Blogvertising

You may have spotted a pronounced lack of adverts on this blog.  Or perhaps you haven't, because you have become so inured to them that you just don't notice them anymore.  Either that or, like most of us, you have become conditioned to expect ads on every web page ever written after 1997 and so simply assume them to be there.

However, Sniffer has determined that this blog at least should be about the writing and nothing else.  He assumes that you are probably receiving enough sensory overload about how your life would be much better if you bought whatever tawdry piece of crap is being hawked by at the time by some Western company with few assets apart from a marketing department (as if that was ever an asset), hauling their tat across the planet from sweatshops in inland China or perhaps Vietnam or Bangladesh.  He also assumes that you all have the intelligence to go and buy things you want or need, without needing to be prodded into it by flash-(sic)-ing ads on this page.  In fact, he would be horrified if you were.  Consequently, this site is ad-free and will remain ad-free.  There will be no kneeling down before corporate c*ck here.  This is one of the cornerstones of Sniffer's manifesto. 

Of course, should a multinational sponsor appear, Diageo, for example or InBev, then this cornerstone may be in for some refacing.  Equally, if the readership swells to a sufficient number that advertising seems an easy way to engorge Sniffer's wallet, then expect hypocrisy and u-turning on an almost Parliamentary level when faced with what is being waved in front of his face.

Mine's a large one.  Make of that what you will.

'Sniffer'

A Weak Abroad

Wow!  Normally the Lie-bour party only nick ideas from the wet side of the Cons-(french)-ervatives, New Labour's Cool Britannia bollocks being suspiciously close to 'The Right Approach to the Economy', a Tory strategy document from 1977 reviled by Thatcher, Thatcher, Milk-Snatcher (as Sniffer was taught to sing as a child).

However, and sticking with the 1970s references, in a move that makes Basil Fawlty look like a competent manager, dismal Dave has somehow managed to unite the right wing of his party with Tweedle-Ed's bunch over the EU budget.  That is some feat.  Does dismal Dave's crisis team take their soubriquet literally?  "I say, Smithers, move the fan a bit closer, I feel a constitutional coming on."

It's no surprise that Irked of Dorking and the rest of the Telegraph readership should so dislike the idea of the EU increasing its budget, or anything at all to do with the continent.  "Europe?  That's where all the wars come from, isn't it?"  But that they should unite with the uber-luvvies from the other side of the house frankly beggars belief.  If the Macaroon can bring together two such distant factions, perhaps he has a future in negotiating a Middle East peace settlement.  He can't do any worse than the last Prime Minister who became a Special Envoy, and it would be an improvement all round to have him a good 4 hours plane ride away from the UK.

"And what next from Tweedle-Ed and his pseudo-socialists?" I hear you cry, "plans to run a budget surplus in boom years?  Never would have happened in when Brown was at No.11" (and didn't).  Nor would it have happened when Peter 'Child-catcher' Mandelson stalked the corridors of power, black drainpipes, winklepicker Chelsea boots and one hand behind his back to hide the stiletto blade he wielded with such relish.  One hint of thought-crime and the Child-Catcher was on you, he would find you no matter where you were, a mirthless smile, a glint of steel and you were gone.  For the Child-Catcher loved Europe.  And if he couldn't have the Euro, then the rest of us weren't going to get the full UK rebate until we gave in.

Leading the Tory rebellion which rubbed dismal Dave's nose firmly in the doormat of defeat was Mark Reckless.  There's got to be some copy in that.  Threats from the whips were met with sniggers and catcalls of "On yer bike!"

Allegations the Government had suggested the EU could make up the difference between budget and spending with a short-term loan from Wonga were denied furiously by the Cabinet Office, although there may be something in the suggestion that the proposed increase in contributions could easily be covered if certain large corporations paid their taxes.

Government defeats generally warm the cockles of Sniffer's heart more than a well-aged Speyside and this one was no exception.

Mine's a very large one.

'Sniffer'

Snifferettes Take Over

It's Friday, so Dad has buggered off down to the pub as usual.  While he's out me and Baz have broken into his computer.  He's the sort of person who keeps his password on a post-it note in his desk drawer (tough luck, fartface, we've known about it for ages, why do you think you've been getting all that spam from dodgy Russian websites?).  Plus, with him saving all his details on the sites he uses for internet shopping, we've been able to buy absolutely SHEDLOADS of stuff!!!!  And he can't argue about it, because all the orders came from his machine!!  Besides, he NEVER looks at his credit card bill, so all is good.  Baz has his email account up on another laptop and is deleting all the order confirmation emails as they come in, so he won't get buzzed in the pub with those either.  Har har.  Serves you right Dad, because first of all we do not 'infest' the place, but we do have to share a rather small house with you after you've had a curry.  Or onions.  Or eggs.  Or anything else really.  Plus, we are only making noise because we are happy.  It's a thing you probably can't remember, OLD MAN, as it's been so long ago since you were.  So there.  Anyway, this isn't about you and we're not going to talk about boring stuff like politics or any of that other crap you like because music is about a billion times more important, and right now Drenge are about a billion times the most important band on the planet.

