Well, there it is. Life in the fast lane, or even in the slow lane with occasional bursts of overtaking is over. This time, retirement is real. How will I cope with unfilled days? Will I die of boredom or drink? Which one is better? Will I be a fun Grandad taking my cue from Chris Tingle, in Miracle on 34th. Street, or will the resemblance be more Meldrew than Attenborough? Why am I asking you. You are possibly on the daily treadmill, longing to get off, or one of Gordon’s Forgotten, praying to get back on, or maybe a failed Banker counting your ill-gotten Bonuses!
I may have years, I may have months, I may have days. Who knows? How shall I fill that time?
In my days gone by, the decision was made for me. The need to eat is a primeval urge, closely followed by the similar needs of a wife and children. The need to keep an overhead roof, and to make regular payments to maintain that roof provided a similar stimulus. Somehow the fight or flight urge was always added to by the lurking presence of a real Bank Manager, remember when people really believed that they lived in a wardrobe rather than a fantasy world. In those days they actually lent money without you having to prove you didn’t need it. I was one who took them at their word, took the money and spent endless nights worrying how to pay it back. Now, of course they owe all of us money, and it doesn’t seem to cost them a moment’s sleep! Perhaps this Diary should be called In Pursuit of Bankers, but then I would have to add to the list, Politicians, the Scots, Morris Dancers, and Members of the Sealed Knot, and I would end up a smaller and more bitter version of Jeremy Clarkson, and there is more than enough of him to go round already!
So, back to my future life plan. As can be seen from above, financial planning is not one of my strong points, so what is? What lessons have I learned from my past life? I know. As a result of numerous ‘ Management ‘ courses during my time in a proper job. That is as opposed to dressing up , and pretending to live in the 17th Century, while using modern conveniences, like conveniences, and washing, and not having lice! No not the Sealed Knot-more anon. One lesson was to use a Swot analysis. For the benefit of those who managed to avoid such useful Courses, bankers for example, or those who managed to live through childhood in Holsworthy without being eaten or buggered senseless by their extended family, this stands for Strengths, Weaknesses, Opportunities and Threats. The first threat is of course if this should fall into the hands of anyone from Holsworthy, but in view of the overwhelming majority being literally challenged when faced with anything more than the Sun ot the Beano, both of which have now been combined to make the Sunday Sport, that seems as likely as a 13 year old being the first to deflower a virgin on an Eastbourne Housing Estate. As we all know, teenage girls in such areas move from riding in prams to pushing them and sucking dummies to fellatio, in less time than it takes them to claim their benefits!
The S in Swot stands of course for Strengths We all have some if we look hard enough, so what are mine. Finance, no, see above. I have to recognise that I am to DIY what Russell Brand is to Help the Aged, so that is out. My garden is a postage stamp so clearly that can soon be licked into shape, so what else. Like all men, I am superb in bed and in the car, so maybe I could become a motorised Gigolo. The flaw in that plan is that I am not a great one for driving at night, and possibly even the most exhibitionist of Wiltshire women might object to waving their legs out of the car in a car park somewhere, leading us to be banned from Sainsbury’s, not a good thing when I have so many points on my Nectar Card. Mind you, I could change my Supermarket. From the look of many of the folk in Trowbridge, I would think that carnal activity at Asda is almost obligatory. The trouble is that my car and I are reaching an age when the gear lever may fail at any time or indeed slip into the wrong part of the box with an almighty grind. How embarrassing would it be to have to give money back, probably every day!
I could take up cooking. Let’s face it at any time on any day, well heeled chefs, who charge £100 for a meal no better than can be found in a French Routier for one third of the price, even allowing for the drop in the value of the Euro, are showing us a million and one things to do with our best end. If they can do it, so can I! Unfortunately, at all family celebrations which is an oxymoron if I ever heard one, my older offspring remind me of the one time I ever cooked for them while the Ayatollah was in hospital preparing for the birth of the youngest offspring. It would appear to have been so bad that even the offspring’s offspring know all about it! I think it might even make Ramsay swear! So, no future for me on Ready Steady Puke!
