One-Hundred-and-Eiiiggghhhtteeee!

Henry was very proud of his new watch. He hardly ever took it off, and when he did, he kept half an eye on it, from his bathtub, shower, or wherever. He didn't take it to away rugby matches because he couldn't concentrate on putting his knee on the opposing flanker's testicles in a ruck, thinking instead of a dishonest bastard half-inching his Rolex from the Away dressing room.

He made the mistake, however, of taking it on tour to Guernsey at Easter. His mate, captain of the team and scrum half, had a successful father who owned some sort of gin palace, modest but functional. The gin palace was duly motored across to the Channel Islands to provide cheap accommodation and totty pulling power for the duration of the tour. There were bunks for six, including a private double at the front (the bow?), which became the official shagging berth.

Henry pulled on Night One, a lovely balmy evening in late Spring. He got the islander well juiced up, winked at the lads to indicate that the Shagging Berth would be occupied for the next 15 mins, and went below (as they say).

After a few minutes of unrewarding foreplay, Doreen (for it was she) asked Henry to take his watch off, as the chunky strap was marking her back. Gentleman to the core, but briefly forgetting that his first love was his timepiece, Henry unclipped it, put it in his left hand, and reached out for the ledge beside the bunk, without missing a beat in his quest to locate Doreen's ribs with his tongue, via her throat.

The porthole was nine inches wide, barely wider than Henry's knuckles. Did he touch the sides (as it were), as he reached blindly to his left? He did not. Was the porthole open? You bet it was.

Henry opened his grip, and waited for the clunk of watch-on-ledge. Clunk came there none. Instead, a muffled splosh.

Doreen and Henry's lust was not consumated that evening. He sulked all the way through the tour, and cannot hear the name "Rolex" to this day without wincing.

Idle knows this story to be true. The Rolex pictured is - wait for it - a "Sea Dweller".

Considering a Name Change

Those employers can be most unsporting in the run-up to the winter pagan holiday.

This is a blue-arsed fly, according to google images. I know what he feels like.

If my seasonal drunkenness and irrascibility goes unpunished, I will post again in 2008 for the three loyal posters on this site.

More wealth, health, happiness and less imbuggerance to you all next year.

Planes, Trains, and Firearms.....

DO NOT MIX

Idle planned to be far too busy to post this weekend, but if I tell you that I am marooned in the Executive Lounge at Heathrow Terminal One, you will begin to catch my drift.

It's a long story.

Last time I travelled with my shotgun in its splendid, burnished leather case, battered but beautiful, I was told that the lock was insufficient and that next time I should expect to have it refused entry to the plane. The cheek! Vintage guns come in vintage cases, c'est tout. But the jobsworth made it clear he was planning to obstruct me at the next opportunity.

So, this week, I planned ahead and googled for airline-friendly cases. Being of Aberdonian stock, and owning, as I have said, a burnished beauty of a case, etc, I opted for the *oh dear* bottom of the range. It appeared at my office yesterday, a limp-wristed and poofterish excuse of a shotgun carriage case, barely able to withstand the negligence of a trotskyite BAA baggage handler, let alone a determined Mozzie with evil plans for the denizens of Slough. And did it have any locks? Did it fuck.

Instead, there were holes through which padlocks could be attached. Three of them. So, rushing from lunch at the Savoy, I espied Mr Robt Dyas' emporium and summoned the manager. In broken English, he advised me on the quality of his padlock collection. A budget pack of four small-but-strongs were purchased.

Of course, I got back to the office and discovered they didn't quite fit. Furthermore, the hinges along the spine of the case were so easily jemmied as to be worthless.

So Idle, discovering this just as he was about to head to Heathrow, had to make a detour to the architectural ironmonger near Piccadilly Circus. Took me an age, heavily laden with guns and baggage. But reasonably strong chain-link was provided (£1.50 a metre), and the padlocks could be affixed, and a circumference of chain round the whole shebang, to boot.

Now the pressure was on. The Bakerloo got me to Paddington alright, but the Heathrow Express was expressly NOT express, if I make myself clear. In fact it was suffering"congestion", and my journey time was nearly doubled.

