Saturday, 24 October 2015

IMPACTIVITIS


IMPACTIVITIS

 

            Due to what I consider to be the appalling repetitious mis-use of certain words in the media, I feel compelled to ‘important up’ one of the most fashionable yet virulent verbal aberrations which is rapidly becoming a full-blown epidemic.  Germinated and spread by pretentious professional public speakers, this highly contagious disease is now infecting large numbers of innocent people.

            I refer of course to the wanton abuse of the word Impact.

            In the not too distant past, Impact was a well respected word used by scientists in their measurements of the size strength and extent of a colossal meteoric fireball’s collision with planet earth.  Forensic investigators also use Impact appropriately in their serious analysis of a man-made car crash, train crash or plane crash. 

            But in the rapacious media world and Parish Council rooms, the word Impact is incessantly and gratuitously used by impactious pontificators to impacturbate on any subject under the Sun.  One abstract conceptual notion is said to be ‘impacting’ on another abstract conceptual notion.  Wow, what an earth shattering impact!

            The perpetrators of impactivism could soon be saying that a falling feather makes an ‘impact’ on soft grass.  If I hear this, my flabber will be completely ghasted.  How many more ridiculous non-impacts can decent people endure? 

            There are probably more real impacts per minute in a boxing match, tennis match or football match than anywhere else, but do we ever hear sensible people say ‘impact’ instead of punch or hit or kick? 

            This originally strong and meaningful word with a genuine physical specificity, has been arrogantly relegated to the low level of many a worthless word for all occasions.  Attention seeking speakers have high-jacked Impact and forced it into their egotistic rhetoric, thus rendering a potent word almost impotent.  Once they’ve said it once, they go on saying it, like a drug addict wanting fix after fix. 

            Do we forgive these mad militant impactivists for their Impact Addiction Disorder or do they deserve a word surgeon to give them an Impactomania lobotomy?

As in situations resulting from human ignorance greed and stupidity, nature itself eventually determines that saturation of a sickness must occur before reaching the point of refusal to take any more.  So even as an infinitesimal part of the planet, I nevertheless hope to help nature bring about a speedy recovery of the strength of Impact, by attempting to make things worse before they get better. Or better before they get worse.  Who knows, but here goes.

             Something urgently impactive must be said about the rabid impacteological impactoxicity of the millions of verbal impacticles impacting on the impactlessness of the impacted upon by the seemingly unimpactable impactivicious impactors who desperately need the impactification of the English language to impactivate their otherwise unimpactful dim-witted dreary public speaking.  

            Furthermoreover, the impactuous impactellatiousness of the impactossers, impactasises their insane impacturbation and promiscuous impactuality.  Their self inflicted addiction to pathological Impactivitis is at present sucking like a perverted parasite on the impactful potency of the word Impact.

            Public speakers would do better when they remember that Impact is a strong spirit, not to be roughly necked like eight pints of beer, but to be gently sipped and enjoyed as an exquisite liqueur, only on the most appropriate occasions. 

           
“Absolutely clearly challenging” – said Mr President.

            “Three more worthless words” – said the wiseman.

Thursday, 8 October 2015

THE NINE AND A HALF COMMANDMENTS


THE NINE AND A HALF COMMANDMENTS

For women who wear EezyPeezy – the only tights with a hole in the middle.
 

          Thou shalt not fuck thy father when he’s cross dressing.

          Thou shalt not powder thy pussy before the vet has had a look.

          Thou shalt not worship any graven image other than thine own in shop windows.

          Thou shalt not beg thy husband to cane thy buttocks until the children are in bed.

          Thou shalt not gag on thy neighbour’s cock when he’s driving on the motorway.

          Thou shalt not speaketh of thy sore cunt at Womens Institute knitting circles.

          Thou shalt not borrow thy grandmother’s hardly used condom on Saturdays.

          Thou shalt not have thy flabber ghasted by the girth of thy neighbour’s donkey.

          Thou shalt not deepthroat thy holy father’s cock outside the confession box.

          Thou shalt not use a cold cucumber when .…….
 

