MANHUNT

On Saturday night, watching the semi-final of the Rugby World Cup, a number of ladies in the company were heard to inquire about the French no.16. I have scoured the internet, but numbers on shirts seem to be perfectly random in rugby, and I cannot find any confirmation of his name. Perhaps somebody can identify him from the line-up below. And get his phone number.

And just for Aunty Marianne, Chabbers showing his tender side:

CARVE HER NAME WITH MOTHER'S PRIDE

On Gorilla Bananas’ blog the other day I was moved to defend the expat lifestyle, and reassure Eurosceptics like BPP that just because some of us live and work here behind enemy lines, does not mean we are traitors to our homeland. BPP is particularly incensed about the British Sausage, which has apparently been banned by the EU (although strangely enough, I could have sworn I bought several packs in Waitrose last month, if I didn’t the SRF (sausage resistance front) has been visiting my freezer in the night).

BPP should rest assured there are shadowy forces at work to defend the British Sausage and everything else that is dear to our nation. I can’t say too much, but I myself was parachuted into Belgium wearing a beret, a trenchcoat and white ankle socks, ready to defend the expat community against incursions from the Europhiles with their arty-farty, namby-pamby, wishy-washy, ooh-la-la continental ways – we must make a stand against long lunch breaks, wine-drinking, hand-shaking, kissing everyone, and driving on the right.

I am not alone. In my “cell” are others committed to the cause, such as Tippler, who defends the British boozer against the dark forces of the continental café society. You gotta fight for the right to fight your way to the bar. They want to call time on calling time, but we in the secret army are here to bring back licensing laws and off licences, Party Sevens and lager and lime, and ensure a return to 1970’s Britain (er, is this right Tippers?).

Every day we say the UKIP prayer: “Lord, get us out of Europe. But not yet.”

You at home can help. When travelling on Eurostar, secrete about your person small bags of earth, which you pour out of the train window while going through the tunnel. It is estimated that by 2097 we may have caused enough of a blockage to stop the train. A technique used in “The Great Escape”. Although you must remember not to fall for that “Have a nice trip, sir” trick as you get off the train, which did for Richard Attenborough and David McCallum.

We are committed to replacing Belgian chocolates by real confectionery such as Cadbury's Milk Tray, and doing away with that typically sex-obsessed French phallic baguette nonsense, what's wrong with a good old sliced Hovis loaf, untouched by filthy human hand? What care we for cheap public transport and trains that run on time? It's just a foreign trick to destroy the British car manufacturing industry. (Note : Check this.) The lifeblood of the Englishman runs through cholesterol- hardened arteries to the heart of a bullfrog, fed on curry and Pukka pies. And should we need help, we know our old friends the Americans will stand shoulder to shoulder with us, airlifting revitalizing MuckDonaldburgers and Coca Cola, unloaded by cheery immigrants in orange jumpsuits who are leaving decadent old Europe to go and start a new life in Guantanamo bay.

Nevvah, in the field of human conflict, have show many .... owed show much ... to show few ... You don't have to thank me. I do it for love of Queen and country.

CHE LIVES!

40 years ago today the Argentinian medic Dr Ernesto "Che" Guevara was executed by the Bolivian military, selflessly laying down his life at the age of 39 so that the global T-shirt industry might survive. Such sacrifice! "The Motorcycle Diaries", a film based on Che's own account of his road trip through South America, starred the almost edible Gael Garcia Bernal as the young Che. Another film starring the smouldering Benicio del Toro as the older Guevara is currently in production, but will not be released until next year.

My late husband Harold read the biography of "El Che" a number of years ago and, in typical fashion, spent a few weeks marching round the house in combat fatigues (well a pair of old green overalls that got splattered in creosote when he was painting the fence) listening to “Buena Vista Social Club” and demanding South American grub. Now I don’t know the difference between a burrito, a tortilla, a fajita or an enchilada – they seem to be the same thing, only folded differently. But I indulged his whims, to the point of being very heavy-handed with the chillis. His belated discovery of the joys of Marxist-Leninism came to an abrupt end after a weekend spent on the loo. Capitalist running dogs win again!

As a result of all this, I know more than I ever wanted to about the Comandante. Such as: he was not terribly fussed about personal hygiene, even when he was a minister in the Cuban government and presumably allowed his own bathroom and soap. He eschewed any activity which he rated as "bourgeois", such as washing, being nice to girls, or not farting in public. Is this starting to sound familiar? Anyone with a teenage son will have worked out that the great hero of the revolution was nothing but an adolescent who never grew up. What he needed was his mum to come round and give him a clip round the ear, spit on her hanky and wipe his face. Revolutionary behaviour is just a thinly-disguised cry for attention.

If Che were alive today he would be 79, and in honour of the former rugger bugger I loosed off a few rounds of my Kalashnikov at midnight on Sunday to celebrate Argentina's success in getting to the semi-finals of the rugby world cup. Scotland deserved to get beaten, they'll only support France next Saturday anyway.

A MAN'S A MAN FOR A' THAT

After yesterday's shock results in the Rugby World Cup, I am suddenly taking an interest in the egg-chasing. England play France next Saturday in the semi-finals in Paris. I will not go down for that match, but shall watch it in the relative peace and quiet of the nearest Irish pub.

However today would be a good day to be in Paris. The Tartan Army will be all over the "toon" distributing bonhomie and flashing their tackle to the locals. As you know I am partial to a man in a kilt, and shall be supporting the Jocks in the pasting they are going to get at the hands of Argentina this afternoon, even though they will be shouting for France next Saturday.

The Haka didn't work its magic for the All Blacks this time, as the French now have a trump card, the terrifying Chabal who looks like a very angry Hagrid. The Scots should do likewise and exploit their reputation as fearsome warriors, by coming out on the pitch dressed as Highlanders and reciting Burns poems with a menacing Govan snarl. It still probably wouldn't make them win, but would be great entertainment for the crowd. Almost anything by Burns delivered in broad Scots by a suitably scary looking forward would strike terror into the hearts of the opposition, even "Ae Fond Kiss", although I would suggest something totally incomprehensible like "Address to the Tooth-Ache" might have the required effect:

My curse upon your venom'd stang,
That shoots my tortur'd gums alang,
An' thro' my lug gies mony a twang,
Wi' gnawing vengeance,
Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang,
Like racking engines!

That would keep the other side confused long enough to bang down a couple of tries within the first five minutes.

I have been further researching my tartan credentials, with the help of Scotland's People, the government website for public records. The English public records website allows you to view census records free of charge, but the Scots make you pay (surprise surprise) and give you so little information online that you have to pay to view lots of records that turn out to be useless. However, I did turn up the record of the marriage of my Glaswegian great-grandparents. One of their witnesses signed his name with an "X", which I am sure indicates he was Scottish nobility and therefore not required to sign his full name.

Come on the noo, chaps!

NOT WITH THE PROGRAMME

They say a drop in air pressure causes a lack of concentration. That is certainly the case with me as I am not exactly firing on all cylinders at the