I sprinted, Alan Wells-like, from the train at Terminal One, cunningly leaving a small case holding my work papers on the train. I arrived at the check-in, sweating like the Chief Stoker of the Great Britain, and was offered seat 2F. But wait! Production of the shotgun caused much discombobulation. Magically, seat 2F disappeared, and the flight was "closed". Why? Because the trotskyite baggage handlers will not commit to less than an hour to walk a WW Greener 12 bore approx 300 yards to the plane, despite my having booked the gun onto the flight a week earlier.

Some fucker is sitting in 2F right now doing my crossword and drinking my BA bloody mary, and I hope he bloody well realises it.

Me? I'm booked onto the 1940 (expected 2020), and my whisky-drinking is taking place not on Deeside but in the Exec Lounge. The company is commercial folk, I believe. Thank god granny isn't alive to read this.

My papers? Not yet found by the Heathrow express guards, or cleaning staff. I have been advised by a nice skinhead on the desk at Terminal One to manage my expectations lower, as it were.

Have my Three Bad Things happened? Or was the loss of work papers a mere inconvenience, and I shall be prised out of a mangled fuselage somewhere in the Peak District tonight?

It's a bastard, the whole thing. Plus I exchanged short sentences with a plutocrat this afternoon and will have to pretend he was right and I was wrong when I see him next week. Oh, woe. Another whisky, please, Manuel, and is there an update on the delayed 1940 to Aberdeen?

Idle's Edwardian Manners, Part 2

When it became clear that the Second World War was going to take much time, treasure, and manpower, civil servants were dispatched from Whitehall and county councils to have a quiet word with the bigger landowners and stately homeowners, to address their staffing levels.

One such official made a visit to Chatsworth and spent a morning counting the number of gardeners, footmen, gamekeepers and chefs. Before lunch, he had an audience with the Duke.

"We thought" began the chap from the county council, "that you might be able to reduce the number of gamekeepers, Your Grace".

"Bother" said the Duke. "Oh, very well"

"And perhaps one less man in the kitchen garden" said the official.

"Has Birtwhistle said he could spare one? I suppose so, then"

"And one less pastry chef, we thought" said the public servant.

"Dammit all" said the Duke, "can't a chap have a biscuit?"

Self-Defence

The finest book ever written about boxing imho was this, by the great George Plimpton, who has long been a hero of idle's combining as he does a love of literature, sport, journalism and the human condition. A supreme stylist and a great American man of letters, right up there with Alastair Cooke in terms of style and sagacity.

Plimpton knew Muhammad Ali, warts and all, and thought him exceptional. The Tuscan has a low opinion; perhaps he's seen When We Were Kings - if not, see it - but read this book and you might see Ali in a different light. Possibly the best book ever written about sport.

Caption Competition. Limericks even Better

Is that Maxwell in the background? Or Eugene? Any other song links?

Old Lefties Still Foaming at the Mouth

Letter to the Torygraph from the usual suspects


Sir – Today a statue of David Lloyd George will be unveiled in Parliament Square. Lloyd George was Prime Minister between 1916 and 1922. During this period Britain used planes to bomb: Mashud, on India's border with Afghanistan; Dacca, Jalalabad and Kabul; Egypt; Enzeli in Iran; Trans-Jordan; and, of course, Iraq. Today these vicious policies continue unabated. [Blah blah yadda yadda]. All of which makes today's celebration of Lloyd George's legacy highly topical and disgraceful. Harold Pinter, John Pilger, Denis Halliday, London N1

Dontcha just love these pompous, sanctimonious, humourless twats? As I remember, 1916-22 was a slightly unsettled time for the world and our empire. Bombing by plane had just caught on as an offensive and defensive tactic. Gold medal winners in wrong-headedness almost all of the time, these fools. They have spent much of their lives revering Stalin and Castro and the other evil bastards who arrived at dictatorship from the left rather than the right. I think they wrote this letter simply to show off their triffic grasp of the early history of aerial bombing.

Dunno who Halliday is, so no dartboard picture of him. Maybe Johnny's pa. What we do know is that he is a fellow-traveller of The Pint and The Pilge.