The News. Interesting, irrelevant or 80 years old.
Posted: January 1, 2024 Filed under: Brief...therefore witty., Today's paper. | Tags: aliens, Beavers, climate change, Culture, Dangerous, fashion, Gardening, Humour, Magpies, media, News, Newspaper, Pubs, UFOs, Vegetables, World War 2, writing, WW2 Leave a commentI am sitting here, trying to remember what articles I read now. Thankfully it was the Daily Star, so there were lots of pictures.
Pictures are good memory joggers, especially as they make words standout in the first place, and the Daily Star nails this, mainly through images of massive interest and zero relevance. Like this one:
Its a beaver. Doesn’t really need the words actually, though I do like the “Hey“.
“Hey” indeed.
The Daily Star might be what we’d hand to the extraterrestrials to give them an idea of what our focus really is, or we’d roll it up to bop them on the head (nearest equivalent) to shoo them out of our atmosphere.
Either way, we’d still say “Hey”.
If they ever come at all, but in the meanwhile….we’ve clouds.
We’re just not dangerous enough yet. Or cool enough either. I’m doing my bit, but you should all really be a bit more dangerous.
Perhaps like the warrior in the garden, rather than the gardener in a war. But I’m frankly more interested in a dangerous gardner.
With big, purple and suggestive-as-hell vegetables. Mainly purple.
It’s nice to have a goal which accommodates climate change, since the UK is going to have no aims to avoid it.
And, purple vegetables. Very ‘in-vogue’. Very ‘end-times’.
It’s getting hotter. Leave the heating off, especially if you’re in the pub.
I like a cold pub. It’s a chance to wear your coat indoors, as though you’re at ski-resort in South London (great place to drink and ski but not actually the latter).
Or you can wear loads and loads of fashionable outfits, like the music video for ‘Only You’ performed by The Flying Pickets.
THAT’S fashion. THAT’S a chilly pub.
It’s scenic. Looks good. You can’t take it away from chilly pubs, from The Flying Pickets, and from magpies.
Take a magpie. Take two, they’re free.
Now flatten it.
And you’ve got yourself the flag I’ve always thought would suit me, and my inevitable nation-state, very well indeed thank you.
Of course the black, of course the white. But those two; with that blue……if not the heights, then certainly the depths of fashion.
The last thing I noted in this paper was an advert. For a book of a tale from a witness to warcrimes they endured as a child in WW2.
I’ve tried to write about this theme but I’ve struggled to summarise in my irreverent style.
WW2 is still the news. Because we still can’t quite believed it happened.
Probably a book worth reading. Like a newspaper worth enjoying the pictures of.
Sam
I read the paper. Now I’ve opinions.
Posted: December 24, 2023 Filed under: Today's paper. | Tags: Banksy, cats, Christmas, Christmas swim, dogs, Druids, funny, Humour, News, Newspaper, poo, Sewage, Stonehenge, Stop, Street art, Veterinary, Winter soltice, writing Leave a commentYou’d better watch out!
You’d better not cry!
You’d better watch out and I’m telling you why...
Sam just read the paper, today.
And the world is fucked, in a very ‘but buy tomorrow’s edition’ way.
Actually, you can’t buy tomorrow’s edition because it’s Christmas Day, but that’s no reason to not panic about world events.
Such as the pet owner who was charged £40 for a phone call to discuss his cat’s constipation.
If the cat had eaten the phone, causing both constipation and a necessary phone call, I’m on the side of the vet. Holding up a scratching and wailing cat to my ear will result in me as calmly as possible letting you know that I’m going to be charging you for this above my normal rates.
Of course, the cat didn’t eat the phone, which is nice, and it did get some medicine, which is about as nice as not eating a phone.
Then there was the annual Christmas Day plunge into sewage on the nation’s coastal swimming spots.
Concerns are that those who like the bracing experience of seawater in December whilst wearing an amusing hat might get poo in their mouths, eyes, stomachs and bloodstream. And brain, probably.
I don’t know much about poo, but I wonder if it’s good for the skin. Probably not, but also, possibly so.
Maybe we should start finding alternative uses for poo, rather than just sending it down river or hiding it under less-pooey things.
Maybe use it in Law? Like shitting in the sinks of the water company Execs for every illness and death their actions caused. Copro-punishment.
Still, here’s hoping the Execs and the swimmers all have a happy Christmas.