     “Oh, some girls are so sinful”- said Mother Superior.

     “All the more to forgive them for” – said the wiseman.

Thursday, 24 September 2015

A SHORT STORY


A SHORT STORY
 
            Given the lengthening list of writers desperately wanting to win The 2016 Sunday Times Short Story Prize of £30,000, I’m getting my entry in early to avoid disappointment.
 
            Once upon a time on a dark and stormy night, a big black crow flew over a wicked witch in the woods stirring her cauldron with curses.  Unbeknownst to anyone but the witch, a beautiful damsel in distress with flaxen hair and a fair turn of ankle was running desperately through the woods in her thorn-torn diaphanous white nightdress.  She became more distressed and ran even faster on hearing the sound of heavy breathing thundering up behind her, whereupon she tripped over a frog waving a magic wand.
            As she picked herself up, but feeling quite faint, she fell straight into the strong arms of a tall dark handsome highwayman, who had been galloping home on his horse after robbing the rich to give to the poor. 
Her prince had come, well almost.  He put his pistol to one side and swiftly lifted her up onto his steaming steed.  She blew a big kiss to the frog and then wanted to reward the highwayman for coming to her rescue.  But she had no money, jewels or valuables except a precious little empty velvet purse which she always kept for comfort. 
            So for saving her from the wicked witch’s curse, she could only pledge her troth to the highwayman, and perhaps her velvet purse, for his princely plunder at the stroke of twelve or as soon as the moon was high, but no later than the cock crows. 
            Meanwhile, the people in the village were as snug as bugs in rugs, sleeping soundly in their warm and cosy beds.  So no-one noticed the dark and stormy night life, not even the gamekeeper out hunting for hairy hobgoblins. 
In the morning, with the dawning of the milkman, the sun shone brightly on frosted gossamer webs and over the fields forests hills rivers and meadows.  The birds were singing their sweet songs, and everyone lived happily ever after.
           
Well, how short does it have to be?
           

Tuesday, 15 September 2015

THINGS TO DO AT THE WEEKEND


THINGS TO DO AT THE WEEKEND

Shotguns

              This weekend, I might saw off both barrels of grandma’s old 12 bore shotgun, using my brand new heavy-duty Black & Decker do-it-yourself high-speed angle grinder de-luxe.  Advertised as – Made for real men who don’t eat quiche’.  

            Grandma says that because of her failing eyesight and frail arms, she now needs a shorter lighter sawn-off shotgun, to hide under her dressing gown and shoot straight from her new dicky-hip replacement.  Then, with her remaining trigger-happy finger, she’d be sure of shooting whole groups of Jehovah’s Witnesses at her door at short range, without having to re-load. 

            I might accept her offer of non-ecclesiastical sherry, cannabis and carrot cake, and her house when she’s gone – a reasonable reward for my weekend work.  But due to the risk of scratching the blade on my brand new shiny angle grinder – I might not.

            It’s Friday after lunch, and as I nearly-nakedly laze on a sun-drenched sunbed with a stiff drink to hand, I get a funny feeling that my private pondering on things to do this weekend is being observed by someone over the high estate wall.  Sure enough, that feeling is soonly confirmed, and my concentration is interrupted by an unexpected alternative to a long hard dirty weekend of angle grinding.

            From out of a clear blue sky comes the snort of a horse followed by a feminine voice with a softer option to ponder on:

            “Hallo, sorry to disturb you, I’m Myoni your new neighbour.  The lady in the village Post Office said that you are good with a gun.  So if you’re not too busy this weekend I wonder whether you might like to come and have a look at mine.  It’s a big gun made by someone called John Dickson and it’s got three triggers and three barrels.  I think it’s quite a valuable 16 bore shotgun, although I’m not sure about how many bores I need to shoot the migrating Mormons who’ve been pecking at my front door bell since I moved in.”

            Methinks she has a good sense of humour but doesn’t know much about guns.

