Exposed: The Lines 'Better Together' Didn't Use

Crippling export duties to bring Scotland to its knees

Confidential documents from the Better Together campaign obtained exclusively by Oh Dear. How Sad. Never Mind. reveal some of the reasons considered as to why Scotland should reject independence in the upcoming referendum.

Although no spokesman for either side has yet commented on the leaked documents, ODHSNM believes it is its journalistic responsibility to publish them, just in case they are not completely made up. 

1. If Scotland votes for independence, everyone in England will refer to it as “Pooland”.
2. No more Buckfast for you.
3. Not only can you not keep the pound, but under cover of darkness on September 20^th, SAS units will steal all the proper sterling currency within Scottish territory and replace it with those crappy Scottish notes that no one accepts.
4. Prince Charles will cry and set fire to all of his kilts.
5. It is only the constant vigiliance of secret radar installations based in North Yorkshire that stop hordes of Loch Ness Monsters from bursting out of their watery lairs and overrunning the Highlands. They eat oil, too
6. MI5 will leak naked pictures of Alex Salmond. 
7. Independence has been shown to cause increase incidences of impetigo, dwarfism and homosexuality.
8. Masked men speaking with Russian accents have been noticed gathering around Aberdeen, while Vladimir Putin was recently spotted wearing a Tam O’Shanter and ginger wig.
9. You have to keep Gordon Brown.

"For real - I took this picture", Alistair Darling is quoted as saying

It is unknown why these lines were never used, however the documents had four words scrawled over them in red biro:

 “Yes, but: George Osborne”

There. You see: I can do satire. 

Looking Inside Myself

It’s June and this is only the 11^th blog post I have written this year.

Long-term readers will perhaps have noticed a downward trend in the frequency of updates since the prolific days of 2011, when by June 2^nd I had racked up 28 posts.

Quantity is obviously not everything, and no doubt there are those (from whose number I do not automatically exclude myself) who think that the quality has deteriorated since then too, when I declaimed loudwise about the divinity of the sun, about dinosaurs and about Eurovision.

Monologues like that – whether intended to be funny, serious or whatever – just don’t seem to come to me complete and ready for compression into 1,500 words or so any more.

Perhaps I have exhausted the store of all the experiences, ideas and connections built up over my 38 years alive that seemed worth sharing. Perhaps I am running on the fumes of what occurs to me between posts.

I dunno.

Part of it is definitely work-related. It’s all got a bit more serious in the last couple of years, and so when I have mental free time it tends not to be spent on flights of fancy but on the tiresome matter of making money for somebody else. Not on purpose, obviously – but I used to quite enjoy waking up in the dead of night with a thought I couldn’t get out of my head, whereas I don’t really now.

Part of it is just sheer ennui.

He is perfectly capable of not pulling this stupid face

Yeah, I COULD write about UKIP but what’s the fucking point?

I’m not doing this to point out what other people have written or thought, or to provoke people into arguments. I’m doing this to express my views where they are different or new. And I seem to just have fewer views than ever before.

I could write about Eurovision again – which was won by a bearded lady this year. How shocking. Oh no, wait. Didn’t a transgender person win it in 1998? Wasn’t that more shocking? Or does the beard push it over the edge? Doesn’t it stop being shocking when you know it’s all being done purely with the intention to shock?

I haven’t watched Eurovision in years. The whole thing just feels like (i) an in-joke that everyone is in on and (ii) something that takes place solely for the reason of generating opinion pieces (or “ten ways to have a Eurovision party” articles). The Buzzfeedisation of everything makes me want to blow up the internet. But I still look at it. 

I could write about Ukraine, but OH MY GOD how much work would it be to actually form opinions based on some foundations of fact rather than “goodie/baddie” or “everybody baddie” narratives we are presented with? Ukraine won Eurovision in 2004, with Ruslana’s “Wild Dances”. Just Google it yourself – I don’t need to link to it, do I?

This is what I KNOW about Ukraine

I can’t believe some of the topics I wrote about in the past, insofar as I can’t believe I gave enough of a shit to spend the time writing about them – and being satisfied enough with what I’d written to give it a public airing.

Don’t worry by the way – I am not going to treat this like a cheap sitcom Xmas special, where we reminisce over a load of links to past posts. Do you remember Viktor Bout? (Fade to late 2010...switch on laughter track...)

