What Ho Proles!
Thunderstorms, gales, and rain are rather spectacular when seen from the top of a hill. The old village is getting a bit of a lashing, this year, and from the window in my study, I can see how the banks of the river have burst again and many of the cottagers close to the breech are struggling to get their property to dry land. I had to close the curtains. Watching their struggle made me feel rather cold, which rather spolit my enjoyment of the cricket from India.
Further afield, I see the government are beginning to find a little sense and are about to follow the Murgatroid advice of using prison ships to make up for their woeful lack of jail cells. Now if only they agree to the rest of my plan and scuttle the blighters out in the North Atlantic during winter, we might see an end to this prisons crisis. Your common thief would soon reform their ways when faced with a few ninety-footers bearing down on them. And if they’re too darn lazy to learn a trade by swimming to Cornwall, then I say they deserve whatever fate they get.
Not much news from here. My Man has retired to his room from where I can hear the rattle of his typewriter. He has always says that he’s typing up his journal but I never get to see a bit of it. Tomorrow, I’m spending another day watching the cricket. With all the gale force winds, today, the picture was terrible. I don’t think My Man fances another day on the roof, trying to hold the satellite dish steady, but then again: he has a habit of winging about everything. He must learn to make sacrifices for the noble game. After all, that’s exactly what it means to be English.
Onward.
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5 comments:
I'm quite curious now. What books does the Hon. JPM have in his study? I find your view on prisoners all very interesting indeed.
Recently, I was introduced to the dulcet tones of one, Mr. Henry Bloefeld. When I miss Britian (and especially England), I now know I can listen to cricket and feel as though I'm still there.
Enjoy your Sunday and please purchase a computer for your man. It's only right.
My books? Oh, I rarely read anything printed later than 1940, and prefer the classics.
And I have a very straightforward attitude towards prisons: thick high walls, plenty of locks, and not much else. My Man's the sentimental one in the household, believing in compassion and some such nonsense. Personally, I think it's because he's got a proile's view of the world as being 'a constant struggle' but really, it's a weakness.
I'm sad to say the cricket isn't on TV today, but I've still sent the man onto the roof to hold the satellite dish still. The gales are still blowing but he seems to be holding on. Cricket is clearly the sport for gentlemen, but 'holding onto the roof during heavy gales' is a sport best suited to gentlemen's gentlemen.
When I was growing up, my Mother told me that when you went to prison, you were fed nothing else but hard bread and tepid water three times a day and forced to do homework twice a day. Funnily enough, I never has the hankering to do anything which would result in me exploring the truth of these statements. My Mother is an exceptionally clever woman.
The ships should be bound for some remote land on the other side of the planet. They'll never bother us again I'm sure.
Oh, tales of infestations from the north make my blood run cold. Adopting my Tory leadership hat for a moment, I propose a wall that crosses the land from Hull to Bristol. The Murgatroid Wall (as it would be known) could defend us from those types. Even when they don't have criminal intent, their accents make it impossible to spot friend from foe.
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