Tag Archives: twat

January 10th

On this day in 236 a bloke called Fabian became the Pope.

Does this seem a little dull? I’m sorry about that, but all the stuff I could find for this day more or less bored the arse off me, so in the end I just went with Fabian because it was that or write about four paragraphs about how bloody boring January 10th is. Which I might still end up doing anyway, but meanwhile, back to Fabian.

Jesus the Dove flies into JPII face. The message being "why did you make this idiot pope?!"

There is one interesting thing about him becoming pope. You see, it is said that he wasn’t a bishop or a priest, or anything like that. He was a a simple layman who just happened to be in Rome when all the bishops had got together to elect a new pope (Anterus, the previous pope had died about a week before after being pope for only one month and ten days. It’s almost certain that he was murdered for being more trouble than he was worth. Cf. Pope John Paul I who might turn up here one of these days). They were all up for electing a Bishop, as was the usual way of things, but as they all stood around nattering about who’d make the best pope and comparing frocks and jewellery and stuff like that, a dove came along and sort of fluttered about over Fabian’s head.

Well, being religious sorts who knew their bible and all the stories it contained they all went “Bloody Nora! That dove is totally like Jesus innit! He’s telling us to elect Fabian! Er, do we have to do that? Really?”

The dove did not move while they were all prevaricating, so they decided

Fabian's deadly poo. Bishops look on and are heard to say "that turd will kill him!"

they’d better do what Jesus was telling them to through a bird, the big thickos. To be honest, it wasn’t that difficult for them to decide to go along with the dove, because even though being pope was a top job with well nice frocks and the best jewels in Christendom, given that Anterus had probably been murdered and they reckoned that the next pope would probably be done in as well, none of the bishops were that keen on being pope as they preferred being alive.

As it happened, Fabian turned out to be quite a good pope, sending people to places like France to tell them how nice it was to be a Catholic and doing some nice building and stuff around Rome. Oh and he also did something with Chrism, which wasn’t as rude as it sounds. So, he wasn’t murdered and got to be pope for fourteen years. He wasn’t murdered to death, he died of bursting a vein in his head when struggling to have a poo, just like Elvis.

And that is the story of Pope Fabian. Oh he got to be a saint as well, which given what we read about yesterday, doesn’t mean much of anything at all.

Still, nice as it was to talk about bishops in pretty frocks, doves and getting to be pope in olden times, I bloody hope there’s something more interesting to rabbit on about tomorrow. Let’s hope there’s a semi-interesting birthday for today. Fingers crossed, I’m off to have a look now.

Today is the birthday of Roderick Stewart. I mention this not because I give a flying fornication about Rod the Mod, but because until today I had no idea that his given name was Roderick and it amuses me no end.

Imagine having that face looming over you?

I’m not totally anti-Rod. The man’s done some good songs and stuff, but anyone who can sing “do you think I’m sexy” whilst wearing the most hideous leopard print tight trousers in the world is a bit of a joke. That and the fact that he keeps marrying the same blonde woman, just changing her for a slightly younger model every few years or so, which is just too icky for words.

But, blah, it’s Rod’s birthday. He will probably put on a kilt and a tartan hat and go on about how Scottish he is, despite being from North London and being a plastic Jock. Or joke, whichever you prefer.

It was also the birthday of Mary Ingalls, the older sister of Laura Ingalls

The real Mary Ingalls.

Wilder who wrote all the “Little House” books. Unlike the pretty crazily blue-eyed girl in the tv series of Little House on the Prairie, Mary never married, although she did go blind and did go to the blind school that the TV Mary went to. But there was not crazily blue-eyed teacher for her to fall in love with and get married to and so her non-existent husband did not fall over and get concussion and magically get his eyesight back and take her to NYC where he could finally be a lawyer and not a crappy old teacher. Her life was slightly less dramatic than that.

When she finished school, she went back home to live with Ma and Pa, made fly nets for horses and when her parents died went to live with her sister Grace and then with Carrie, before dying herself. I note that she did not live with Laura, who was probably to high and mighty to let her blind sister live with her by then.

Despite her dull life, it’s fair to say that Mary was probably more worthy of inclusion in this little blog than Roderick the Mod, because while she never accomplished much, she also never put her flabby arse into stupid trousers and pretended to be a bit half gay when she thought it was trendy. All in all, Mary the bland trumps Rod the twat.

Happy birthday to them both! Sort of.

