My Fellow 'Merkins

H/T Ben Brogan

Jonathan Yeo got a commission from the White House to do the Prez. The commission was then withdrawn. Yeo went ahead anyway, a cut 'n paste job from top-shelf publications. Check the detail, probably better by going to the Brogan blog and following links to the gallery. Click "news" and enlarge if you can. The right ear and left temple make themselves clear, but further inspection might reward the forensic mind. He's good, Yeo.

The Tuscan after a Crash Diet and a visit to the Barber

The Hitch is almost certainly beyond help, but the relatively modest forestation suffered by the Tuscan snake-oil salesman has been attended to.


His recent abstinence from all solids and liquids of unhealthy nature has clearly paid dividends as well.

This is Tony, snapped by a passer-by in Lucca. Benvolio, the barber and part-time goat-shearer, has just finished his handiwork; the Tuscan clearly approves, but has got his tackle caught in the machinery that makes the barbers' chair go up and down.

Sadly the passer-by was unable to record how this bio-mechanical conundrum was solved. Lubricant and that piccy of Cherie on the beach probably did the trick.

Smutty Limericks

Lear, Edward 1812-1888

Tired and emotional after the long retreat from the North West coast of Scotland, I am unable to concentrate fully on the prizegiving for the previous competition, so let's start a new one in the meantime, suggested by True Blue. I bet Edward Lear had some absolutely foul creations that he saved for his mates in the club or pub. I hope we can do him justice with a few really dodgy ones.

I passed Pitlochry at about 11am this morning; the following sprang to mind (best read in a Scots accent):

There was a young girl from Pitlochry

Who made love to a man in a rockery.

She said "You have come

All over my bum -

That's no' a fuck, that's a mockery

Poetry Competition

The poem below is the best example of the style of poetry where the third and fourth lines finish with words that do not respect the rhyme scheme of the first two of each verse, and you have to guess the 'real' word that would have rhymed. This "As I was Walking by St Paul's..." style was much practised by schoolboys at my prep school, often with the approval of the English teacher. This was first published in the New Statesman, of all places, in its weekly poetry comp many years ago. Basil Ransome now calls himself Basil Ransome-Davies and wins prizes in the Speccie comps at least once a month, it seems.

Idle is now departing for his low-carbon-footprint, high-cordite-footprint holiday in the highlands. I hope one or two visitors (more!) might try their hand at one of these poems in my absence. The best effort, if worthy, wins a prize.

I dreamed I dwelt in marble halls
Of ample airs and sumptuous tinge,
While odalisques caressed my cheeks,
Each with a moist and willing palm

I dreamed I sauntered on the front
At Cannes, where I had moored my yacht.
The movie stars! The lavish cars!
The fine display of Gallic charm!

I dreamed I discoed at the Ritz -
The evening warm, the music cool -
And gorgeous girls who tossed their curls
Admired my sleek and well-hung clothes.

But then I woke, and cursed my luck;
My heart relapsed, my spirits sank.
No yacht in France, no girls, no dance -
No option but to have a doze.

Basil Ransome

Lee Hazlewood, R I P

I discovered him late, but thanks to the elder even-more-idle sibling, I got there early enough to see Lee perform the last two concerts he did in London.



Any fule kno he wrote "These Boots.." for Nancy Sinatra and made her a superstar. But he was a big influence on loads of others as well.



Newcomers might as well buy the anthology, (obviously) called These Boots Are Made For Walkin'



My favourite album was a really quirky concept album called Trouble is a Lonesome Town, where he introduced all the tracks with droll monologues about the characters in this fantasy western town. Fantastic, if you like a voice as thick as molasses which starts from somewhere near his boots. An iconoclast. An idle favourite, now freed from the life that often seemed to hang quite heavy on his shoulders.

Lagopus Lagopus Hibernicus........

..... available from all good highland sporting estates from Aug 13 2007. idle transmission will be unreliable until later this month. Happy holidays, troops.

From one festival to another

I can't tell you how perfect Goodwood was on Saturday; not a cloud in the sky, totty looking quite superb, except the typing pool bunch, arriving by stretch limo and GFI; good racing, allowing idle (for once this week) to get out of the course with his shirt still intact; a picnic of divine proportions; back to a friendly plutocrat's for swimming and boozing and a light supper and a marathon beat the intro sesh, which has put me in the right frame of mind for Belladrum 2007, the Glastonbury of the North, where thousands of sozzled highlanders prove that the CD and MP3 is not a technology unknown north of Perth, and radio reception still good enough to keep up with the popular tunes of the day.

Swathed not in tartan, but in sassenach youth culture clothing of the 1960s-00s, we will do everything from grooving to pogoing to a wide selection of beat combos, regretting only that the Tennessee 3 have had to cancel because of the singer's illness. A Cash tribute band called Ring of Fire has taken their place, so Fans in Black will not be completely destitute. The picture above shows you that this is no ordinary site for a festival. Midges are rare.

Upon a successful outcome - that the body has withstood the assault of alcohol and sleep deprivation, the idle persecution of lagopus lagopus hibernicus can start.

One For Expatriate Sussex Folk

This is the reason for the absence of posts this week. A five-day marathon which requires Olympian fortitude. A luscious tottyfest. A wild carouse. A blog-free zone. An Idle spritual home.