I have long resisted the temptation to start reviewing TV programmes or films, but...but then, what would the point of doing that be? We already have the Radio Times.

Dear readers: would you rather see more or less on here? Would ODHSNM be better as a blog with a theme rather than just as a random assemblage of ephemera? Should I perhaps experiment with the possibilities of the blog as a literary form rather than ape the columnists of the dead tree press (complete with punning headline – BUT WHY?)?

Answers below please. Come on – I NEEEEED your validation so bad. 

I Was A Teenage Dungeon Master

A few blogs ago I referred to my shady past as a role playing games fanatic. I feel that it is now sufficiently far in the past that I can speak out about it.

Sufficiently far in the past and – I should add – sufficiently rehabilitated.

The world has come on a long way from believing that Dungeons and Dragons promoted Satanism – see Tom Hanks’ 1982 movie debut “Mazes and Monsters” for details.

It has even made it through the assumption that anybody who engages in such activities is a sad, lonely spree-killer in waiting who will never have sex with a human partner – thanks in large part to the triumph over the nerds over popular culture. The internet and video games have, in some way, made my wasted adolescence acceptable – nay, even avant-garde – in glorious retrospect.

Now, the weekends my friends and I squandered pretending to be wizards – in our own heads, FFS – or moving little lead men around bedroom floors in completely heavily carpet-distorted “battles” is deemed evidence of our “old skool” credentials rather than of our blatant social ineptitude and weirdness. 

Hell, we were in it long before every town had a Games Workshop. We had to get to Nottingham if we wanted goblins to paint.

I could have spent those five or six years learning something useful. Like how to speak to girls. Or how to enjoy physical exercise.

Or becoming an expert in anything – ANYTHING – other than the fighting statistics of imaginary monsters or lists of magic spells.

So I am not celebrating any après-la-lettre cultural vindication. Even if it's ok to like dragons now thanks to Game of Thrones, it was certainly NOT ok to like dragons back in the early 1990s. 

I still regard that period of my life as a very poor use of my finite lifetime. That’s not to say I didn’t have fun – I just had no appreciation of what other kinds of fun were out there.

Anyway, back to the title of the blog. Unless you were playing D&D – or rather Advanced D&D, because D&D was for thickos – the referee was a gamesmaster. I ran our group’s AD&D campaign though, so I was – formally – the dungeon master.

At the time, that was not a funny name to us. It denoted this guy:

Not this guy:

Being the dungeon master meant that I had to come up with the stories and challenges and whatnot, while my friends played characters in the world I had dreamed up – barbarians, clerics, assassins etc.

In retrospect, I can’t figure out why we just kept buying more and more of these different games – so as to play the same basic “swords and sorcery” scenario under yet another set of rules.

It’s always swords: anything involving guns had to confront the problem that getting shot usually results in swift death (or at best, immediate incapacitation) no matter how many experience points you have.

That’s why sci-fi is best suited to wargaming rather than role playing – because it doesn’t immediately mean you have to go home (or outdoors) if your little space marines or chaos squats in exo armour die in droves.

At least I got out in good time, thanks to the greater attractions offered by underage drinking and paid employment. It’s a slippery slope – one day you’re a teenage dungeon master, the next you’re a middle-aged English Civil War re-enactor. 

A Thought Experiment for Dog Owners

In 2014, the human race will be enslaved by aliens. They start landing on earth in January; by February, it’s clear that they’re not interested in talking to us but want the planet for their own.

By the end of June, what’s left of mankind is totally subjugated and is living effectively as domestic animals in the homes of our ten-foot tall insect overlords.

Suppose then, that you are one of these survivors and that you are being taken out for a walk by your “owner”. Coming down the street towards you is another gigantic bipedal crustacean accompanied by a man on lead.

What is your natural inclination at this point? You want to greet, speak with, possibly even sniff the anus of your species-mate – right? You’re a prisoner of a being you don’t understand and you see a fellow human. Of course you’re interested.

But when you try to sidle over to communicate, you are yanked back immediately and hustled on down the street by the firm grip of three chitinous space-tentacles.

Dog owners (you see now where the anus-sniffing reference came from? Well, actually I suppose the title gave it away somewhat...). Dog owners: your dog is interested in other dogs. Just deal with it. 

