Breaking; mass dogging event planned. This is not essential travel. Or so say the local Stasi.
Do not go to Canvey Island. Even if it is quite close to Southend. There’s a joke in there somewhere.
Breaking; mass dogging event planned. This is not essential travel. Or so say the local Stasi.
Do not go to Canvey Island. Even if it is quite close to Southend. There’s a joke in there somewhere.
Well it had to happen sometime. Yet another ‘Downfall’ parody.
Sweetly apposite. ‘Nuff said.
As none of the muppets in power seem to have any bright ideas of to get us out of the mess they, and they alone, have gotten us into. May I offer some minor ridiculae to ease my occasional reader’s inner pain.
The European Union. Having a sing of it’s anthem to cheer itself up (and failing) post Brexit.
A screenshot of the World Economic Forums top secret COVID Recovery plan, in it’s entirety.
And a more chilling message, from the Outer Limits.
Hang loose, as it says in the Deisderata;
And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be. And whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul. With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.
The Twitter share price has been in a forty five degree nosedive since 4th January, long before the current round of de-platforming and account deletion hit. So obviously the clever money is on the move. Fortunately, for those who bought in during their October dip, there’s still time to get while the getting is good.
Personally, I still regard the Alphabet / Twitter / Facebook shares as ‘bubble stocks’ And forgive me for not being a stock market expert, but I would have put in my sell order on Friday when the news of deleting Trumps account hit. I mean, how thick do you have to be to let your politics get in the way of profits? It wasn’t that long ago when some opined that Twitter et al were like betting on a three legged horse in a steeplechase. And if you bought in earlier in the year, there is still time to cash out while the cashing is good.
Might even stop using Amazon too. If Mr Bezos wants to play politics with his companies share price, I’ll be going elsewhere for my online purchasing. Don’t get me wrong, I was quite a fan of Amazon marketplace, but now? Not so much.
Tech stocks are proving, like in the first tech crash to be ‘surfer’ stocks, and the wave is about to hit the beach. Some will ride it out, many, lured by promises of big gains, may be about to find out how tenuous those gains are.
Then there’s the whole ‘clap’ thing people are trying to bring back, which just serves to embarrass many medical professionals. If you’re having issues in your locale with people getting raided because they’ve been snitched on, the most enthusiastic virtue signallers are likely the folks who are the informers.
Maybe it would be fun to snitch right back at them. Let them reap the whirlwind of their own actions.
So much for a white Christmas although we had a three degree frost last night. Oh well, it was a long shot anyway. Well chums, hasn’t the last ten months been a real barrel of feckin laughs? Frankly, if 2020 was a person, I’d be tempted to throw it face down in a puddle and firmly plant my boot on the back of it’s neck until the bubbling stopped. Which is roughly how I feel about the people responsible for all the panic mongering over SARS/COV-2.
The terminally terrified, media and panicking politicians have done incredible damage to everyone else, just in case they’d catch a nasty dose of the flu. Yes it’s a nasty bug, yes it is worse than the normal seasonal influenzas, but not by that much. And it has done it’s worst. as I and many others have pointed out before. We effectively have ‘herd immunity’, regardless of new mutations that don’t seem to be doing much. The only thing that made the stats look bad is the misapplied PCR test, which was never intended as a diagnostic tool. The death stats are back to around seasonal norms. But I repeat myself. Yet again.
Update: see screenshot of stats for the UK below.
The renewed lockdowns mean Mrs S is chafing over every tiny detail, getting uptight with me for anything less than perfection. I do not blame her for this. I blame the arseheads responsible for closing everything down, yet again. For so little cause.
On the upside, a BREXIT deal has been agreed, with no serious tariffs between the EU and UK, which will work well for us here in Ireland. Just a little customs paperwork, which will be streamlined over the next few months. The markets like the outcome, and sterling took over a three cent uptick in price when the news hit, which should help any people on pensions and bode a little better for those reliant upon funds from the UK. Some are calling the fisheries part of the deal a ‘sell-out’, but it buys time for the UK to rebuild it’s fishing fleet and set up conservation zones. So it’s not a total shitshow. Silver linings abound. If you know where to look.