            “I’ve tried using it to shoot the mice in the butler’s pantry, and they just sit and stare at me standing on a chair, clicking the triggers without getting any big bangs.  It does sometimes go off, and then my knees start trembling.  Am I doing something wrong?  I enjoy being on my own most of the time, but when the staff go home I do feel a bit vulnerable.  So I need the gun for protection, especially against those Mormons coming from a single missionary disposition.”

            Sympathetic as I am to her predicament, but with another good chuckle, I’m thinking that I may need to test the triple trigger sensitivity and then adjust and lubricate the internal mechanisms for easy breech loading, effective firing, and the ejection of large 16 bore spent cartridges – a process which I’ll have to carry out using each one of the three barrels in sequence.  This is quite a lot of concentrated work.  However it is a very unusual opportunity, because double barrel shotguns are easy to come by, whereas triple barrel shotguns are rare valuable and highly sought after by enthusiastic collectors.  She then anticipates my assistance:

            “While you’re over here, you could tell me if the barrels need rifling or whether I need ready rifled slugs, and perhaps you’d teach me how to hold a powerful weapon properly, as I haven’t had any lessons from my dear old dollar boy who is always away on ‘business’.” – says the lovely young lady high up on her horse.

            Nevertheless, and further to my much suppressed mirth, she goes on to say:

            “I do hope you can come and show me how you pull, or should it be squeeze, the triggers and then give a good polishing to all three barrels. Oh, and have you got some special lubricating fluid that I’ve heard shooting men use to keep their guns in working order?”

Well, what’s a man of my standing supposed to do this weekend? 

            I might take up her tempting offer of Bolly champagne, Beluga caviar and the permanent loan of her Lamborghini as adequate recompense for my good neighbourlyness.  Yet on swiftly considering the possibility of getting involved in regular weekend shotgun servicing depleting my reserves of high-grade easy-flow super-fine grease-free ultra-light trigger lubricating fluid – I might not.
 
            Although I might, if I get a more tempting offer. 

            Anyway, I thank her for such a generous suggestion and say I’ll give it some thought, here’s my phone number, call me later when the sun goes down.  She says bye-bye with a twinkle in her eye and returns to her house astride her horse.  I resume my horizontal pondering, and after a few short or maybe longer minutes the phone rings with such penetrating insistence that I pick it up, albeit with much reluctance.  Whereupon I hear in my ear the worldly voice of a man over the global phone:

            “Myoni tells me you’re good with guns and she needs some help with the gun I gave her.  You could just carry on pondering – but if you do me a favour as my lady’s good neighbour, I’ll give you a Bentley and a thoroughbred horse.” 

            So if he’s not worried about one of his wanton wifelets looking wonderful wandering around wondering what to do with a weapon at the weekend – then perhaps I should stop pondering.  But I might not.


Meanwhile, somewhere on a sandy beach the sun shines brightly on the buttocks of beautiful girls, and for a few local moments all is well with the world.

Monday, 31 August 2015

BWANKING IS NOT A CITY IN CHINA


                                    BWANKING IS NOT A CITY IN CHINA

 

A few words and phrases spontaneously extrapolated from a much longer televised speech given in 2014 by Mark Carney, the then new and current Canadian Governor of the Bank of England.  I’ve added some short link words, in small italics, for my and perhaps your better understanding of how financial stability is to be achieved and maintained in the austerical aftermath of the 2008 banking crash. 

It’s not likely that every one of the words and phrases will be completely understood, even after several readings.  And who can find the time to learn the foreign language of banking?  It could take much more than the mythical ‘10,000 hours’ to understand the vagaries, subtleties and nuances of bankers’ language.  There would be little or no time left for rodding the drains, emptying the bins, doing the school runs, doing a boring job, cooking dinner, chastising the children and suffering the ongoing saga of mother-in-law’s water on the knee.  Yet she’s still alive and kicking the shit out of the family into a state of nonplussedness whenever she comes to stay for a few weeks in the back bedroom.

So turbo-driven time-short people who started out in early adult life innocently wanting a good fuck as nature intended, now have no choice but to leave banking to Bankish speaking people.

“You can’t turn a clock back too far without breaking it” – said the enlightened post-Freudian psychiatrist.