They're not interested in other dogs because they perceive their lives as some kind of post-apocalyptic servitude (although some might –who knows what they think?). No – because they are dogs and the most interesting thing to a dog, is another dog.

It never ceases to amaze me how many dog owners – at the sight of another dog – dash to render their own dog as immobile as possible or to drag it along as though there was no other dog there at all.

What are you afraid of? A bit of jumping around? A bit of ass-sniffing? That they might be conspiring to overthrow us?

The number of people who live near me who (i) own a dog and must therefore be credited with some degree of insight into dog psychology and (ii) who nevertheless view the presence of ANY OTHER DOG as presenting a threat level equivalent to a gang of drug-crazed African child soldiers is truly astonishing.

Dogs are not people. They interact differently from people. Sometimes that involves growling, play-fighting and other forms of behaviour – including bum smelling - we would rightly be unpleasantly surprised at were they to occur between two humans meeting for the first time.

Dog owners: let your dog be a dog this new year. Remember, the boot might be on the other foot one day.

The True Meaning of Christmas

I’ve been helping my eldest with his homework: a project on Christmas around the world.

Now, there are no doubt people out there – not ODHSNM readers, of course – who would find this outrageous.

Not me helping my son with his homework. The “around the world” bit. The true meaning of Christmas, they declare, can’t be reduced to some multicultural, relativistic blah blah blah...  - a line of argument which you know full well will inevitably end in someone blurting out the word “Immigrants!”

The true meaning of Christmas, they will say, is...erm...

Well, dear readers, let me put this to you. Christmas is just a celebration of good stuff at a crappy time of year. It has had all sorts of stuff superimposed on it over the centuries, but at the end of the day that’s what it started out as and that’s what it still is.

Don’t give me all that “it’s the birth of Jesus” malarkey. Christ is a late addition to Christmas.

He’s been stuck on top of at least two sets of pre-Christian traditions.

Pagan dessert

Firstly, the Northern European pagan Yule celebrations around the winter solstice. That’s where you get your holly and ivy, your Druidic mistletoe, your Christmas trees, your Yule log (chocolate or otherwise) and all those other Germano-Celto-Scandinavian accessories.

Not one of those things – except perhaps a log – would have been found in the Iron Age Middle East, so have clearly come from somewhere other than the Jesus story.

The second source is Greco-Roman paganism, specifically the festival of Saturnalia.

Saturnalia (Kronoia for the Greeks among us) was a month long celebration of the good old days before that bastard Zeus cursed mankind with the need to work for a living. It involved:

• Gift giving
• Eating and drinking to excess
• A general end-of-term, office party kind of vibe all round, when slaves were afforded freedoms usually denied them and the bosses made fools of themselves

Sounds Christmassy, doesn’t it?

There are loads of other hypotheses kicking about saying that the Christian myth is based on other bits of

Not real

ancient lore, but why get into all that? It’s like arguing about whether Tolkien’s orcs were green or grey. Even if there’s a right answer, it doesn’t matter what it is because it’s ALL MADE UP.

The point is – and I’ll go out on a limb here – it is completely impossible to extract a “true” Christian core or indeed a “true” pagan core. It’s a big syncretic mess of bits and bobs appropriated from here, there and everywhere.

Look at Santa Claus. Where does he fit in? Don’t try to tell me that he’s “really” Saint Nicholas, the fourth century Turkish bishop and early Christian martyr. What the hell would he be doing with reindeer and elves? He’s as obviously mashed up as Baron Samedi.

Balls

Why do you think the Puritans banned Christmas in 1647 as “a popish festival with no biblical justification”? Precisely because they could see how pagan it all was. At least Oliver Cromwell had the balls to recognise it for what it was instead of whinging about the corruption of the “real” meaning on Radio Four.

You can’t select certain bits and say that’s the “real” Christmas and the rest of it isn’t – the Christian bits, the non-Christian bits, whatever. Every step along the way contributed to getting us where we are today. Who can say where taking any of them out would have taken us? There is no distinction between the signal and the noise.

The materialistic aspects of Christmas are just as ancient as the spiritual aspects.

And if we accept that consumerism is our current religion (or substitute for it), then a 50 year tradition of buy-buy-buy from Black Thursday to the January Sales is getting on for half the age of all “ye olde traditions” the Victorians bequeathed us.