There's this thing in food tech where if you want to make a sauce you have to boil stuff down like forever until all the water, or almost all the water, has gone, to like really bring all the flavours to a point of maximum peakness and Drenge are like if you took the Black Keys and the 22-20s and Nine Black Alps and boiled them all down to almost nothing, ten people down to 2 and all the best bits of all the bands then that would be Drenge.  http://soundcloud.com/drenge

Plus. there are loads of other cool Leeds and Sheffield bands, like Wet Nuns, Eagulls, Dead Sons (which you should totally like 'cos they're ex-Milburn), Flaming Skulls. 

Sorry Dad, but maybe if you had had music like this when you were young (but you probably couldn't because electricity wasn't invented then) instead of all that 80s rubbish you had to listen to when you were growing up, then maybe you wouldn't be so angry about everything all the time.  Oh, and the cat's been sick in one of your shoes.  Laters.

How Many Badgers Make Five (Thousand)?

So in the last seven days we've had 'plebgate', its conclusion at least, followed by 'traingate', both examples of ministerial assumption of a privilege to which they weren't entitled.  Now there's 'badgergate', a cull of a native species whose efficacy is being hotly contested.  Needless to say, experts are involved, so expect a right-royal balls-up, with badly dressed scientists contradicting one another, and themselves, in the expectation of career-advancement and repeated appointment to juicy governmental advisory positions.  Apparently, even the chap who said it was a good idea is now against it.  What next?  Brian May out in the woods at dusk with a baseball bat?  (Er, no).

Until a couple of days ago, Sniffer was going to suggest that everyone would have to go to badgerbadgerbadger.com to see an example, as the real ones would soon be dead.  However, he was pleased to discover that, unlike the turkeys, it seems badgers are to be given a reprieve this Christmas, with the great British blast-off due to take place next year instead.  And the cause, or at least one of them, is that someone counted the badgers wrongly (What?  Was George Osborne involved, I hear you cry).  There are now believed to be twice as many as was previously supposed.  How does that work?  Did they go round and count them again?  Have the badgers cottoned on and are now popping up all over the place, intent on being counted several times, like some postal-vote scam?  If so, they're certainly a lot cleverer than the man (or woman) from the ministry.  Sniffer has a mental picture of them trying to add up the numbers of badgers set by set, the badgers bobbing, weaving, ducking down, sneaking through the undergrowth then popping back up somewhere else, while the hapless civil servant tries without success to write down the correct figure, much like some MP's rental claims on their expense forms.

Among the theories that Sniffer has heard recently are that the sudden increase in numbers is in reality due to a large number of badgers 'flipping' their set in London with that in the countryside.  Another is that this is just the first of a series of highly-coordinated badger flashmob events being planned around the country.  It would certainly be difficult to pick out the ring-leaders; "that's him, sarge, the one with the stripes on his face like a mask."

In other news:

The Spanish foreign minister took an enormous constitutional dump on Alex Salmond's hopes for Scottish independance, by saying that an independent Scotland would have to apply for EU membership just like any other region breaking free from the autocratic grip of a failed state that no longer represented its people or its wishes.  There were reported sightings of the first minister sprawled on a park bench in Stockbridge, grasping an empty bottle of 'Buckie' and shouting 'geraway ya bastards'. 

Senior Citizens in Government ‘Work Till You Drop’ Scheme
After Lord Bitch-hard (sorry, typo, that should read Bichard) stated publicly that pensioners should undertake community service or have their pensions docked, it emerged that a pilot scheme for this very idea had already been up and running for some time.  A Mr. and Mrs. Windsor of West London have been forced to work an extra twenty five years past retirement, often outside and regardless of weather conditions, sometimes having to travel long distances to places of work by their employer.

Following on from the story about a North Korean general who had been obliterated by a  mortar round, rumours that senior members of the military had invited the Defence Minister, Philip Hammond, to discuss budget cutbacks at a very specific spot on Salisbury Plain were furiously denied by MoD spokespeople this afternoon.

A forthcoming confrontation between the regulator and the water companies over the ever-increasing losses from leaky pipes has been provisionally dubbed 'watergate', but Sniffer thinks this whole gate thing has been taken too far and it's getting silly now.

Mine's a large one.