Overall 2020 has been a very frustrating year. Complicating for us what should have been a relatively simple move. The constant delays have resulted in our search for a place to refurbish is taking three times as long as it should. Getting out to view properties has been a constant game of sneakaround when no one, least of all the local law, is sure what the damn restrictions are anyway. Hell, we’re on ‘business’ anyway. The business of a little property development. So no-one is going to bother us much.
Originally, we were all told three weeks lockdown to ‘save’ nationalised health services, which turned into three months, and now at the current rate, with vaccines that don’t really give that much immunity, looks like heading into three stuffing years. When does this torture end? When no-one can die of anything any more? Don’t hold your breath for that one. Now the politicians have claimed the power over the minutiae of our lives, they will be loathe to let it go. Which is a very depressing thought.
Apropos of nothing, might I mention in passing that over here in the Wilder West of Ireland, Michael Collins is still a figure of deep reverence, the picture of this legendary guerrilla fighter hanging on many an Irish wall, as well as being portrayed by Liam Neeson in a very watchable feature film. After all, it was Collins who was the key figure in founding the Irish Free state, the birth father of the modern Republic of Ireland.
Even my family, protestants and heretics all, used to speak well of the ‘big fellow’ or ‘big man’ as he was known, despite one of our remote relatives being murdered by republicans back in the early 1900’s. Although fair’s fair, we had distant relatives murdered by both sides in the struggle for Irish independence, like so many others of Irish descent. And I was never a fan of what the paramilitaries did during ‘the troubles’. Neither side. But Collins was a realist and man of his people.
I try to look at it this way, it was all a long time ago and life is too short to hold that kind of grudge. The killers and order givers are all dead and long cold in their graves anyway. The fires of hell have claimed the wicked. Justice of a sort has happened.
Funny thing though, a few days ago between lockdowns, Mrs S and I were sitting in a pub having a quiet drink and I found myself looking up at a picture of Mr Collins in army uniform and wondering; “What would Michael Collins think about these curbs on Irish freedom and hate speech laws?” For a moment all the pub sounds faded into the background and I slipped into a short daydream until Mrs S Prodded me back to reality. Was it my imagination, or had I heard a ghostly chuckle and the double-snick of a well greased rifle bolt? Nah. Probably just my over-active imagination.
Anyway. Happy New Year all. Let’s try not to make a complete 2020 of the new year. Although no doubt the political classes will give it their best try.
We are continually being told that ‘mindfulness’ is a good thing, a goal to be aspired to, the epitome, the acme of all that is good and righteous. To be ‘mindful’, practitioners inform us, is the path to enlightenment, nirvana, and paying off the mortgage on time. Now it seems that this key precept is failing, with many practitioners straying from the path and in the process becoming narcissistic, vile little eejits you wouldn’t cross the road to piss down their throats if their lungs were on fire. But they weren’t nice people to begin with, and no amount of ‘awareness’ and Yogurt can change their true nature, merely the way it is expressed, in saccharine insincerity, passive-aggressiveness and massive self-delusion.
Now it may surprise you, dear reader (Look, there’s one of you out there, I think) but I too once delved into the innermost secrets of the universal soul through meditation and Yoga. Through my contemplations of the infinite and divine, I have become the person I am today. Does this surprise anyone? Yes? No? Don’t give a monkeys? Whatever.
Now my yoghurt and mendicant training goes back a few years to the Dojo where I studied, a small covert room over a Chinese Restaurant in sunny Stoke on Trent. A secret place where ancient masters taught the stoic arts and the ancient, obscure Welsh martial art of LLap Mivitalls, which consists of disciplining mind and body to hardship via the use of large cups of tea and bacon sandwiches consumed in the vast hidden reaches of industrial estates and lorry parks. The major part of which consists of learning how to eat your bacon sandwich in a torrential downpour without diluting your tea or letting your bacon sandwich get soggy. You can brag about the athletic prowess of Shaolin monks all you like, but such things are child’s play when faced with the inner serenity a black belt in this Welsh martial art can attain. Let’s face it, when you can calmly munch your way through breakfast in a heavy Welsh downpour whilst looking totally relaxed, you are indeed a force to be reckoned with.
BC, my home for the last decade or so, is now infested with a plague of ‘mindfulness’ and narcissism to the point where recovery is not possible. There can be no vaccine for this plague, only the burgeoning awareness of the sufferer that all is not well with them, and why their friends seem to clam up or roll their eyes whenever the practitioner of mindfulness opens their mouth.