The Druids made the news, at the only time of year they ever seem to these days (scarcely at all this millenia so far) to welcome winter solstice.
They watched the sun come up apparently, at Stonehenge. Quite windy, according to reports.
Surrounded by Druids and flaming torches, with a sun rising between ancient menhirs, that must feel like a good place for the world to end. Wiltshire.
And lastly, someone was arrested for stealing some valuable criminal damage.
Banksy does his stencil and spray-paint thing and people are arrested for stealing it before the council has a fair chance to steal it for themselves.
When I write “bugger” on a wall, I’m just stared at. By my wife. In the living room.
A good message in the sign though. Things do need to stop. I hope they do.
Merry Christmas wishes and hopes to all those who won’t have one.
Sam
There are ballerinas out there. Somewhere. Boiling eggs.
Posted: December 22, 2023 Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: ballerina, ballerinas, ballet, dance, floating, funny, Humour, The Nutcracker, thud, toes Leave a commentI give you my word on this. Ballerinas are heavy.
By God, you know when a ballerina’s leap is finished. They land visually like nobody else – dainty and flowery. But they land audibly like the best and rest of us. “Thud.“
Though I’ve not been landed-upon my many professionals, I’m sure ballerinas would take the biscuit, even more than a bakery burglar.
I think they have to be weighty – as a matter of function.
One can’t twiddle one’s toes incessantly, to the point of being able to launch an entire human through the air just by toe-power, without becoming immensely and densely muscular from the ankle down.
That’s why ballerina’s thud.
They’re paid to thud.
They’re trained to thud.
And they bloody well do, thud.
However, the thud is only so thuddy thanks to the silence with which they float through the air, but this is where it depends on what you attend a ballet for, because I really think the thud lasts longer than the floating.
Whilst floating is for some, and thudding is for others, I’m not a real fan of either in the context of ballet. Devastating news, I know, for the thousands of ballerinas reading this, but I’ve a priority I must ask.
Where are you? And what are you doing?
It’s it strange to think that there are ballerinas out there in the world, in society, being ballerinas.
Catching flights, boiling eggs, breaking up with partners, forgetting their cat’s name till the third attempt, and perhaps maybe even two or three other things, but all whilst being a ballerina.
I’d presume they need to stub their toes continually too, simply to ensure hardiness, so any opportunity to kick something hard would be taken too. I presume. I don’t know as I’ve never met a ballerina, but they must be out there somewhere.
Probably, though hopefully not, you’re presuming I’ve a weird focus on wanting to find a ballerina.
I don’t want to find a ballerina at all, and I’ve no intention of seeking them out. I just don’t want to be surprised by one all of a sudden when out in public.
DO you catch flights? DO you boil eggs?
And do you read a script for your feet?
The Nutcracker is a ballet over 100 years old, and there is a much beloved score that is performed note for note, as per the sheet music.
Where’s the script for the feet? Or is improvisation of the feet expected?
Are ballets scripted per flourish of the limb? Is it written somewhere, or does a choreographer tell people when to move which leg where and in what manner once the Rat King turns up?
When to thud, and when to float? And in which direction, and – remember this – with a facial expression?!
Maybe I should meet a ballerina, just to dispel these ignorancies of mine, but till I do I’ll simply have to remain vague in understanding, though I’ll tell everyone that asks that I expect ballerinas are out there somewhere, and that they do boil eggs when necessary.
And that’s just the primary ballerina, which I think is a ‘soloist’, but there are extras too, and what the hell do they spend their time doing apart from practicing to over-react to a ballerina’s floating whilst pretending that a thud isn’t about to happen.
I suppose it is like much of stage theatre – a matter of over-reacting until you’re paid, in costume, at matinee and evening performances. Acting can be brilliant, but to really pull of being a stage-extra, you’ve got to get the knack of over-reacting subtly.
Like a parsnip chip pretending to be a potato chip. Very convincing, and quite irritating too.
I’d rather be the bear that pursues the rest of them off-stage.
I could make a good bear. I’d look better anyway.
I always do when I look like someone else.
Sam
I’d look better with a broken nose. No thanks, though.
Posted: November 28, 2023 Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: appearances, career, Humour, injury, nose, noses, occupation, scar, scars Leave a commentEveryone likes a scar.
I’ve got two.
I got one from accidentally cutting my arm with a knife my friend brought me back from India. I was playing with it, like a teenager does, and thought, “I bet this won’t even cut my arm”. So I tried it.
And it didn’t cut my arm.