I am of course able to create the character of a 17th. Century itinerant Preacher, who drank and fornicated his way around North Devon. You have to tell them you are doing it in character or else your behaviour will be seen as quite usual! Thus for seven long years, I could be seen on the steps of a Visitor Attraction encouraging a range of people, ranging from screaming brats to flatulent geriatrics to part with their money, suspend belief, for a couple of hours, and enter our world. I have found however, that people in Melksham are less used to the sight of rampant inebriated Churchmen than they were in Devon, with the honourable exception of the Bishop of Bath and Wells of course.
This Character work led to TV Extras work. Now, this is a job for somebody who likes doing absolutely nothing for hours on end. The Agency gives you your instructions, where to go, and what to wear. They tell you to take a book-what they don’t tell you is that they mean War and Peace or Gibbons Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire! You are also strictly forbidden to fall asleep while waiting. BBCc Producers are far too important to fall over prone supporting Artistes who have waited for seven hours to be called to the set of Casualty. So, what to do? I recommend counting skinny blondes and matching them up with the number of mobile phones they carry. For some reason, all the BBC production staff are young size 0 blondes all talking earnestly into at least three mobile phones at once. They then attach them to their belts, and switch them to vibrating mode, which at least makes some sense! The highlight of a Supporting Artistes day is of course the food. Breakfast and lunch are massive and well cooked in a tiny cramped space. In fact, what is achieved in such a small place would put even a Consultant Gynaecologist to shame. There are rules to be followed here as well however. With the honourable exception of Casualty, the pecking order places the Cast and Crew first in the queue, well in front of the Extras. Unlike the Production Team, the crew are usually large, muscular, and carrying numerous tools to adjust your vertical hold!
Eventually, if you are lucky, you will be called on set by a harassed 3rd. Assistant Director. Now comes the first trap. You have been ordered to stay awake, but you have had your huge lunch and your apple crumble and custard, and then some fool puts you on a bed as a patient and you are there for over an hour while numerous takes are shot of the same scene happening where you can see nothing so it is hardly surprising if you doze off, and wake with a start to find that you have a) snored, b)farted, and c)been filmed for the next OutTakes Show!
If you avoid that trap, you will be all set for the take, when a mobile phone goes off. You pray it isn’t yours as you have been playing with your phone all day to convince everybody you are getting lots of work from your Agents. If it is yours you have committed the second worst sin in the Supporting Artistes Handbook. Only Superstars are allowed to have their phones ring on Set, because the Producer has paid too much to get them and cannot afford to upset them.
What you may ask is the worst sin? Well, that is to take photographs, or worse yet, ask for an Actor’s autograph, Those guilty of such a crime will be drummed out of their Agency, and their defaced photos sent to every luvvie organisation in the World. No more chance of a lifetime's fame on Big Brother, no sharing a shower with Myleene in the jungle. You will be fit only for the worst fate of all - the One Show. I am reliably informed that this is how Adrian Chiles was chosen-so be warned!
Life in the 17th. Century was so much easier. As a drunken Preacher, I was expected to inhabit a drunken state of stupor, in fact my colleagues preferred me that way! I was surrounded by a wide range of characters including Mistress Tucker, the Witch that be all the Better for a Burning, Sir Basil Smallpiece, who lost his courage and much else on Naseby Battlefield, and of course Mistress Martha Urine Taker from the Gentry. It never ceased to amaze me how many uses there were for urine. We bleached with it, used it for curing warts, and of course chilblains, and frequently used it for the softening of our boots, sometimes on purpose. The greatest taking of the urine, however was reserved for visiting members of the Sealed Knot. Every year, they would arrive to celebrate the town’s claim to fame, a Civil War Battle. Now I have yet to go anywhere that has not had a Civil War Battle, or a skirmish, or a siege. Oliver Cromwell clearly spent so much time in the saddle that he must have had piles, let alone warts. No wonder he was so bad-tempered he banned Christmas and cut off a King’s Head! The various hostelries named after the King’s Head, or any other alehouse, are where the Sealed Knot refight their battles, among much discussion of ‘Orthenticity’This isto ensure that they do not die on the Battlefield dressed in anything other than a hand sewn shirt, because sewing machines were not invented in the 1600s. Unfortunately, one can clearly see from their outfits that digital watches and desert boots were around at that time, although many are quite happy to bathe as infrequently as their ancestors. This would be quite acceptable from a distance, but one of their less endearing habits is to lecture everyone else on the subject of ‘Orthenticity’ Whatever good came out of the English civil War, it was not the invention of anoraks!
