Down.”

FROM OUR PARLIAMENTARY INSIDER, NORBUT LYZE

Following on from yesterdays lead story about the pissed pensioners of Harrogate whose glass or two of an evening is leading them towards the abyss, the reason for the draconian stance on elderly imbibers has been revealed exclusively to this reporter by Westminster insiders.

Whitehall is agog with rumours of a new and extremely dangerous terrorist threat to Britain. This danger, which is far more potent than the risks posed by the IRA or Muslim extremists is thought to emanate from a habitually inebriated middle aged woman working alone.

As yet there have been no formal press briefings but senior politicians of all parties whisper that every time the subject of terrorism is raised, Prime Minister Gordon Brown starts talking of the need for a strategy to deal with Alky Ada.

You would be forgiven for thinking Harrogate, Yorks. is just a sleepy old spa town, the faded elegance of its architecture and inhabitants slipping softly towards decay while the ghosts of Thora Hird and Alan Bennet’s dear old Mum sip ghostly tea in the ghost corner of Betty’s Tea Rooms and wait for young Alan to arrive (many years to go yet we hope Alan) That after all is the image presented by various novelists and certain television dramas written by Alan Bennet.
But if you have formed that impression, you would be wrong. The peace of Harrogate has been destroyed by posses of pissed pensioners.

The latest government healthcare healthscare dreamed up by Super Nanny suggests the people of Harrogate are hazardous drinkers. Not heavy or habitual drinkers but hazardous. Hazardous drinking is not like binge drinking (they’re not animals in Harrogate for God’s sake,) it is the quiet enjoyment of a glass or two of wine with one’s dinner or a small whiskey while watching Shameless. Apparently this very sensible pattern of drinking puts one “at risk.”

At risk of what? Getting a life, almost having some fun. Of having a third glass and then a fourth? Aiding and abetting the Euro Rats of Brussels in their conspiracies against British sovereignty?

If Hazardous Drinking in Harrogate merits an intervention by Super Nanny what will she get onto next? Depravity in Devonshire, Group Sex in Guildford?