So I sharpened it……..and then – here’s the really idiotic point – I tried to see if it would slice my arm this time.
I thought it didn’t, for a second, and then when I saw the white skin part and reveal some very red flesh beneath, I became very cold and started hopping from one foot to the other, grabbing some kitchen-towel and making my way to the nearest room in which blood stains are less of a problem to clean up.
I doused the cut in strong alcohol, anti-septic cleanser too, wrapped a whole tube of toilet roll around it, and went for a walk to pretend it hadn’t happened. It healed, but the scar was broad (AKA, a good one).
The other time, I put my hand through a plaster wall at high velocity (I thought it would be pretty cool, but I now I look back, the wall didn’t really deserve it).
As a quick third, I’d forgotten about that time with that squirrel in Central Park, but that’s a bushy tail covered in my own blood for another time.
It’s good when a scar has a good origin, like a career-wound.
I like a list of occupational injuries, though I have to admit, when I’m quite unaware of what a particular job really consists of, I might get a tad cartoonish.
In the newspaper recently, I read a story of a storm chaser (something which is apparently now not a mental hobby but something for which you’re reimbursed).
Internally, I wrote the following likely occupational injuries for a storm chaser:
1 – dusty lung (on account of so much of it being in the air)
2 – street-sign through the head (on account of so many of them being in the air)
3 – messy hair (poor souls)
4 – just….gone. Blown the fuck away like I was after hearing the Red Hot Chili Peppers’ iconic 1991 album ‘Blood, Sugar, Sex, Magic’.
Careers are lives, and you want a couple of good injuries and scars to boast about on the way to the grave.
Most likely for me, presently, it is what the worst thing that can happen to you whilst typing.
Personally, I like the idea of being landed on by a whale that mistook sky for water but mistook-to-it very well indeed for a while, until approximately somewhere over my house.
More likely, it’ll be to do with posture, which is lame, lame, lame. Like me, eventually, in this line of work.
I’d like an occupational broken nose. Like Rocky.
Some dude: “What do you do, man?”
Moi: “I work in an office.”
Some dude: “Oh yeah, I can tell by the nose.”
I’ve always thought I’d look good with a broken nose, but I’m too likeable, apparently, or more probably just out of reach.
There’s something geographically historical about a broken snozzle. Like granite, hither and thither, with a crookedness that would be used in nursery rhymes if it weren’t for the fact they’ve all already been written.
Doesn’t hurt that as I’ve gotten older, I’ve begun to appreciate bigger noses.
There’s nothing like them.
Being able to pull-off a really big hooter, and still be found cool and/or attractive, is where I want to be in life.
Nasally successful. Nostrilly fortuitous. Sneezily exemplary. Sniffily…never mind, that’s enough.
And as such, I’ve got potential, not just to enjoy my own nose, but also to enjoy it being a broken nose with has a certain…I don’t know what (but French).
The French have great noses and not to be Francophobic, but I’ll leave it at that, and the bread.
“Sniffily nevermind”.
Sam
Rational fear – there might be sharks in the soup.
Posted: November 25, 2023 Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: baths, cold dead eyes, fear, Humour, life, monsters, sharks, soup, swimming Leave a commentMy main problem with sharks is that they’re fucking real.
It would be like someone in a fantasy novel asking why you have a problem with fire-breathing dragons.
Sharks are monsters. Total monsters. Perfect monsters.
Monsters to the point that if one were stranded on a mountain top, flailing and gnashing atop a peak with me in close proximity – it’d still be more of a danger to me than I would be to it.
Consider then, how fragile I am when in their natural habitat.
Underwater.
I’m bad at ‘underwater’. I can’t do it.
I won’t do it. Primarily because of the lack of oxygen and potential overabundance of sharks – even at my local heated swimming pool.
That’s why I’m perpetually spinning in my bath tub, ever fearful of the chance there might just be space for a Great White to have snuck up behind me to attack (from behind as they’ve got no class).
That’s why I avoid water, especially the sea but including my local heated swimming pool, as the chance of there being a shark might occasionally be zero, but that’s also suspiciously low a chance and therefore there probably is one. At my local pool, lurking in the deep end.
As far as I know, if not in water (as they tend to be most of the time), they’re otherwise inhabit soup in the Far East. So I also avoid Far Eastern soup, in case it’s a trap.
If, atop that aforementioned mountaintop, I were to kick a shark as hard as I could in its face – the result would be a loud and quiet combination of nothing happening and me having a foot bitten off.