At my Dojo, we were warned about this outcome by the Dojo’s chief mentor, Lobsang Dai, a Cardiff born man and part time Tom Jones impersonator (Ask your Granny). “Now young disciple, look you.” He would say. “All this talk of inner focus is all very well, but will it keep the rain from getting inn your tea?” He would opine further. “The path to inner serenity lies not in the actions of others, but of looking to yourself and not letting the water in. And putting your right leg behind your left ear isn’t that impressive.” With such sage teaching has my path to inner enlightenment been scattered. If we studied hard that lesson, he would demonstrate his hip twist, and how it could instantly bring down ladies underwear. Never understood why he wore such apparel, but to each their own. We were a very progressive class.
Sadly Lobsang Dai is no more, having fallen from grace to the charms of a Hungarian long distance lorry driver called Magda, but my fellow disciples and I remember his teachings with great fondness.
It’s Christmas, and one of the things this means is that it’s Jigsaw time. Put simply, this means that Mrs S and I get the most fiendish puzzle available in the shops, and proceed to complete it. Usually a map or montage of some kind of around 1000 pieces.
Personally I find completing a jigsaw an engrossing and wholly cerebral pleasure. Helps me think clearly because it forces me to focus my dusty frontal lobes on the task at hand. It calms me down and dispels the darkness from my soul. And there’s a lot of that at the moment. Governments reneging on promises to their populaces not to interfere with Christmas, then U-turning over a relatively mild viral mutation that’s been around for ages without bumping the death count outside of the seasonal norms. Go figure.
Whenever I’m annoyed or unsettled, I go down to the kitchen table and force myself to focus on the task of completing the puzzle, normally a process that takes up an hour or so a day over two weeks. Such is the Tao of Jigsawry, the Zen of a thousand pieces. To be honest I find it very relaxing. Focussing on the emerging pattern brings a crystal clarity that would take a zen master six months to attain. Me, I find it inside an hour of settling down to bring order out of the semi-chaos of a puzzle.
Regrettably this year we may need yet another Jigsaw as I’ve already almost completed our current one inside seven days. Mrs S is not best pleased, but she appreciates what is driving me to spend three times my normal schedule. It’s all these on again off again lockdowns that are driving me to distraction. Not that the lockdowns work. They’re all just an excuse for the political classes lack of courage and vision. The politicians haven’t a clue, and as the saying goes, if the only tool you have is a hammer, every problem looks like a nail.
Fortunately we have a few days before the fascist state tries to drive us all nuts with yet more tiers and more restrictions and one of my tasks if to buy another bottle of Jameson’s for me and a Vodka for Mrs S, thence yet another, more fiendish puzzle still. I think I’m going to need all the Jigsawry and associated calm available over the next few weeks.
One upside is that we’ve been promised a white Christmas. Which should annoy the living fuckwittery of the SJW mob. Does this mean though that the idle little shits will risk getting blisters shifting all the raaaaaacist snow? Not holding my breath. Although I wish they would.
I’ve been trying to ignore the US elections by playing with my new kitchen gadget / toy. Specifically an air fryer, which does pretty good roast vegetables and makes a reasonable fist of out-of-a-packet frozen stuff that can get a bit soggy if the oven isn’t set up right. It’s also quicker than an oven. I’ve nicknamed it, as is my wont; ‘The Fat Dalek’ because it sits in my kitchen, balefully but harmlessly glowering at the rest of my kitchen appliances through three neon blue slits.
Fortunately the one thing it does not do with my cooking is try to exterminate anything. It also saves me a fortune on cooking oil. Very clean too. All I have to do is cut up the veg right, spice and toss in a little olive oil, throw it in the little container, set it running and bingo! Tasty roast veg. Much nicer than the alternatives, and much better portion control.
Mrs S asked me last night whether it did sauces as well, to which I had to go into a long, convoluted explanation of how the device works and why no, it does not do sauces. Anything breadcrumb coated from the freezer, great, roasts a resounding yes, roasted veg tossed in Olive oil and chips definitely, but nothing ‘wet’ like a pasta sauce, which is tonights culinary offering as part of a nice spaghetti bolognese. My ‘Fat Dalek’ will be a mute bystander to that process.
On the news however, and this is a massive however, you can’t switch on a ‘pooter without getting bombarded with stuff about the US elections. Sounds like Biden might not be in after all. See Viva Frei’s delve through the legalities below.