Anyway, you can rest assured that I am well aware of falling into the long frustrating digressmental pre-ambling that the famous journalist Alistair Cooke used to use in his decades of ‘Letter from America’ – weekly broadcasts via the weird and wonderful pussy-footing PC airwaves of BBC radio in years of yore, and which still exist today.

In going straight forward in going straight back to the subject of Bankish – it is worth noting that the following Bank of England statement contains at least one glaring omission.  Namely, it makes no mention of any genuine intention by the Police Fraud Squad to investigate, prosecute and imprison the hundreds of white and gold collar criminals who caused the British banking crash – most of whom continue to conduct ‘business as usual’ some seven years later, under the traditionally twitchy ‘blind eyes’ of the Bank of England, weak-kneed politicians, egg-headed economists and toothless lily-livered financial regulators. 

Notwithsitting, Governor Mark Carney stood up and said: 

            “Leverage ratios will be controlled by capital buffers to ensure macro financial stability.  Symphonic exactitude is necessary for ring-fenced banks security within counter cyclical buffers.  Also, a risk weighted system based on the calculation of ratios is required for complimentary risk shifting.  The counter-weighting of paper tigers and blind asset swaps is achievable with a transmission mechanism using shared analysis to avoid off-setting during periods of market volatility.

            “Geopolitical risks are likely to affect short term monetary policy, but relative predictability and medium term perspectives should counter macro volatility.  However, any re-enforcement of trend following should not give the illusion of liquidity.

            “End investors stress tests and haircuts on yield expectations are within the rotation of the curve, and will reduce the impact on overshooting existing horizons.  Macro pru-policies together with un-hedged foreign currency require threshold guidance and a core mandate for reaction function to data regarding material shifting and market shifting de-stabilising trajectories. 

            “Inflation targeting timelines contain inevitable uncertainty, so forecast horizons are no more than mirages in the Don’t Know Desert.  But ratio returns in search for yield can affect sterling short rates.  Direct policy responsibility and principal economic solutions are expected to produce a normative convergence of optimal ratios impacting on soft holdings, without consequential difficulties disturbing the durability of structural supply. 

“Sideways impacts testing the resilience of tail risks will need stress testing for low default rates and to reduce loan to income volatility.  Also, affordability tests within the various options of supervisory oversight should attenuate sector capital overrun.  A re-calibration of mechanisms for insurance on expectations will ring fence derivatives and provide a working threshold to deal with institutional off-shoot non-ringfence lending.  Also, the on-costs of congruent resolutions to lower high exit costs may require re-hedging maturity risks.

However, the economic outlook is fair if demand conditions don’t produce a wholesale collapse, skewing the differentials between a multiplicity of variables.  We now know that historical patterns and imperfect data lags require big data strategy initiatives involving tipping point calibrations of forbearance costs commensurate with commercial rates for the re-cycling of capital.

So the new order of magnitude includes cross subsidisation options and essential conditions consistent with expectations for the re-structuring of balance sheets.  Of course global commodity markets and high frequency trading can cause substantial headwinds disrupting operations, therefore contingency planning to cope with systemic consequences will require code of conduct regulations and a consultation period timetable, sometime before the end of infinity.

 

Well, feather my nest with Ferraris!

            This impressive Bank of England jargon does not come from low-down conventional political euphemistic metaphoricalism.  It comes from high up in that strange but rich, cold dry foreign land called Bwanking. 

            Mark Carney could have kept his speech short, simple and honest by saying:

“We at the Bank of England don’t know what’s going on.  We don’t want to know what’s going on, and we don’t know what we’re doing or why we’re doing it.  However, I do enjoy a chat, coffee and cake with my cheeky chums in the Monetary Policy Committee.  I also enjoy an occasional bit of banter and playtime with the puppies in the Parliamentary Financial Stability Committee – although after half an hour these sessions become very irritating, and unnecessary stress testing impacting on my soft holdings, haircuts and symphonic exactitude.