I’m not naturally designed for a mountaintop, compared to a shark’s perfection in the sea, but I don’t think moving the shark to the forests, prairies or office spaces would make much difference.
And they’re not frightened of us, like spiders.
They’re more likely ambivalent, even whilst chewing my leg.
Do sharks chew? Or do they just rip and swallow
I’ve swam in oceans before, but that was inspired by giddy youth and pretty girls, so since losing both those things I look back on those open-sea occasions with bewildered fury as to what the hell I thought I was playing at.
I have the same regret after baths, or swimming in heated pools, below ceilings, with my family and the local community.
Supposedly they’re just curious, but they’re never without hunger. So no – I don’t want to be nudged by a shark, or embezzled by Tiger shark, or defamed by Hammerhead. I want zero interactions with them.
Especially though, I don’t want to be eaten by one.
I don’t want the last thing I see to be the inside of a shark, in chilly water. Headfirst inside a shark, in that context, might be the way to go, rather than foot-first and having to bugger about with the drowning too.
As such, to all shark, please leave me alone.
You’ve got your space, I’ve got mine.
If you’ve got a problem with shipping lanes and ocean pollution, that’s not my fault, and the revenge is not to be taken out on me and my body parts.
Lastly, whilst this make no sense to any sharks reading this, and less so to any other living creatures that can actually read: stay the hell out of my bath!
It feels wrong to end on a sour note, so here’s some credit to them. They might have cold dead eyes, but it does suit the scene they’re aiming for, and would you really rather they had warm, smiling eyes that winked at you as if to say “Nice lower half….it’s mine now.”
Sam
“Let’s get current” (an idea I once had)
Posted: November 16, 2023 Filed under: Matters that Matter | Tags: blogging, contemporary, history, Humour, Putin, Ukraine, writing Leave a commentI had an idea once to make this blog a big success – of the acknowledgeable sort – where people would stop and say “Hey – look at that big successful blog…”
Part of the plan was to ‘get current’, which I didn’t.
However, building on that from back then, I’d like to bring things to the here and now, keeping the finger to the pulse and the front page journos paying attention to me for the next scoop.
And, to be inclusive of events I’ve missed since I had then, I’ll be beginning with the current events at the time I had the idea: in February 2022.
So, apparently there’s a massing of Russian troops at the Ukraine border.
I hope everything turns out alright.
Imagine if Russia invaded Ukraine – that’d make a lot of noise.
This isn’t working.
Maybe being current isn’t where it’s at any more.
Perhaps I should turn to historical events, and cover with insights into yesteryear that entice the reader into re-reading and re-reading till at the ultimate heights – generating advertising revenue.
I just need an historical event to with which to begin.
How about this – way back in February 2022? I had an idea to ‘get current’ and make my blog the next fresh thing about to hit the big time, at which people would say “Hey, look at that blog, in a minute”.
This idea coincided with outbreak of war between invading Russia and Ukraine, so I quickly for became distracted.
This isn’t working, again.
Reconsidering this plan, it could be that the war in Europe outweighs a nice little idea for my blog, in terms of being regarded a ‘historical event’.
Still, having a blog not only gives you the chance to stand out unique from the crowd and draw attention to yourself and be admired.
It also gives you the chance to say what millions of others say and think daily, which is due no greater regard than being praised for noticing your legs are in the same room as you.
In that theme, to echo something worth echoing, Fuck Vladmir (I hate him on a first-name basis).
Vladmir has no class.
Vladmir is incompetent at many things.
Vladmir’s handshake is so gross, it feels like someone is wanking your hand and looking you in the eye with a Russian accent.
Vladmir has a smelly face and a fat personality.
Vladmir ain’t welcome round these parts.
Vladmir looks like he should be sitting sadly at a bus stop in the rain, holding a carrier bag with nothing in it.
Vladmir, Vladmir, Vladmir….
Go fuck yourself, Vladmir.
Apologies, this may have descended into cyberbullying the Russian President (“Vladmir…..something”), but judging by what I’ve read happens to his enemies, I’m sure I’ll get my comeuppance – so everything should work out well for everyone.
In which case, to echo again: go fuck yourself Vladmir. You ruined February 2022, you ruined my blog, you wrecked and ended lives forever, and worsened a troubled world in need of what Russia can really do.