Well, he said, picking his jaw off the floor, if what the allegations say is only fifty percent true, then the whole Michigan election staff should end up in jail and the new guys forced to redo the entire vote from start to finish with cops and adjudicators standing over them, watching hawkishly for the first hint of impropriety. Oh my. This does rather call the behaviour of certain officials into question and no mistake. Coaching voters? Duplicate voting? Excluding ajudicators / ‘challengers’ from the counting rooms? Stuffing ballot boxes? Falsely registering votes? Blood and sand. Sounds like the soap opera is truly off and running. Wonder if any of those officials likely to be indicted over this matter will flip and turn states evidence? The fallout from those conversations would be illuminating.
Don’t know if the officials in question were going for the contest in how many ways to to skew a vote, but this must be some kind of a record outside of the third world, and I don’t care who was doing it for whom. If the republicans were accused of even five percent of the fraudulent activity alleged, the fourth estate would be screaming from the rooftops that not only is ‘Orange Man Bad’, but a cheat as well and therefore sent home with a sharp note to his mother and no longer allowed to play at elections any more, ever again with brass knobs on, so there and no returns. But they won’t do that for the other side of the aisle because it’s become painfully obvious that much of the US media is bent as a three cent note and not to be trusted without a sworn statement from three independent witnesses and video corroboration from it’s own mother. And probably not even then.
This whole US election business is like the ‘science’ of lockdowns, you know instinctively that something is well dodgy, but there’s bugger all you can do about it but point it out to others and laugh piteously when they regurgitate the nonsense they have been programmed with. They’re invariably those who trust government, not seeing it for the monster big government truly is. Because people who believe that ‘government’ can keep them ‘safe’ don’t understand the Godzilla effect big government can have on the poor bloody individual. Word to the wise; don’t get under it’s feet. Being squished is no fun at all.
Unlike my ‘Fat Dalek’, the gaze of big government is rarely harmless to the individual and should be avoided at all times where possible. As Reagan once said. “The nine most terrifying words in the English language are “I’m from the government and I’m here to help.’ Sends a shudder down my spine every time.
This is going to get real interesting, real fast. Let’s see what the courts say.
Update: The FEC is demanding (and getting) recounts of votes, and the overall picture is of massive ‘irregularities favouring the Democrat party.’ This ain’t over. Not by a long chalk.
Additional 15th November; the private Michigan vote challenge has been dismissed on a technicality by a Judge, but the other challenges are still ongoing. Oh well, it passes the time while these pointless bloody lockdowns continue.
What an excellent idea.
Oh, something else to lighten the mood. According to Lockdown Sceptics (Third article down on this page), the Police have only limited powers to cancel your Christmas, even if some Stasi snitch has fingered your household. The simple rule is; politely stand your ground, ask for their grounds for requesting a warrantless entry (Specifically which infected person they are looking for and why if they cite the regulations) and give nothing but your name, rank and house number.
Big thank you to the Times Peter Brookes for this telling cartoon. I may not trust all the mainstream media’s output (certainly not without verification), but like with Matt of the dear old Torygraph and the Guardian cartoons, the truth does leak out.
Update: The UK Police are backing off on the cancellation of Christmas. They won’t be enforcing ‘minor infringements’. No idea what caused this volte face, but I’m very pleased to hear the news. Maybe the politicians will finally lift the lockdowns for the festering season so that we can get on with our lives once more.
Mrs S and I are taking a time out today, as she has been spending far too much time behind a keyboard. I have baked bread this morning and being an habitual early riser, left it to cool ready for her breakfast. When she gets out of bed there will be tea, coffee and toast. I like early mornings. There’s time to think and consider before the sun comes up and the noise of the day crowds around you. And who doesn’t like waking up to the smell of fresh baking and new brewed tea or coffee?
One of today’s tasks is getting out and about, checking on what’s open and what isn’t. Looking around and packing our bags for the next part of our journey. I’ve been taking advice from locals and they say that as we’re far out of Dublin, there won’t be much to worry about. I fancy a trip around the Dingle peninsula. Our last trip to a beach was a bit lonely as we were the only people in sight. Today’s forecast is for rain, but I have a seeming that it will pass and I’ll end up needing sunglasses by early afternoon.
