“I’m sorry, it’s my fault.” Yes, these mumbled words emerge automatically from any man in a serious relationship with a woman. Often from behind a newspaper, but occasionally they are even true.
There are now 5 months, 2 weeks and 4 days to run on the contract with Bt broadband into which I am locked. For more than a fortnight there have been intermittent faults on my broadband connection. Thus, to my frustration, my posts have been more irregular than usual.
Rupert Murdoch is an Australian of Scottish descent who has resided in the UK and is now an American citizen. From Free Presbyterian ancestry he now claims to be a Roman Catholic. This promoter of a media so free that they think they can hack into telephones at will and distribute the computer codes of rival media groups thus driving them out of business is also in bed with the totalitarian gangsters who run China with absolute control and total censorship of the media. This is clearly a man who would happily sell his first born to the highest bidder. Sky now look attractive.
Richard Branson is a leading contender for title of ‘The most irritating man in the United Kingdom.’ The other front runners being Ricky Gervaise and Alan Carr. Branson’s constant smirk, the half grown beard, the sixty one year old’s teenage megalomaniac desire to be involved in every money making enterprise on the face of the globe. They all cry out that this is a guy who shouldn’t be allowed to be a babysitter. Virgin now looks attractive.
Yet I am now stuck with erratic Bt broadband for the next 5 months, 2 week and 4 days. “I’m sorry, it’s my fault.”
So much has been happening whilst I have been incommunicado. None more worthy of comment than the case of Caroline Monet.
This lady is the twenty one year old Frenchwoman received permission last Saturday get married to Abel Chennouf a twenty five year old French soldier. The groom won’t turn up at the ceremony and will be represented by an empty chair. This will not be because he has got cold feet or had a really bad hangover from his stag night. He won’t have been handcuffed to a lamppost by his drunk friends. Neither will he be having second thoughts or have forgotten that there was a home match that afternoon. It won’t even be because his present wife didn’t think that it was a good idea.
Nope. None of the above. The groom won’t be present at the ceremony because he is dead. He has been dead for some weeks. Dead and buried. To paraphrase John Cleese, “This paratrooper is extinct.” Nevertheless last Saturday he received permission to get married. And all this with the approval of the President of France.
Now your interest prick ups. “French, that explains it,” you think. No. Whilst being French is an excuse, it is not an explanation. A nation who eat snails and think that Johnny Hallyday is a rock singer are capable of anything. That’s a given. Who else would have Charles Aznavour as a national icon? However, in this case it’s not just that they are French. This is coming our way, it’s just that the French have been the first to surrender, as usual.
If it were merely a matter of getting a cut in the will and a widow’s pension most could understand if not condone. In fact if that were the case we would only wonder why she didn’t just stand as an MP. This unfortunately is more serious than mere greed and venal corruption. It is a case of rampant sentimentality.
Abel Chennouf, a Muslim, was murdered by a Muslim terrorist and in a flood of mawkish sentimentality his bidie in (co-habiting partner for non-Scots) decides that now is the time to marry him. The president of France, a Hungarian midget masquerading as a statesman and facing a difficult re-election, tests the polls and gives the green light. Game on. Pity about the groom.
We live in a world where sentimentality crowns everything. Especially here in the UK. Princes Di was not a manipulative adulteress, she got killed in a car crash and so she became a Home Counties Mother Teresa. The French being French have to raise the stakes. Never mind the consequences, think of the emotion.
Never mind blokes marrying blokes or girls getting hitched to each other. That’s so last year. In France you can take your pick of the dead.
My master plan to achieve mastery of all I survey has had to be adjusted owing to this new strategic avenue. I have a grandson Jacob who is eight years old. Unfortunately, of his grandparents only one is Scottish. Nevertheless, this makes him a dyed in the wool, indisputable Scot.
Every fair minded person would agree that the Scots are as good as the English, at least. Given that there are ten times as many English as Scots this indicates that Scots are at least ten times better than the English in order to achieve parity. With three English grandparents and one Scots grandparent the odds are clearly on our side. Jacob is Scottish. (I know the logic may need a tweak here and there but the principle has to be conceded.)
My cunning plan is that in eight years time my grandson gets married to Elizabeth Tudor, daughter of Henry VIII and Ann Boleyn and onetime queen of England, and dead these four hundred years.
There are two great advantages to this plan. Firstly it means that the despicable Stuarts will be cut from succession if the Virgin Queen marries my grandson. Better a Campbell than a Stuart. Better a retarded hedgehog than a Stuart. Secondly I would become King Grandfather. If Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon could swan around as Queen Mother for decades I can have a shot at King Grandfather.
I realise that I have yet to consult with Elizabeth Tudor or my grandson on the matter. But the priest, magistrate or president of France didn’t ask Abel Channouf his opinion of the deal. So that’s okay, and I have eight years to persuade Jacob.
“I’m sorry, it’s my fault,” but the whole idea of marrying the dead is so ridiculously off the wall that, dangerous as it is, the only way to treat it is to laugh at it.
Abandon Christian principles in favour of the malleable morality of a sentimental age and anything becomes possible. We do mean anything. Living, or dead.