            “Even though I am only paid £1,000,000 a year I’ve got to justify my job, stand up and say something.  So in the interests of brevity, I’d like to remind you all of the 6 essential professional skills to acquire if you want to be a big banker – skills I learned in my 13 years with the Goldman Sachs boys.  These are very similar to those required in order to become a top politician. They are simply:

“How to Hedge, How to Skew, How to Confuse, How to Use Smoke and Mirrors, How to Use English as a Foreign Language, and How to Use a Thousand Words to Say Absolutely Nothing.

“I’m not taking any questions today because I’ve got a Harley Street appointment for hair loss – so the lot of you can fuck off!”

            This 6-piece skill set has got Carney to the top of the ‘up-skilling’ ladder at present, which makes him the best man for the job as Governor of the Bank of England.  And when his tenure comes to an end, he might acquire a 12-piece skill set from the Big Boys Toy Shop to become the Governor of the Bwank of the World.  But as of now, he is doing an excellent job of saying absolutely nothing that could or would influence financial markets, interest rates and economic conditions, one way or another.  Is this banking or is politics?

            By way of compensation for his very hard work, the Governor is paid a measly £1 million a year for conducting private meetings with symphonic exactitude – to orchestrate an unknown number of sideways impacts on counter cyclical buffers skewing the differentials between a multiplicity of variables overshooting existing forecast horizons.

            Wow! That’s a tough core mandate for reaction function to big data strategy initiatives off-setting de-stabilising trajectories and geopolitical risks.  But what is this mysterious symphony that the Governor conducts with such exactitude? 

            He also has to go public and use English as a foreign language (without an interpreter) to talk about a normative convergence of optimal ratios and various options for supervisory oversight, in order to impress the media vultures, financial corruptstitutions and crackpot economic experts.  This leaves them wondering about what his new ‘order of magnitude’ might possibly be.  However, it is they who now have a ‘multiplicity of variables’ from which to select and wind-up their wildest speculations, and then get paid for being pontificating pundits in public.

            Oh what a wonderful merry-go-round.

            By the way, I claim no credit for my alliterativeness – it just is.

            Meanwhile, the rest of us are merely millions of human ‘hoover-uppers’ of bank-fed household debt.  Without us gullible suckers to borrow and bail them out, the banks would be out of business.  So the Governor’s language has to be skillfully crafted to restrict our understanding and keep us blissfully ignorant of what goes on in the shadowy land of Bwanking. 

            There is certainly no so-called ‘transparency’.

            If we did somehow understand Bankish language, despite all the smoke and mirrors, we might regard his job as not worth much more than that of a cheap children’s party magician. His illusion of authority would disappear like the Emperor’s New Clothes. 

            But someone’s got to be the Emperor of something, even if that high position of power is an illusion.  The seemingly powerful Governor turns out to be in reality, only a public puppet perched precariously on the top of a huge pile of very clever, well-dressed and ‘respectable’, but ruthless mercenary money grabbers, who are also adept at protecting their anonymity.   

The Governor’s illusory power does however, allow him to allow all those white and gold collar criminals to continue – for they are the undercover greasy cogs that keep the wheels of banking turning.  And without their wheelings and dealings, big radical changes would have to happen in the financial systems, which in turn could cause chaos in the British economy.

             It may be worth remembering a recent example of this top banking work.  The previous Governor, bless him, cuddly little Wimbledon hamster together with his lunch buddy the previous boss of the FSA, debonair March hare, successfully turned their beautiful ‘blind eyes’ to all the corruption and greed leading to the 2008 banking crash.  Both these lovely cuddly chaps, who were handsomely paid to be wonderfully ineffective, are probably now in sumptuous semi-retirement ‘heading-up’ some spurious quangos, when it’s too wet to play tennis or go to a soggy summer garden party at Buck House.

            “Ours is not to judge – only to observe and perhaps proffer a bit of witty criticism” – said the wicked bishop in the bar at the back of the House of Lords.    

            Carney is not where he is today as Governor, to root out corruption and greed in the banking system.  He is where he is to ‘keep the show on the road’, and only occasionally make token little whispers about getting someone else to slap the wrists of a handful of ‘naughty boys’ who’ve been caught bwanking red-handed.