Go fuck yourself Vladmir. I checked in with School No. 193 at Baskov Lane, which you attended, and they all thought you were a wanker. They could tell by the handshake.
Sam
This place needs a new smell. Or a window. (Also a vendetta against God).
Posted: November 4, 2023 Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: God, Humour, philosophy, pool, pool-hall, Religion, vendetta, vengeance Leave a commentI don’t do ‘deep-dives’ into topics for these writings, so what follows might be best described as a ‘splash’.
Or maybe a ‘plop’?
I was about to suggest ‘tinkle’ too, but I really need to focus, especially as that’s what I didn’t seem to be able to do last night.
I went to a pool-hall last night and lost 7-0 to my wife. I don’t think I played particularly badly, but luck wasn’t on my side and my wife’s simple superior in everyway.
You’d probably imagine that I was feeling a little low from this felt low, which I was after the first loss.
By the 4th loss I was trying to start conversation on I’m knowledgeable on so I could retain a degree of….something. I don’t know if being down 4-0 has a counter equivalent, especially intellectually.
It’s never the case that something doesn’t matter because: “yeah, well, I’ve got a degree…”
My wife had even started being sympathetic, which made the whole thing worse.
As I said, I wasn’t playing badly, just bad luck after bad luck. I seemed to pot the white after every shot and every ‘cert’ I hit bounced back out of the pocket.
I could be tempted to say there was something else at play here. Because there was, and it might have been Jesus.
No matter the deity, I needed to get something out of the evening so decided it might as well be a religious experience.
And this pool-hall setting suited a religious experience down to the ground.
Full of men, mostly bearded, with one woman doing really well and making them all feel uncomfortable (“shouldn’t be allowed. she’s got tits to lean on. unfair advantage. dependable tits.”)
No windows too. And that is a bit odd – I don’t think my pool game is worsened by sunlight.
And a smell that wasn’t really there. Vaguely cleaning fluid – but it could have been so much more.
It could have been the sort of smell you can see. Wherein part of the ceremony involves wafting it.
What else does one waft, than a visible whiff.
There was no clear dress code (they even allowed trainers), but I feel some particular garb would have been appropriate. Something oddly stiff in certain areas, made from the faux-version of an animal that doesn’t exist any more. Or a fish.
With all that in place, the stiff garb, the visible whiff, the lack of sunlight and no women – then I could really get mad.
7-0, someone has to pay.
And they will. So now I’ve decide to launch a campaign of annihilation against God.
Surely it was He that guided my white balls to the pockets, He that caused every good shot to reject gravity and bounce-out instead, He that encouraged my wife to be extra-nice to me, making me feel all the more minimal.
That’s probably why he created the world; so I could lose at pool last night. That’s how it felt, anyway.
Having a vendetta like this, especially against the Divine, is very liberating.
Very freshing.
Why did I get out of bed today? To wreak sweet vengeance on the creator!
Why did I go back to bed shortly afterwards? Because I forgot it was a Saturday and we all felt fancied a lay-in, but the urge to destroy heaven is still there.
I’ll give you an update on the progress of that soon.
Quickly to clarify before signing off: pool-halls are religious but could be more so, and that ‘God’ – oh he’s going to get it.
Sam
“Yeah, and it’s not as romantic when you use the hoover.”
Posted: October 7, 2023 Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: hoovers, Humour, kids, romance, wife Leave a commentThe sentences we say…
Humans say the darndest things. In fact, I prefer not speak without guarantees that it’s the darndest thing being said in the room at that moment.
The above title is something my wife replied with to me.
Context aside (and I’m absolutely not going into the context – it’s too hilariously arousing), it was at least amongst the darndest of spoken word.
A year ago, I was washing the dishes at my kitchen sink, and my son rushed in with a grim look on his face to say “Daddy, two of The Beatles are DEAD.”
We’d been to Liverpool a fortnight earlier and the news most have only then sunk in about John and George.
I suppose The Beatles said the darndest things too.
So did Idi Amin.
Maybe the darndest things are just things people say, but perhaps only he darndest people say them.
Like children, Scouse rock stars, and Ugandan tyrants.
And my wife, as I interrupt the housework with contexts I shan’t go into.
Sometimes all you need is something to say.
Just try not to be repetitive.
Yours darndestly,
Sam
Mindful destruction and me (I’m a baseball bat kind of guy)
Posted: October 1, 2023 Filed under: Matters that Matter | Tags: baseball bats, comedy, Culture, destruction, human, Humour, philosophy, superglue Leave a commentI’m not an artist.