So clearly I shall not be welcomed into the Sealed Knot or the English Civil War Society who spend even more time fighting each other than Oliver did in his numerous battles. Apart from anything else I am of an age where one is woken in the night by bodily functions far more often that carnal desires, and the prospect of tripping over , or even relieving myself over a hairy-assed pikeman is not an attractive one though it does have a certain poetic justice about it.
Strengths therefore seem to be somewhat thin on the ground. Possibly I should move on to Weaknesses. I admit to none, although those who know me may disagree, and I forgive them their lack of appreciation!
It could be said that I have fondness for fine wines, beers, ciders, spirits, and alcoholic beverages in general, but I have never regarded this as anything other than a desire to understand the experts on these matters who roll the liquid around their tongues and then expectorate the same. I copy their technique, but in deference to the provider of the fluid, I choose to swallow rather than spit, a tradition much I am told enjoyed by the previously discussed teenage denizens of Estates up and down the Country. Thinking of it, this technique should be greatly encouraged as a form of contraception!
Possibly then, I should devote myself to studying this art form, perhaps even travelling around the Country in a caravan sampling the local brews, but unfortunately, this has already been done by James May and Oz Clarke, the two of them in a very small caravan! As James May is a noted devotee of his own flatulence, in such a small area, what this has done to Oz’s renowned nose for wine can only be guessed at!, but then I tend to find that all wine buffs are so firmly inserted into their own sphincters ( see also Jilly Goulden) so perhaps he doesn’t notice! No, when it comes to imbibing, I shall remain an enthusiastic, but dedicated amateur.
As a man, of course, I am particularly interested in Pornography, nothing illegal of course, or anything to do with sheep, of which I am inordinately fond. Merely the physical manifestations of romantic love between the genders to remind me of what I was sometimes able to achieve in ears gone by, many years now that I come to think of it! I have just noticed that, as a Freudian slip, I have said ‘ in ears gone by’ I would not like it thought that I have ever indulged this particular orifice, nor even derived pleasure from having my ears syringed, which is probably the nearest I have got to Aural Sex. Unfortunately, my wife would much prefer to watch Cookery Programmes of which there are multitudes! Perhaps, when all the famous chefs have completely run out of ideas as to what to braise, boil or roast, they will combine the thought of Food with Porn. This could be Masterbonk, or Ready, Steady, Screw! Ainsley could stand there and shout “Stop Fucking!!” Still would you really want to watch Gordon Ramsay bringing a whole new meaning to stuffing a chicken on the F Word? I think not.
The other matter that stops me from carrying out detailed research into “Pornography; A Serious Student’s Guide” is that my son, God Bless him, who has set my computer up, has installed a firewall so comprehensive that, never mind porn, I was not even able to view lingerie on the M & S web-site, purely for presents of course. Other people type in “Body Massagers” and are overwhelmed with sites offering machines that will attack the clitoris, whatever that is, with the power of a pneumatic drill. I typed in Sodom & Gomorrah, and was refused access as the machine thought it related to anal sex with an Irishman shouting “begorrah!!” I could buy books of course, but as every shelf in the house is full of cookery books, I would have to throw some out, which would not please the Ayatollah, and therefore whatever activity the porn may remind me of, would quickly become theoretical!
One also has to say that it may encourage one to relive one’s youth and indulge in experimentation. This, as one gets older, could be detrimental to one’s health. One is possibly not as supple as one was. One is more prone to cramp, falling asleep on the job, or suffering from an urgent call of nature, all of which are quite acceptable with a sheep, but not usually seen in many erotic films to the best of my knowledge! It is also true that the memory is not what it was. I am now of an age when “soixante neuf” is chicken and beansprouts in a Paris takeaway, and doing it doggy fashion iis being taken short in the park and urinating up a tree!!No, I am afreaid that porn would not be suitable for a man of my mature years, although it would make the Oscars more interesting if they had a category for erotic films. It could mean that someone genuinely had brought tears to Kate Winslet’s eyes rather than her reliving the things she used to do in the bathroom with a hairbrush! Now that is a film I would pay to go & see!!
Talking of the Oscars, when did Bombay become Mumbai- who decides this? And why don’t they take it the whole way? When did you last go into an Indian restaurant and order Mumbai Potato, or Mumbai Duck, or choke on Mumbai Mix? Same as Beijing, does ot apply to the duck? No it doesn’t. You watch, soon the Welsh will change all their place names into Welsh, and then not only will nobody want to pay £5 for the privilege of visiting them over the bridge, but none of us will be able to pronounce them without producing a cascade of spit taking us back to the days of Roy Hattersley. I suppose that means us showing the Welsh our English phlegm. . .