It’s as silly to worship a tree or indeed money as it is to worship a big old beardy sky-fairy.  If you pick away rationally at every part of the Christmas myth, eventually you’re left with nothing but a bloody long winter ahead of us.

Maybe we don’t need to have a justification for having a party. The weather’s shit, it’s dark all the time – don’t we have a right to cheer ourselves up?

Perhaps THAT, ladies and gentlemen, is the true meaning of Christmas. 

As a Symbol, I Can Be Incorruptible, Everlasting

Dinner dinner dinner dinner: The Batman

Elvira and I watched The Dark Knight Rises last weekend. If you know us, you’ll know that our having gone to the cinema to see it when it first came out was a big deal – we don’t get out much.

And these films today are so bloody long that you need to watch them twice to make sense of them.

The conclusion was that we liked it more second time around than first – not least as (i) knowing the plot twist helps you look out for the signs and (ii) we had braced ourselves so as not to start laughing every time Bane speaks.

Two things will I say about the Blu-Ray experience:

• Just take me to the main menu. Do not FORCE me to watch trailers by telling me it’s “forbidden” to skip through them. Forbidden by whom?
• Special features you have to download? Piss off. Why do you think I’m still watching discs at all?

Re the above: Lovefilm – sort it out. Because I will ditch your punk ass and go to Netflix just like I ditched Blockbuster for you. 

Anyway, it started me thinking...which is always a bad sign in any piece of entertainment media.

In these films (I won’t call them movies because this is ENGLAND NOT AMERICA) the Batman could be anyone.

I say “the Batman” rather than “Batman” not to show my complicity in the idea put across by these films that featuring a man who dresses up as a bat is not inherently ridiculous. No – I say it because "Batman" cannot be anyone: he is, of course, Adam West.

So, the Batman could be anyone because he’s a symbol of something rather than an individual. Which means that the boy from Third Rock from the Sun can be him in the next one.

It occurred to me that this is an idea that our politicians need to adopt. Because every time a political idea gets out and achieves some sort of popular support, the media tears apart the politician at the forefront of that idea’s movement on the basis of his or her human frailties.

So the theory goes – and let it not be said that ODHSNM is unbalanced politically (psychologically is another matter) – UKIP’s ideas are implicitly invalidated by the “colourful” lives of their candidates, or the idea that Amazon and Google ought to be some sort of tax is invalidated by the MPs quizzing them taking perfectly legal and rational measures to minimise their own liabilities. 

This being the internet, we might as well see that through to the Reductio Ad Hitlerum and declare that vegetarianism was to blame for the Holocaust.

My point is that the failings of the person putting across an idea do not necessarily condemn the idea itself. 

So politicians – put on a mask, and become a symbol of your cause instead of a mere mortal! 

Just like the criminals of Gotham City can’t kill a symbol, an idea can’t be caught avoiding tax, molesting children or strangling prostitutes.

POST SCRIPT: This is my 150th post - please help me to celebrate by sending me money or booze. Preferably money. No vouchers. 

The End is Very Nigh

Give it up for your X Factor finalists

T-11: It’s nearly upon us, apocalypse-watchers. Less than two weeks until the end of the world, according to some dead Mexican astronomers.  

It seems that after a year of nothing very apocalyptic happening, people are finally starting to get their acts together and behave like cattle in a lightning storm.

However, I must admit to you all, that since Christopher Maloney did not win The X Factor last night, my conviction that the world’s doom is imminently upon us has been seriously shaken.

All of a sudden, the arguments put forward by NASA and others against anything out of the ordinary happening next Friday seem fairly convincing.

The Mayans are all dead, and apparently they didn’t know about the extra quarter-day in the solar cycle which makes Leap Years necessary. Taking those into account would mean the world had already ended.  

Isle of Sodor Railways loses franchise

"Eccentric" Hatt

PRESS RELEASE

Department for Transport, 12/10/12

Transport Secretary Patrick McLoughlin will announce this morning that the Isle of Sodor Railway Company’s franchise for operating passenger and freight services will be not be renewed and will come to an end next April.

Mr McLoughlin cited Isle of Sodor Railways’ appalling record on punctuality and safety – derailments on the network total 255 for the last year alone – as the decisive reasons for rejecting the bid put in by eccentric chairman, Sir Topham Hatt, better known to the public as “The Fat Controller”.