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April 29th

On this day in 1553 a Flemish woman, the wife of Mr Gullheeni who was a coachman at the royal court of Elizabeth I, introduced the art of starching linen to England.

Shut your mouth and look at my ruff

Yes, I know how excited you must be by this far from mundane fact. Imagine how I quivered when I found it. Actually, I was a little intrigued because I thought “Well, here’s something they won’t know about!” which could not have been said about Joan of Arc, Hitler marrying Eva Braun (I do think it was rather an oversight on the part of the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge to get married on the anniversary of that pair. Still, they managed not to top themselves the next day, so hopefully they’ll have a happier less killy life than the Nazi bunker couple), or stuff to do with wars in general from the American Revolutionary up to that one in Vietnam. I nearly told you the story of a  young mathematician by the name of Evariste Galois who got released from prison on this day in 1832, indeed I was well up for doing it until I read all about his maths. Those were hard maths! Galois groups, abstract algebra! I wanted to do it, but alas my grey matter, brilliant as it is, was not quite up to it. So, instead we get starch and linen. Get in!

Starching was quite the thing in Flemland. Ha! It was quite the thing in Holland. The fashion over there was quite severe, quite black and white, and quite reliant upon linen standing up and staying in place, so starch was an essential aid to high fashion. Of course, England was all about the ruff, so Mrs Gullheeni’s way with starch was a godsend to the good housewives of this island and the Queen, especially, was cock-a-hoop with the idea that her ruffs would be super pointy and stiff forever more. Liz was so chuffed with her lovely ruffs that she showered Mrs Gullheeni with

Give us a fiver and I'll firm up your ruff

honours and made her the chief inspectress of the Court linen.

Of course, the fact that the queen was swanning around with super starchy ruffs meant that all the other ladies at court had to have them too and this led to some of the women back in Holland realising that there was money to be made from their starching abilities.  These women styled themselves as professors of starch and one of their number, Dinghen Van Der Plasse was so good at it that it cost five pounds to get a lesson in starching from her. That is roughly £15k per lesson in today’s money. Dinghen was raking it in! With the Dutch influence, there was more starching and then that got dull, so they started adding colours to the starch to pimp those ruffs. One of the first of these colours was blue. When Her Royal Lizness tried it, she was appalled to find that the blue against her skin made her face look green. My guess is the mercury and shit she was using on her face didn’t help. She immediately prohibited the use of anything other than plain white starch. Once she was dead, there were blues, yellows, reds, pinks, greens … but that was in the future. For now, we have completed our little story of how Mrs Gullheeni and Dinghen Van Der Plasse got to make a fortune out of starch and ensured that the ruffs of the great and good always looked fine and upstanding.

Today is the birthday of Daniel Day-Lewis.

I have mixed feelings about Mr Day-Lewis. On the one hand he is a wonderful actor, by and large. His performance in There Will Be Blood bordered on genius.  He is a good-looking man as well, although probably less so these days as he gets older and more haggard, but that comes to the best of us, so …

Danny boy rocking the latest in institutional headwear

But he is also an almighty twat, a pretentious wee shite and his treatment of the women in his life! “Oh, so  you’re having a baby by me? Fuck that for a game of soldiers, we’ll split up, well, I’ll send you a fax. I know we’ve been together for six years, but whatevs! Oh and payment for the child? Maybe, eventually I’ll get my head out of my arse!” and then of course he got nicely married to Rebecca Miller the daughter of Arthur Miller. Problem was he didn’t bother to tell his then girlfriend that he was going to get married to someone who wasn’t her. It was okay though. The girlfriend found out when one of her mates called her to congratulate her, because she thought that Danny Boy must be marrying her.

Things like this make it hard to like the man. That and the fact that he’s barking mad in a pretentious “Only ever address me by the name of the character I’m playing” on set thing. Or you know, playing a bastard and being a bastard until filming is over. It puts me in mind of Laurence Oliver‘s words to Dustin Hoffman on the set of Marathon Man, when Dustin was getting all methody, Larry asked him why he didn’t just learn to act. Ouch! Don’t get me wrong, there’s power in the method, but there’s also being a complete fucktard. I think Danny Boy mostly falls too much into fucktardery for me to  totally admire the demented wee twat.

Still, I have enjoyed some of his films – not that Last of the Mohicans thing though. That was pure shite – and I hope he has a happy enough birthday in Wicklow. Probably. Who am I kidding! I couldn’t give a flying act of farting fornication if he enjoys it or not!

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