I may have years, I may have months, I may have days. Who knows? How shall I fill that time?
In my days gone by, the decision was made for me. The need to eat is a primeval urge, closely followed by the similar needs of a wife and children. The need to keep an overhead roof, and to make regular payments to maintain that roof provided a similar stimulus. Somehow the fight or flight urge was always added to by the lurking presence of a real Bank Manager, remember when people really believed that they lived in a wardrobe rather than a fantasy world. In those days they actually lent money without you having to prove you didn’t need it. I was one who took them at their word, took the money and spent endless nights worrying how to pay it back. Now, of course they owe all of us money, and it doesn’t seem to cost them a moment’s sleep! Perhaps this Diary should be called In Pursuit of Bankers, but then I would have to add to the list, Politicians, the Scots, Morris Dancers, and Members of the Sealed Knot, and I would end up a smaller and more bitter version of Jeremy Clarkson, and there is more than enough of him to go round already!
So, back to my future life plan. As can be seen from above, financial planning is not one of my strong points, so what is? What lessons have I learned from my past life? I know. As a result of numerous ‘ Management ‘ courses during my time in a proper job. That is as opposed to dressing up , and pretending to live in the 17th Century, while using modern conveniences, like conveniences, and washing, and not having lice! No not the Sealed Knot-more anon. One lesson was to use a Swot analysis. For the benefit of those who managed to avoid such useful Courses, bankers for example, or those who managed to live through childhood in Holsworthy without being eaten or buggered senseless by their extended family, this stands for Strengths, Weaknesses, Opportunities and Threats. The first threat is of course if this should fall into the hands of anyone from Holsworthy, but in view of the overwhelming majority being literally challenged when faced with anything more than the Sun ot the Beano, both of which have now been combined to make the Sunday Sport, that seems as likely as a 13 year old being the first to deflower a virgin on an Eastbourne Housing Estate. As we all know, teenage girls in such areas move from riding in prams to pushing them and sucking dummies to fellatio, in less time than it takes them to claim their benefits!
The S in Swot stands of course for Strengths We all have some if we look hard enough, so what are mine. Finance, no, see above. I have to recognise that I am to DIY what Russell Brand is to Help the Aged, so that is out. My garden is a postage stamp so clearly that can soon be licked into shape, so what else. Like all men, I am superb in bed and in the car, so maybe I could become a motorised Gigolo. The flaw in that plan is that I am not a great one for driving at night, and possibly even the most exhibitionist of Wiltshire women might object to waving their legs out of the car in a car park somewhere, leading us to be banned from Sainsbury’s, not a good thing when I have so many points on my Nectar Card. Mind you, I could change my Supermarket. From the look of many of the folk in Trowbridge, I would think that carnal activity at Asda is almost obligatory. The trouble is that my car and I are reaching an age when the gear lever may fail at any time or indeed slip into the wrong part of the box with an almighty grind. How embarrassing would it be to have to give money back, probably every day!
I could take up cooking. Let’s face it at any time on any day, well heeled chefs, who charge £100 for a meal no better than can be found in a French Routier for one third of the price, even allowing for the drop in the value of the Euro, are showing us a million and one things to do with our best end. If they can do it, so can I! Unfortunately, at all family celebrations which is an oxymoron if I ever heard one, my older offspring remind me of the one time I ever cooked for them while the Ayatollah was in hospital preparing for the birth of the youngest offspring. It would appear to have been so bad that even the offspring’s offspring know all about it! I think it might even make Ramsay swear! So, no future for me on Ready Steady Puke!
I am of course able to create the character of a 17th. Century itinerant Preacher, who drank and fornicated his way around North Devon. You have to tell them you are doing it in character or else your behaviour will be seen as quite usual! Thus for seven long years, I could be seen on the steps of a Visitor Attraction encouraging a range of people, ranging from screaming brats to flatulent geriatrics to part with their money, suspend belief, for a couple of hours, and enter our world. I have found however, that people in Melksham are less used to the sight of rampant inebriated Churchmen than they were in Devon, with the honourable exception of the Bishop of Bath and Wells of course.