Many critics have laid the blame for the company’s performance on Sir Topham’s “Very Useful Engine” artificial intelligence system, which allows locomotives to make their own route planning and other decisions – frequently in competition with one another.

The Secretary of State also pointed to extensive financial irregularities within Isle of Sodor Railways, which is incorporated in the neighbouring tax haven, the Isle of Man.

Concerns have frequently been raised about the amount of rolling stock and track maintained by Isle of Sodor, which is vastly out of proportion to the needs of an island no more than five miles in length.

Mr McLoughlin will later today hand the franchise to the US-based Consortium For Putting in an Offer for Running Sodor’s Railways – SodOff.

Chuggington: Safety concerns

One of the lead backers of SodOff is the Arizona city of Chuggington. Commentators have noted that Chuggington’s record on accidents is just as bad as Isle of Sodor’s.

Confronted with these concerns, the Secretary of State said in a statement: “They offered shit loads more money.”

Asked for a comment, senior partner at transport engineering consultancy Pig, Rabbit and Cat, Ian “Daddy” Pig said: “Oh. I didn’t expect that to happen”, before jumping up and down in a muddy puddle.

NOTES FOR EDITORS

• Sir Topham Hatt is the brother of rogue investment banker Sir Stetson “Cowboy” Hatt, the former chief executive of RBS, who has not been missing since 2009. Sir Stetson was last seen leaving Claridges and getting on board Bertie the Bus with 15 teenage Lithuanian prostitutes.
• Sir Topham first developed the “Very Useful Engine” system in the late 1930s. He spent much of the previous decade in Italy observing how Mussolini made trains run on time. That period is widely believed to be the source of the ardent anti-communism which inspired his desire to run a railway without workers. His feelings about the labour movement led Sir Topham to become a dedicated supporter of Sir Oswald Mosley’s British Union of Fascists, and he was interned for much of the Second World War on Zingzilla Island.

Missing banker Thomas Goldstein

• Although Isle of Sodor Railways maintains that “Very Useful Engine” is a closely-guarded software secret, allegations that trains are animated with the souls of dead business partners of Hatt, revived by unspeakable necromantic rites, have continually depressed share prices. Longstanding acquaintances of the Hatt family have claimed to see uncanny similarities between certain company assets and the renowned German financiers, Thomas and Percy Goldstein, who vanished in 1936.
• Spokesman for SodOff, Tinkie Winkie the Teletubbie commented on the DfT’s decision: “Tinkie Winkie bag!”. The FTSE100 and Dow Jones both immediately rose by 100 points. 

Contact DfT press office for further information.

Fifty Shades of Beige

When I was a boy, every other weekend – or so it felt – my family would spend a rainy Sunday afternoon wandering around a carpet showroom.

To this day, a row of majestic, towering rolled-up offcuts has the power to overawe me; the heady perfume of formaldehyde to set my hippocampus jangling; the electrostatically-charged atmosphere generated by opposingly-polarised artificial fibres to ... well, you get the picture.

The thing about childhood memories is that as soon as you start bringing them up in front of other people who were actually there, you generally discover that they were completely false.

So whether we actually went to Kingsbury Carpets quite as often as it felt we went or not, carpets en masse send me right back to the state of a bored child chasing my brother up and down the aisles, hiding in between vast swathes of Axminster ... and off I go again.

We, the Sicilies, are still in the midst of buying our new house. We are waiting for it to be finished and hope to move in next month.

A word of advice – when considering the choice between a new build and a used/second hand/pre-owned house (delete to taste), bear in mind that for all their upsides, new builds generally don’t come with floor coverings. So unless you like the feel of bare concrete underfoot – perhaps you are going for “Gaza Strip” decor? – you are going to have to invest in carpet.

A lot of carpet.

In our case, as it turns out, several thousand pounds-worth of carpet.

Now, as a pedant of the first order, I have always had trouble using the suffix “-worth” as a synonym for “cost” or “priced at”. That seems to me to be at best a lazy and at worst sinister conflation of the ideas of value and price. I’ve bought carpet (and vinyl – itself apparently an upmarket synonym for “lino” these days) that cost thousands of pounds, but as to whether it was “worth” it, only time will tell.

And let me tell you, carpet: I am going to be subjecting you to some pretty exacting standards when I think about the other things I could have done with that money.

