The Voice of Reason


By Colonel Archie Wyldbore-Flogham

(He writes in indelible pencil)

Through a Glass Darkly

I SEE there's a awful lot of fuss being made in the so-called Daily Express about the races.

But what the hell black people have got to do with the 2.30 at Sandown, God only knows.

Who puts this rubbish in the papers? And what are black people? Are they similar to punkah wallahs? They can be damn useful at times.

I can remember from my days out East a dusky little Johnny who mixed up the sort of G&T that blew your bloody socks off. And I'm told the female of the species can roger like a ruddy rattlesnake.

What's more, if you want boots you can see your face in and latrines you could entertain your blasted maiden aunt in, look no further the Gunga bloody Din.

There's precious few darkies in Steeple Cholmondeley, although I do recall the Major blacking up with the old Cherry Bloss and singing Mammy at one of the vicar's summer pageants.

My wife Gardenia laughed so much she needed a change of whatsits.

No, what these whinging fuzzy-wuzzies need is a spell in the army.

And while they're about it they can get their bloody haircut.

Britain a nation of racists? Absolute poppycock! Send the buggers home, that's what I say.

Playing Silly Buggers

It really is beyond me what young people see in popular music. All that banging on drums and pelvic thrusting should be stopped immediately.

Things reached a pretty pass a few years ago when somewhere called Wembley Stadium, which is apparently used for the playing of association football matches, was the venue for a recital in aid of some deceased troubadour called Frederick Mercury.

Correct me if I am wrong, but wasn't this oik some sort of homosexualist, a chap who liked chaps? I find it frightfully rum that thousands of people cut along to this event so that a load of  nancy boys in earrings could trouser a bundle of cash for something called Aids, which I gather is a disease of the bottom.

Quite apart from the morals of all this, why were the Great Unwashed encouraged to mince through North London in their shell suits and trainers to raise money for rather dubious practices?

I do not know, but I think we should be told.

And do you know, the BBC broadcast the whole caboodle on the magic lantern! One can only give thanks that electricity, and consequently television, has not yet reached Steeple Cholmondely, where cucumbers and bananas can still be eaten without fear of misinterpretation.

Why chaps kiss other chaps when there are delightful creatures around like the blessed Forsythia Hedgerow-Corduroy I cannot imagine.

The only thing I have ever caught off this glorious woman is a shuttlecock. But we certainly didn't organise a recital to celebrate the fact.

Sometimes I despair.

Reaching Rock Bottom

Wherever one goes these days one hears incessant talk of bottoms. Turn on the wireless and all you hear is bottom, arse and bum.

Well, I'm telling you now, all this talk of bottoms has got to stop. We all had a jolly good laugh in the mess when it started, but it is silly now.

Every time I pick up the Chronicle that dreadful word bottom crops up. After reading the last two editions of the paper from top to bottom I have counted it no less than 27 times.

Plus one Bottomley. And a bum, two anals and a trousers. And another bottom.

Isn't this enough, dammit? Where's the humour in all this bottom talk? It's jolly juvenile. Let's be done with it now.

Now to more serious things. You will no doubt have noticed that economic affairs are at rock bottom in the City today, and basically Britain is in the brown stuff.

Yesterday we were at the bottom of the economic piles, today we are even further up the trouser leg, and you can guess where we'll all be tomorrow.

The country is being run by a bunch of silly arses. It's about time they were all thrown out on their bottoms and we got those sensible Tories back. This Labour lot are a bunch of bums.

(That's enough bottom talk - Ed)

© 2005-2022 Alastair McIntyre