This Character work led to TV Extras work. Now, this is a job for somebody who likes doing absolutely nothing for hours on end. The Agency gives you your instructions, where to go, and what to wear. They tell you to take a book-what they don’t tell you is that they mean War and Peace or Gibbons Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire! You are also strictly forbidden to fall asleep while waiting. BBCc Producers are far too important to fall over prone supporting Artistes who have waited for seven hours to be called to the set of Casualty. So, what to do? I recommend counting skinny blondes and matching them up with the number of mobile phones they carry. For some reason, all the BBC production staff are young size 0 blondes all talking earnestly into at least three mobile phones at once. They then attach them to their belts, and switch them to vibrating mode, which at least makes some sense! The highlight of a Supporting Artistes day is of course the food. Breakfast and lunch are massive and well cooked in a tiny cramped space. In fact, what is achieved in such a small place would put even a Consultant Gynaecologist to shame. There are rules to be followed here as well however. With the honourable exception of Casualty, the pecking order places the Cast and Crew first in the queue, well in front of the Extras. Unlike the Production Team, the crew are usually large, muscular, and carrying numerous tools to adjust your vertical hold!
Eventually, if you are lucky, you will be called on set by a harassed 3rd. Assistant Director. Now comes the first trap. You have been ordered to stay awake, but you have had your huge lunch and your apple crumble and custard, and then some fool puts you on a bed as a patient and you are there for over an hour while numerous takes are shot of the same scene happening where you can see nothing so it is hardly surprising if you doze off, and wake with a start to find that you have a) snored, b)farted, and c)been filmed for the next OutTakes Show!
If you avoid that trap, you will be all set for the take, when a mobile phone goes off. You pray it isn’t yours as you have been playing with your phone all day to convince everybody you are getting lots of work from your Agents. If it is yours you have committed the second worst sin in the Supporting Artistes Handbook. Only Superstars are allowed to have their phones ring on Set, because the Producer has paid too much to get them and cannot afford to upset them.
What you may ask is the worst sin? Well, that is to take photographs, or worse yet, ask for an Actor’s autograph, Those guilty of such a crime will be drummed out of their Agency, and their defaced photos sent to every luvvie organisation in the World. No more chance of a lifetime's fame on Big Brother, no sharing a shower with Myleene in the jungle. You will be fit only for the worst fate of all - the One Show. I am reliably informed that this is how Adrian Chiles was chosen-so be warned!
Life in the 17th. Century was so much easier. As a drunken Preacher, I was expected to inhabit a drunken state of stupor, in fact my colleagues preferred me that way! I was surrounded by a wide range of characters including Mistress Tucker, the Witch that be all the Better for a Burning, Sir Basil Smallpiece, who lost his courage and much else on Naseby Battlefield, and of course Mistress Martha Urine Taker from the Gentry. It never ceased to amaze me how many uses there were for urine. We bleached with it, used it for curing warts, and of course chilblains, and frequently used it for the softening of our boots, sometimes on purpose. The greatest taking of the urine, however was reserved for visiting members of the Sealed Knot. Every year, they would arrive to celebrate the town’s claim to fame, a Civil War Battle. Now I have yet to go anywhere that has not had a Civil War Battle, or a skirmish, or a siege. Oliver Cromwell clearly spent so much time in the saddle that he must have had piles, let alone warts. No wonder he was so bad-tempered he banned Christmas and cut off a King’s Head! The various hostelries named after the King’s Head, or any other alehouse, are where the Sealed Knot refight their battles, among much discussion of ‘Orthenticity’This isto ensure that they do not die on the Battlefield dressed in anything other than a hand sewn shirt, because sewing machines were not invented in the 1600s. Unfortunately, one can clearly see from their outfits that digital watches and desert boots were around at that time, although many are quite happy to bathe as infrequently as their ancestors. This would be quite acceptable from a distance, but one of their less endearing habits is to lecture everyone else on the subject of ‘Orthenticity’ Whatever good came out of the English civil War, it was not the invention of anoraks!
So clearly I shall not be welcomed into the Sealed Knot or the English Civil War Society who spend even more time fighting each other than Oliver did in his numerous battles. Apart from anything else I am of an age where one is woken in the night by bodily functions far more often that carnal desires, and the prospect of tripping over , or even relieving myself over a hairy-assed pikeman is not an attractive one though it does have a certain poetic justice about it.