Back when I was a boy, the carpet warehouse seemed a veritable kaleidoscope of colour and texture. Indeed, in history, carpets were status symbols and ways for rulers to display their magnificence.  

And yet in our shrunken world, we are reduced to the choice between the titular fifty shades of beige. Yes, I bet you were expecting more sex and less carpet when you saw that headline, weren't you?

How can anyone reasonably choose between carpets that look and feel identical? When you can see two indistinguishable carpets “worth” £8 per square metre and £30 per square metre?

OK, I can just about grasp the difference between wool and synthetics, between pile lengths, between looped and ... um... the other kind. But how can anyone choose between so many options that are so similar?

The man in the carpet shop explained to Elvira and I that, in these economically depressed times, manufacturers have to play safe. If they produce anything too out of the ordinary, they risk being stuck with a load of stock they can’t shift and thence going out of business. And that competitive pressure actually drives them all to reduce choice and produce endless tiny variants of the same few basic designs.

An interesting lesson in unfettered competition leading to market failure, don’t you think? If I want a purple carpet with green stripes in it, I SIMPLY CAN’T GET ONE BECAUSE NOBODY MAKES THEM.

And underlay! Don’t talk to me about underlay! “The silent killer” it should be called, because as soon as you think you have a vague idea how much carpeting a room is going to cost – ah! – don’t forget that you need underlay, which itself can cost as much as the carpet. Bloody underlay.

So after a painstaking selection process (more painstaking on Elvira’s part, I should add – my role was largely restricted to saying “yes, THAT one”) we duly settled upon our limestone 521s, our 7B minks and 1866 soft biscuits.

In the bathroom though we went KERRRAYZEEE though: we’re getting “liquorice and bubblegum” striped lino. Studies from prisons show that if we lock tantrumming kids in the bathroom with that on the floor, they’ll calm down in no time. Or have a seizure. The results were inconclusive. 

Alexander Thorpe: the smuggest-looking man in carpeting

London – Not as bad as expected

A few weeks ago, I scoffed at the thought of going to London during the Olympics. And right now, I am on my way home after having done so.

Like most people whose sole window on reality is what they see on TV and read on the internet, I had expected something resembling all-day Tokyo rush hour supervised by the Army with corporate blackshirts snatching anyone who looked out of place through secret doors - an early glimpse of the UK’s inevitable descent into dystopian, totalitarian nightmare.  

However, it wasn’t like that at all. It was much like any other day in London. That’s not saying much, but it certainly wasn’t 1984.

To tell the truth, I was a little disappointed not to see a single missile launcher or have to dive out of the way of a speeding dignitary in a Zil Lane. Indeed, the number of people in tracksuits I saw was no higher than a typical day’s viewing in Leeds.

I even saw a little shop with a set of Olympic rings in the window. I took a picture – no doubt scaring the shit out of the owner, taking me for a LOCOG goon – but I thought twice about sticking it on here. Let it never be said that Oh Dear. How Sad. Never Mind. is a snitch. Bloggers and social media are already doing more than their fair share of turning the whole populace against the idea of freedom of speech.

Well, here’s my own little marketing ambush:

If you like the London 2012 Olympic Games, give me some of your money.

If you don’t hear from me again, assume I have been disappeared into the back of a migraine-inducing purple van.

From my experience today - apart from the splashes of lurid magenta besmeared across everything -  you could be forgiven for thinking that the whole event was actually being produced on a sound stage at Pinewood or in Pixar’s studios and that the entire idea of the Olympics actually “taking place” in London was some elaborate Baudrillardian joke.

While controversy surrounding the Games has focused on the cost and the restrictions on Londoners’ freedoms, for me there are some major issues that have not been given due attention:

1. Barbarians are allowed to take part – this is in clear breach of the Olympic spirit. Was their Greek even tested?

2. Competitors are also not naked

3. Total lack of chariot-based events

4. No oxen were sacrificed at all during the opening ceremony. Like myself, the gods are likely to have found Trevor Nelson’s commentary a poor substitute

Seriously LOCOG, Zeus is a volatile deity at the best of times. 

He has “enforcement officers” of his own, and I’d hate to see Paul McCartney get struck by lightning.  

Haunting the chapel

I’ve just been robbed by Henry VIII.

Yes, Britain’s favourite wife-killing fatso has cost me about £20 or so 550 years AFTER his death.