            It’s all just political correctosserish tinkering with trivialities.  The poor Governor.  He can’t get on with proper banking.  He’s paid to be political but he can’t be seen to be.  He’s promoted and paid by a system to be a public speech-making parrot on a perch who has to look down on the shit and shenanigans of banking, finance and economics, and yet say and do almost nothing to disturb these insidious man-made systems. 

            Yes, someone’s got to do it and someone always will – but what a dreadful job.  It’s no wonder that many bankers would rather have been rock stars.

            Be that as it may, Mark Carney did not become a rock star.  Instead, he was head-hunted and hand-picked by the Chancellor of the Exchequer to run the Bank of England independently of government political interference.  As Governor, he is supported by the equally ‘independent’ Monetary Policy Committee in reaching decisions regarding the setting and timing of interest rates.  But the MPC does not have ‘deaf ears’ to noises leaking through the cracks in the door of the OBR, the Office for Budget Responsibility, which has a direct line to the Chancellor of the Exchequer’s office.

            So when political push comes to political shove, the Governor will most likely have to comply with government policy directives.  If he does not, and he vehemently defends his independence, he may have to ‘consider his position’ and resign. 

            This might be no bad thing.  First of all, he would not have to stand up and deliver silly speeches, answer direct probing questions from the media and then sit down on the hot seat in front of the Financial Stability Committee.  Secondly, he could be hired to ‘head-up’ one of the Big Four major international banks, and be paid 5 to 10 times his present salary.  And thirdly, he could enjoy acres of autonomy and not be in the pockets of politicians. 

            Nevertheless, no matter what notions are floated about the Bank of England’s so-called independence – it always has been and always will be the Bank of the Government of the day.

            Even if a Governor is a ‘robust’ human being with a functional conscience, the stress and strain of witnessing the corruption and greed of the banking system while obeying his political masters could lead to a crisis of conscience, physical illness and a premature death.  Given this risk to his well being, wife and children, it could be argued that any Governor of the Bank of England should be paid £5 million a year, to cover the costs of his funeral and the maintenance of several houses and private school fees, plus his widow’s shopping habits and holidays.  Her ‘heavy handbag’ would also pay for her precious LGBT personal trainer, and her new strong virile toy-boy carpenter/plumber who is seriously insolvent, but who is always working around the house and more than willing to give her ‘a good seeing to’ whenever she wants it.

            Who knows what really goes on behind the bike sheds of banking?  I certainly don’t.  The big banker boys of this world could easily go on to live in total contentment to a ripe old age and have a happy death. 

            I wish Mark Carney well.  He is doing a brilliant job of saying something while saying nothing.  That takes some doing!   

 

“What should I do with all my money?” – said the banker.

“It’s not yours!” – said the wiseman.

Thursday, 20 August 2015

THE ELEVEN COMMANDMENTS


THE ELEVEN COMMANDMENTS
for men who smoke Dreadnought – the only cigarette with the filter in the middle

Thou shalt not shag thy mother when she’s shaving.

Thou shalt not mock TV prethsenterths lithsps when they art thspeaking thseriouthsly.

Thou shalt not use thy blunt haemorrhoid scissors when the garden shears are sharp.

Thou shalt not refuse to use a Scottish accent when thou art broadcasting for the BBC.

Thou shalt not sell thy wife’s soiled panties on eBay if she’s only worn them once.

Thou shalt not shoot thy neighbour’s barking dog at 4 am when it’s only being friendly.

Thou shalt not call Johnny a foreigner wherefore art his name be-eth Sanjeev al Kebab.

Thou shalt not bugger thy local bishop while he’s blessing a choirboy’s buttocks.

Thou shalt not shout “fire” while thy neighbour’s mega motorhome is still burning.

Thou shalt not shag thy sister in the outside toilet until thy father has finished.

Thou shalt not commit political correctosserty when thou art on thine own deathbed.




“What’s it all about?” – said the pleb.

“I haven’t got a fucking clue” – said the wiseman.