And I’m certainly not a creator (my kids and debris aside).
I’m a smasher, a breaker of things, a “that’s not supposed to be in there, Sam” kind of guy.
No, actually I’m a baseball bat kind of guy.
Baseball bats are the place to be, a way to dance and the means of rhythm that coincides with deep and hearty impact in the soul.
Here’s one of my former favourites (once named ‘Old Slugger’), which caught fire one enchanted evening:
It’s natural to enjoy a stick, a good stick, a stick that makes your walk home from work a good one.
And aiming approximately at the planet, swinging wildly (the only way to do it) and bracing yourself for your own impact, this is about enjoying a collision that reminds you of who you are.
I prefer apples.
Preferably slightly rotten (for the spread) but I’m prepared to again spend to have the freshest ingredients.
Baseball bats and apples.
Also bananas, pineapples and occasionally a roast chicken.
This is the relationship I have with fresh fruit and poultry.
Impacts so deep I feel like I’m part of their diet. An unnecessary 5-a-day.
I can’t fix this smashed plant pot in the shape of a classic VW campervan. I can’t superglue it in the right places, and I can’t marry up the many pieces to be flush.
I can smash it again though, and we can all enjoy the pieces (or I buy a new one, most likely).
I moved onto a chair today, two big wicker inherited buggers that took up more room than the total mass of my family combined.
With hammer and axe, as well as sinew and love, I tore them to pieces, and have just finished. There’s sweat, foul language and bits of wicker everywhere. My children were told to stay out of daddy’s deconstruction area.
I now have pieces of the wicker chair up on my wall. Does that count as what you’d want to consider creation?
I didn’t build the wall, but I did nail something I broke to it.
Really, I need to learn how to use superglue.
But I can’t deny in me the ‘back home’ sensation of laying a baseball bat into something. It’s the future, and I’d like to think I’m a part of that.
It’s not helpful, but it does, I believe, make us feel better.
So let’s strive for this measured mindful destruction in the long-term, and meanwhile, let’s pay attention to those who now how to superglue, build walls and fashion wicker chairs.
I suppose, someone needs to make the baseball bats, but till then there’s always sticks on the way home from your walk.
Thanks for reading.
Yours, swinging wildly at the planet,
Sam
Making your brother King of Spain, just to show him who is boss
Posted: September 17, 2023 Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: funny, history, Humour, king of spain, Napoleon, siblings Leave a commentI was reading about Napoleon and Waterloo and Wellington, and their brothers and household expenses, and the monarchy, and becoming emperor, and Josephine, etc, and more etc, last night.
Or, I was reading about the ‘Napoleonic period’, if you’d prefer to read a better-written sentence?
There was a particular take-away for me, which was that at some point the Emperor Napoleon decided to make his older brother the King of Naples (which is nice), and then the King of Spain (which is also nice).
I cannot conceive of the bragging rights that allocates you, when you’ve made your older brother the King of two different things.
I’d love to make my big brother the King of Spain, just to show him.
Just to show him that whilst he once made himself King of the Castle, pushing me in the face back down the climbing frame, I’ve now gone slightly mental enough to make him King of Spain and there’s nothing he can do about it.
You’re King of Spain. No backsies.
And he’d have to sit on his throne and send me reports when I ask for them, and host banquets for important guests that I can’t be bothered to meet because I’m Emperor, bitch.
It’s also Spain, so I can regularly intimate that whilst I’m made him King, this is also a very easy kingdom to have bestowed on you by your younger brother.
However, for me to do this today would require a lot of paperwork, and quite frankly an invasion of Spain that I am just not up to right now.
I have a baseball bat and one of those flashlights you can strap to your head.
Spain might not be seen as a military power anymore, but I expect they can outdo me on the advanced military technology front.
If their army is two people, then they’ve outdone me on the manpower front too.
Two-to-one.
My brother tried to inflict a nobility on me once, by purchasing a square foot of land in Scotland that somehow entitles me to be known as a ‘Lord’.
It was a wedding gift, and I’ll have my vengeance, for that and for the climbing frame incident of 1996.
Now if you’ll kindly excuse me, I need to raise an army to overthrow the monarchy, become tyrant of Europe, lose it all, gain it all back again, have a really, seriously bad time in Russia, go down in history and one of the greatest generals and leaders of all time, and, most importantly, get one over on my big brother.
Sam
The Lateral Column 