Well now, we’re well into the third week of the ‘second spike’ or ‘second wave’ of ‘cases’, so can I ask a few questions? What’s the death and hospitalisation count? Anyone? Come on chaps, the rise in cases started over a couple of weeks ago, so hundreds of people should start to drop like flies around about now. Anybody seeing that? No? Riight.
Does this whole wavy hand panicmongering start to look more than a bit foolish to you? Because all the detected SARS/COV-2 infections should start to cycle through the system by now, surely? The ICU’s should be standing room only and the mortuaries should be starting to stack ’em up in refrigerated containers, right? What? It’s not happening? All the potential COVID-19 deaths the ‘Government scientists’ have been banging on about, where are they? Where are they hiding? Is there some dark and super secret government base where all the excess stiffs are being disposed of in huge crematoria, or on ‘black sites’ known only to a privileged few? Do you mean to tell me there aren’t any? What? Only one or two ‘extra’ deaths? Well that’s no fun. I feel rather cheated. I was promised a proper apocalypse and I want this one sent back for a refund.
All that drama, all the flashing red and blue lights and people in smart new uniforms dashing back and forth doing derring deeds? Or is the sad truth that there are few who need saving, apart from the usual falling over a toy on the stairs or one of the many banal banana skins of life. Even Trump is back in the saddle after only a weekend’s treatment. Much to the elevated blood pressure of all those deluded lefties who seem to be seriously intellectually challenged when it comes to understanding how the world works.
I hate to be a Donnie Downer (No I don’t – I love it), forever raining on the panicmongers parade, but the SARS/COV-2 crisis is over. The ‘second wave’ should be crashing down about our ears like a massive Tsunami right about now if all the ‘experts’ had even the faintest scintilla of credibility.
Let’s face it, as I’ve said before, these are the same clique of ‘experts’ whose advice led to the foot and mouth debacle, decimating UK beef and dairy herds, sending family farms into bankruptcy. And the same people who predicted an epidemic of Mad Cow disease in humans. Whatever happened to that?
Where are the zombie hordes staggering around the streets… no, sorry, you’re quite right, they’re the ones still wearing masks, wearing masks in their car with the windows rolled up, or all alone walking across an empty car park, glaring and shaking their heads at people going about their business maskless. Forgot about those. Apologies. The unthinking Zeeps. Gotcha.
Those are the people I intend to avoid today. Despite the forecast rain it might just be a lovely day.
Mockery, and bags of it. These bloody silly restrictions need mocking at every point. Like those you see in lifts (Elevators), where only two people are supposed to be in there at any one time. Has anyone seen the markers where there are two markers on the floor designating where users of the lift are to stand and it looks like they want you to think you’re on the ‘naughty step’ or the ‘dunces corner’ facing the wall, head down, not allowed to look around like some schoolboy being humiliated in front of the class for some petty infraction?
I roared with laughter. “Look Hon.” I said to Mrs S. “This elevator comes with it’s own built in naughty step.”
“Stand on it.” She said tersely. She finds my sense of humour a little trying sometimes.
So I did. “Sorry Miss.” I said meekly.
“You’re not kidding anyone.” She replied.
A blast from the airborne past
Or more realistically;
Catch you on the flip side….
See y’all later.
Okay. I’m officially homeless. The apartment is closed up cleaned up and signed off. The movers have come and gone with all our worldly goods in a shipping container and Mrs S and I are currently enjoying a hiatus in a nice hotel while we let the hamster wheels in our heads slow down a little.
Upside; we’ve got a warm bed, good food and all the somewhat restricted delights of downtown. Nice coffee.
Downside; Elderly Friend is on the way out and will need increasing levels of care as she slowly saunters off into the long night, pausing every few hours to fall and hurt herself yet further. We can do nothing for her except ensure her care levels are adequate by liaising with the care home staff and as Powers of Attorney making sure the money is there to pay for her care. Funeral is paid for. Not much else we can do but wait for the inevitable. The person we knew has gone, leaving a confused husk of habits and discontinuous memories.
On the streets of downtown Victoria the face nappy wearers are much in evidence. I keep a surgical mask in my pocket just in case someone absolutely insists I have to wear one, but so far it has remained unused. And I’m not much of a social person anyway.
The whole anti-social distancing thing is inconvenient, even ignored upon occasion. However, SARS/COV-2 has passed over us, like 80% of the population, with barely a ripple. The death count is nearly zero, even though increased testing has detected more people who have brushed the virus off as a mere inconvenience.