'Sniffer'

Looking Back

Has it really only been a couple of weeks since the party conferences?  What a shitstorm they were.  Despite putting up the old dung-umbrella, the sheer corrosiveness of the weasel-crap being spouted meant that it still came dripping through the fabric, making little 'pffts' sounds as it burned holes into the carpet.  On the one hand there was Tweedle-Ed and the rest of the shower over at the Lie-bour party, or should that be Lay-bor, waving a bottle of claret instead of the red flag and shouting 'Long live the revolution, as long as it doesn't affect property prices in north London'.  Ed Balls stood around looking like a small-time thug who has recently had his tattoos removed because he enjoyed the feeling of the laser cutting into his flesh.  Even Tweedle-Dave has resurfaced, making an appearance after his two-year sulk at not being made head boy of Islington Comprehensive, like some budget Iago, the aphrodisiacal scent of power wafting beckoningly from future, 2015 so much closer now than it once was, with plans of doing unto his brother as Cain did to Abel as soon as the election is in the bag.  There are rumours he has a picture of barking Boris on his wall as inspiration.  Then, to cap it all, Tweedle-Ed's 'without notes' interminable drone; 'look at me, I can talk bollocks unaided.'  Yes, and seemingly forever too, grandly making promises about things that he has neither the wit, the stamina, nor the real interest in doing anything about; if elected he'll be doing the same backroom dealing as all PM's do, u-turning more than a chronically-lost learner driver as the boot-boys over at the Treasury turn down every idea flat without even bothering to look up from filing their nails. 

And what of the other shower, who now seem deeply divided between those who loathe Europe and those who merely despise it?  The blasting of Vera Lynn records from public buildings, endless Spitfire flypasts and that overgrown schoolboy Clarkson as Archbishop of Cars seems about all the  Cons-(french)-ervatives have to offer as they march reluctantly forward while looking determinedly backwards.

Theresa May, but I wouldn’t.  And not because she looks like an inflamed appendix in a wig, but because she comes across as a sub-Thatcher, a low rent version, with neither the skill nor the talent, and with all the genius taken out and replaced by unintelligent reiteration, like a tired series that should have been canned two seasons ago but is still aired because the viewers are too lazy to change the channel.

Dismal Dave inspired as much respect as a beleagured stall-holder trying to reason with a steaming gang that's stealing all his merchandise - 'oh, come on guys, is this fair, respect me, please, please.'  but no-one was listening.  Suddenly, it was all leather jackets, snarls and the revving of big motorbikes as barking Boris made his timed entrance and those in the cheap seats turned into a horrible version of the Shangri-Las and started singing 'Leader of the Pack'.  Sniffer's gag reflex was on overload for that one.

Following on from the conference, William Hague's plans for repatriating powers from the EU (after which they will probably be immediately extradited to the US) will start with gangs of the long-term unemployed gathered on the Kent coast with huge poles with which to push the UK further out to sea than it already is.  Makes you weep.  Which is lucky really, considering the price of those little bottles of soda nowadays.

Mine's a large one. 

'Sniffer'

The Ginger Vampire of Old Wapping Town - Part 1

Sniffer was pleased to learn that all this fog we've been having is on the outside, which cheered his mood immensely as it meant he was not going blind as he had previously suspected.  He had been asked recently by an old friend to be his 'booze-buddy', which entails replying to texts and other messages of desperation from said friend during his dry evenings with replies of encouragement and congratulation.  Although Sniffer's quite happy to do this, he can't entirely rid himself of the feeling that in doing so he's letting down another old friend, namely booze itself, which has been his (almost) lifelong companion, through good and bad, always there even when others weren't.  After all alcohol has done for him, here he is, helping to take away one of its most stalwart and determined companions.  Seems hardly fair.  So, in an effort to make it up to a mate, he made sure he had a couple of extra ones when out last night, and one or two more when he got back home after the Punishment Battalion's curry session, where the conversation centred, as it generally does, on the subsequent fall-out.

Speaking of which reminds Sniffer of the topic for today's post.  It has been reported that both barking Boris and dismal Dave are refusing to release their communications with Rebekah Brooks, the erstwhile ginger vampire of old Wapping Town.  Could there be a connection here?  The Bullingdon Boys as love rivals perhaps?  Rumours of a menage-a-trois of almost bestial proportions have been circulating, accompanied by cries of 'oh God, no' at the revelations, with even seasoned hacks running from the room and out into the streets to avoid hearing more.  Although Sniffer can neither confirm nor deny such stories, he is also struggling to put the images out of his head, with dismal Dave whimpering "why do I always have to go in the middle?" and barking Boris panting into his ear "this is just a taste of what I'm going to do to you in the leadership contest."

It could all be hearsay, of course, just as it's perfectly possible that the calls and emails currently being withheld by the leader and the leader-in-waiting are entirely irrelevant to the Leveson enquiry.  I leave you to determine which story is the least plausible.