Strengths therefore seem to be somewhat thin on the ground. Possibly I should move on to Weaknesses. I admit to none, although those who know me may disagree, and I forgive them their lack of appreciation!
It could be said that I have fondness for fine wines, beers, ciders, spirits, and alcoholic beverages in general, but I have never regarded this as anything other than a desire to understand the experts on these matters who roll the liquid around their tongues and then expectorate the same. I copy their technique, but in deference to the provider of the fluid, I choose to swallow rather than spit, a tradition much I am told enjoyed by the previously discussed teenage denizens of Estates up and down the Country. Thinking of it, this technique should be greatly encouraged as a form of contraception!
Possibly then, I should devote myself to studying this art form, perhaps even travelling around the Country in a caravan sampling the local brews, but unfortunately, this has already been done by James May and Oz Clarke, the two of them in a very small caravan! As James May is a noted devotee of his own flatulence, in such a small area, what this has done to Oz’s renowned nose for wine can only be guessed at!, but then I tend to find that all wine buffs are so firmly inserted into their own sphincters ( see also Jilly Goulden) so perhaps he doesn’t notice! No, when it comes to imbibing, I shall remain an enthusiastic, but dedicated amateur.
As a man, of course, I am particularly interested in Pornography, nothing illegal of course, or anything to do with sheep, of which I am inordinately fond. Merely the physical manifestations of romantic love between the genders to remind me of what I was sometimes able to achieve in ears gone by, many years now that I come to think of it! I have just noticed that, as a Freudian slip, I have said ‘ in ears gone by’ I would not like it thought that I have ever indulged this particular orifice, nor even derived pleasure from having my ears syringed, which is probably the nearest I have got to Aural Sex. Unfortunately, my wife would much prefer to watch Cookery Programmes of which there are multitudes! Perhaps, when all the famous chefs have completely run out of ideas as to what to braise, boil or roast, they will combine the thought of Food with Porn. This could be Masterbonk, or Ready, Steady, Screw! Ainsley could stand there and shout “Stop Fucking!!” Still would you really want to watch Gordon Ramsay bringing a whole new meaning to stuffing a chicken on the F Word? I think not.
The other matter that stops me from carrying out detailed research into “Pornography; A Serious Student’s Guide” is that my son, God Bless him, who has set my computer up, has installed a firewall so comprehensive that, never mind porn, I was not even able to view lingerie on the M & S web-site, purely for presents of course. Other people type in “Body Massagers” and are overwhelmed with sites offering machines that will attack the clitoris, whatever that is, with the power of a pneumatic drill. I typed in Sodom & Gomorrah, and was refused access as the machine thought it related to anal sex with an Irishman shouting “begorrah!!” I could buy books of course, but as every shelf in the house is full of cookery books, I would have to throw some out, which would not please the Ayatollah, and therefore whatever activity the porn may remind me of, would quickly become theoretical!
One also has to say that it may encourage one to relive one’s youth and indulge in experimentation. This, as one gets older, could be detrimental to one’s health. One is possibly not as supple as one was. One is more prone to cramp, falling asleep on the job, or suffering from an urgent call of nature, all of which are quite acceptable with a sheep, but not usually seen in many erotic films to the best of my knowledge! It is also true that the memory is not what it was. I am now of an age when “soixante neuf” is chicken and beansprouts in a Paris takeaway, and doing it doggy fashion iis being taken short in the park and urinating up a tree!!No, I am afreaid that porn would not be suitable for a man of my mature years, although it would make the Oscars more interesting if they had a category for erotic films. It could mean that someone genuinely had brought tears to Kate Winslet’s eyes rather than her reliving the things she used to do in the bathroom with a hairbrush! Now that is a film I would pay to go & see!!
Talking of the Oscars, when did Bombay become Mumbai- who decides this? And why don’t they take it the whole way? When did you last go into an Indian restaurant and order Mumbai Potato, or Mumbai Duck, or choke on Mumbai Mix? Same as Beijing, does ot apply to the duck? No it doesn’t. You watch, soon the Welsh will change all their place names into Welsh, and then not only will nobody want to pay £5 for the privilege of visiting them over the bridge, but none of us will be able to pronounce them without producing a cascade of spit taking us back to the days of Roy Hattersley. I suppose that means us showing the Welsh our English phlegm. . .