The only people truly frightened of this bug are the media and politicians, who know, deep in their spavined little souls that they are going to hell and want to put the whole eternal damnation experience off, just in case they are sent untimely coughing into oblivion or painful retribution for all the harms they have caused. Satan, Lord of Hell, is complaining that business has dropped right off and is going to have to rethink his marketing strategy.
More mundanely, regarding social distancing; I find it keeps the intrusive at bay, which I’m developing an enduring affection for. Now no one gets in your face and the nutters on the bus are too frightened of getting the dreaded lurgi to sit near anyone. See the highly entertaining Jasper Carrott sketch below.
Which I suppose is a compensation of sorts.
Time for breakfast.
Post breakfast update: The homeless encampment behind Victoria BC’s city hall has been shifted and the area given a sluicing down with disinfectant. There were a bunch of tents there last night. Now just rapidly drying puddles of disinfectant laced water ringed with yellow tape.
While we’re downsizing and packing up, I’m minded to think about the recent riots. Terrible things. Damage to property, looting, burning buildings, pillage and rape. Certain of my distant Viking ancestors would have been right at home. And riots happen all the time. Every year. Everywhere. I particularly liked the historical snippet about the Royal Navy being brought in in 1919 to quell the Liverpool riots. See video below.
However, has anyone else noticed this? People who riot only do it in the dry. When it rains, very few riots. Too many people cooped up in the dry for too long, result = widespread riots and property values nosedive. Moderate to heavy rainfall = peaceful streets and no broken windows.
So here’s another of my modest little proposals. Whenever there’s a riot, bring out the fire hoses. Not water cannon style, but like artificial rain. Just half a dozen coppers strategically placed in each tall building with fire hoses set at wide dispersal to simulate moderate rainfall. No need to hit the violent idiots with the full blast of a fire hose, just enough of a downpour to cool down the hotheads. Result, no one gets hurt, Police or rioters. No need for snipers, riot gear or baton charges, just make sure the rioters trousers get thoroughly soaked. For it is well known that no civilian can maintain an aggressive mindset with squelching knickers.
So let these violent idiots be saturated. Take Youtube videos of Antifa falling on their arses. They’d never live it down. Humiliating the bastards would work better than all the kettling and battle tactics as currently practiced. No need for arrests either when a thorough soaking will do instead. And it would be fun to watch. Police could take special courses in pointing, suppressing smirks and making remarks like “Toilets are over there sir / madam /whatever.” before breaking out in a laugh just as the sodden wrongdoer passes out of earshot.
Of course, water cannon could be held in reserve for those breachers of the peace wearing waterproofs. On the other, ensuring that only a part of their underwear gets wet is a show stopper for most.
Maybe Police forces should not be armed with guns or tear gas, perhaps super soakers would be better for crowd control. A quick squirt of cold soapy water to the crotch will stop anyone, as it is a well documented phenomenon that soggy nethers will stop even a charging Rhinoceros. I think it is something to do with the embarrassment factor of a wet patch in the crotch, and the additional effect of damp cloth causing much chafing in the joy department.
Multiple benefits. The worst rioters get thoroughly soaked, maybe catch cold and are out of action for the rest of the season. Not to mention getting a thorough (and often much needed) wash. The streets get a sluice down, dust gets laid therefore air quality improves. It’s good for plants. Cleaner air is better for people’s well being and mood. There will be far fewer arrests so the court system isn’t so bunged up with hotheaded morons. All for the sake of a bit of water. Doesn’t even have to be nice smelling water either. Any old source will do. A local canal perhaps?
The arithmetic works well too. Soaking rioters reduces property damage, cuts down Policing costs, washes the streets and everyone gets a work out. What’s not to like?
Damn, I’m a freakin’ genius.
Went to the dentist today for a quick scrape and shine of the old Herkos Odonton (Lit; hedge of teeth, meaning discreet or top secret) and Mrs S and I put on our masks to enter the Dentists office, which struck me as incongruous. Mrs S made a crack about wearing masks to go to the bank to make a withdrawal and the comedy jukebox in my head dredged this Peter Cook written sketch out of long term memory…..
“Hold up your sticks and gimme the money!” Classic.
Modern comedy seems crass and tired in comparison.