“How?”, you may well ask – unless you are already asking “Are you having a psychotic episode, Roger?”

Well, let me tell you – because the erstwhile Tudor monarch could well be reaching out his chubby phantom fingers from beyond the grave to lighten your pockets also if you try to buy a house.

The merrie maniac

Henry VIII, you may recall, was responsible for the dissolution of the monasteries. Much like our present-day rulers, he wanted to grab hold of a load of cash and give some of it to his chums and spend the rest of it on war.

To cut a long story short, when this happened the Church’s liabilities for the repair of church buildings passed to the new owners – which were then generally dumped on the local starving, struggling populace in the form of tithes.

Still with me?

Tithes were then gradually abolished over the following few hundred years.

OR WERE THEY?

Turns out, no one is quite sure if certain bits of land across the country are in fact still liable to pay for repairs to church buildings in whose parishes they may happen to be. The records are sketchy.

In 2003, a couple were charged £100,000 for repairs to an ancient chapel on a farm they had inherited.  The good old House of Lords decided that the Human Rights Act didn’t apply – which is surprising considering how many of its members have undoubtedly inherited ancient chapels.

And so, we return to the present day and the preposterous Chancel Repair Liability Search – for which I have just paid my own tithe, on top of all the other pointless costs on which I have already bent your ears. Eyes. Whatever – sense organs generally. I’m fairly sure I haven’t touched anyone about it.

As I said before, records in this area are sketchy. It’s not clear, even if you check all the available paperwork, whether the property you are buying is potentially liable.

With the same enervating uncertainty as Ant and Dec telling an unpopular celebrity that “it might be you” who has to face the Bushtucker trial (but less than half the charm), Chancel Repair Liability Searches can only tell you that you “might be” liable for a whopping great bill at some unspecified point in the future.

And on what grounds? On the production of some tattered scrap of paper found in the crypt of some OTHER church, which says you are.

That is, if the institution which stands to benefit from finding such evidence digs out documentation which was available only to itself. Now that’s justice.

And so, whither goest risk, hither cometh the insurance industry. You can insure yourself against the danger that you might be financially fucked forever by a law that you not only didn’t know applied to you, but which you couldn’t know applied.

In 2008, the government refused to do anything about this Kafka-esque state of affairs. Its reply to an online petition said:

Chancel Repair Liability has existed for several centuries and the Government has no plans to abolish it or to introduce a scheme for its redemption.  

The Government acknowledges that the existence of a liability for chancel repair will, like any other legal obligation, affect the value of the property in question, but in many cases this effect can be mitigated by relatively inexpensive insurance. It is for the parties involved in a transaction to decide whether or not to take out insurance.

And so the demands of the past over the present are sanctified by the availability of insurance.

Perhaps legal anomalies of this sort are just the price we pay for our “living” constitution – the appendix or coccyx of the body politic.

Indeed, we have many thousands of apparently humorously quaint and charming laws, some 800 of which the Law Commission is looking to get rid of later this year.

Isn’t it delightful that we live in a land where you can technically be pilloried for not tethering your goat correctly on St Swithin’s Day?

No it isn’t – and here, the drummer out of Blur explains why. As he says:

There is no such thing as "technically" being a criminal

Let me paraphrase (and draw perhaps slightly stronger conclusions than a Labour candidate might endorse): these laws put power into the hands of the state which may subsequently be used to suppress activities you had no idea were illegal.

That a person can be criminally liable for something he or she had no idea was illegal and which has never consistently before been treated as illegal is the essence of injustice.

The persistence of these ancient laws is a merkin for the arbitrary exercise of state power – they are the Patriot Act hiding on the village green.

Yeah, it’s only £20 – but it’s the principle of the thing, innit. 

Downton Abbey is not real

Many apologies to the in-house staff psychiatrist at the Daily Telegraph, but I’m going to have to break it to them, no matter how far back it sets their and their readers’ collective therapy: Downton Abbey is not real. 

There is no such place. The people in it are made up. None of this actually happened. 

In fact, Downton Abbey is an ITV Sunday evening drama. Like Wild at Heart, or Heartbeat, or Where the Heart Is, it is designed to send you off to bed, all sleepy, cosy and nostalgaic, rather than wallowing in the usual end-of-weekend black pit of despair.

You must let go of the tragic delusion that it is the most important thing happening in Britain.