On another note, claims that James Murdoch is not in fact a real person, but merely an animated vessel for Rupert to slither into once his current decrepit form gives up the ghost could not be verified at time of going to press.

Mine's a large one.

'Sniffer'

Traingate

Sniffer took yesterday off, as the house was infested with the Snifferettes and their followers, claiming the noise levels to be beyond that which permitted concentration.  This then allowed him to weasel out of doing anything round the house and instead he spent the afternoon digesting an enormous pub lunch, like some corpulent python, blinking through the haze of Suffolk ale and catching up on weekend stories from Westminster while waiting for the first one of the evening (or late afternoon, to be more precise).

Turns out about one hundred and eighty MP's have been accused of fare-avoidance.  Sniffer feels that in the interest of balance he should point out that it's not fare-evasion, which is where you seek not to pay a fare, and is of course illegal.  No, fare-avoidance is where you charge the taxpayer through the nose for a first-class ticket you booked in advance on the grounds that it was cheaper than a standard-class ticket purchased at the last minute.  The thought occurs that a standard-class ticket purchased equally in advance might be even cheaper yet, but it seems that neither maths, nor honesty, is a strong point for approximately 28% of the Hon. Members.

However, not to be outdone, our beloved Chancellor of the Exchequer has managed to go one better, by upgrading himself and his entourage to first-class while on the train itself, making their tickets as expensive as it is possible for them to be.  There are allegations that one of his cronies even argued with the ticket-inspector about them paying the extra fare.  Rumours of the word 'pleb' being bandied about are unfounded.

True to form, Sniffer sees things differently, and claims as an exclusive that by this act Mr. Mundane is clearly giving the first sign of the long-awaited relaxation of fiscal austerity for which we've all been waiting.  By using public money to pay an inflated price to a large corporation for something that with a little bit of forethought could have been bought much more cheaply, or even, not at all, Georgie-porgie has clearly demonstrated that it's back to business as usual.  Expect more troughing in the pork-barrel of government spending.  You read it here first.

However, one thing that bothered Sniffer more than his morning lumbago was why the Chancellor went to the bother of buying a standard class ticket to start with, and then an upgrade afterwards?  After all, wouldn't it have been easier simply to buy a first-class one in the (sic) first place?

After a few phone calls, secret sources revealed to Sniffer that the alleged source of the problem was that George wanted to go straight into first-class (after all, he is a prefect now) but simply couldn't count high enough for the cost of the relevant ticket.  Apparently, he and his entourage were spotted at Wilmslow station, they with their hands raised as if taking some weird pledge, while Mr. Mundane counted along them.  Even with shoes and socks removed, several little piggies may have gone to market, but gorgeous George was still no closer as the whistle went, leaving him and his minions to make an undignified dash to the rapidly closing doors.  It seems that one of them didn't make it and was found in the early hours of Saturday morning wandering along a Cheshire country lane, bleating plaintively for its master.

Later that evening the Cameroonies were woken up by a now worse-for-wear Mr Mundane chanting under their window 'Freya stuffed Larry, Freya stuffed Larry' until dismal Dave shouted back 'Geroffoutof it, yer fare-dodging bastard.'  'Leave him, Dave, he's not worth it,' pleaded Saucy Sammie apparently, 'now go and put the Clegg out.'

Mine's a large one.

'Sniffer'

What a Beautiful Morning

Sniffer was out of bed this morning before his usual seven hours, not because he wanted to, but because last night's two bottles were eager for egress.  During an extended sitting he fired up his phone to read that Andrew Mitchell had resigned.  Yes!  About bloody time too.

Suddenly a rough morning-after turned into a beautiful day and sun streamed through the window.  Sniffer recollected earlier in the week when the Macaroon had dragged Mitchell onto the front benches in an act of contrition, and publicly defended him to Tweedle-Ed and the rest of the shower at Islington Comprehensive.  Despite holding the soon-to-be-ex-Chief Whip up by the scruff and saying "Look, it isn't Mitchell-minor's fault he swore at one of the oiks.  He's simply not used to staff.  After all, he only went to Rugby, so he's practically middle-class.   Come on chaps, do the decent thing and leave it go," it was all to no avail.

When it became unavoidably clear that Mitchell wouldn't be let off with fifty lines and a run round the school perimeter, even the ever-myopic Macaroon had to concede it was time he was on his bike in all senses.  Rumours that the Cons-(french)-ervative front bench had offered to do a quick 'Gangnam Style' dance in the Stranger's Bar if Tweedle-Ed stopped raising the subject are unsubstantiated, although this reporter thinks that might have been a trade worth making.

Through the haze of a blinder behind the eyes, Sniffer takes comfort from the fact that there's one less Jeremy Hunt in government this morning.

Mine's a large one.

'Sniffer'