Family letter to Abroad

The editor gives news of the Blighty Life to absent family members

While Jane holds up the property market in London and I hold my end up here in Devon, it’s good to see the rest of the family has escaped. Unfortunately, the goons discovered our tunnel: we’re now building a glider out of matchsticks in the attic in the hope of joining you all in due course – if and when Harriet’s Thought Police get distracted by a hate crime. I’d like to think that if we do make it out alive, however, there’ll be more to see than ‘todally focused’ Scots getting beaten in straight sets by the Swiss.

It’s still cold here. I know this is of little interest to those waking up each morning to cloudless California or chucking shrimps on a Bondi barbie, but this sort of global weather reporting is de rigueur ever since the birth of CNN. And as CNN isn’t going to bother with the weather in Olde Englande, I thought you could have the exclusive on just how bollock-solidifyingly cold it is here in the poor folks’ space.

The other bad news I have to give you is that the Mother Country has gone into a Home. We had to do it for the poor old girl: she was getting along just fine, but there were a few embarrassing incidents: Old Britannia arrested a motorist last week for blowing his nose in a traffic queue. The charge was driving without due care and attention. In London the day before, four Special Branch cops cautioned two TV presenters for possession of hairdriers with intent to confuse four dumb cops hoping they were guns. The presenters were filming at the time (there was a crew of eight including clapper boy, sound-man and camera-jock) but this was unable to deter our plucky Boys in Blue from their Mission Statement, ‘To shoot innocent Brazilians 38 times in the head from close range and be cleared of any wrongdoing’.

So anyway, she’s gone into the IMF Golden Days Retirement Complex. There she’ll be given 24/7 care of her chronic emotional incontinence syndrome, and allowed to pretend that the ceiling is a pot of jam without doing harm to herself or innocent ceilings. In time, we’re hoping that they’ll find room for Cool Britannia too. As you may have heard, he was perjuring sorry giving evidence to the Chilcot Inquiry last Friday. He told the panel (most of whom are dead) that he had no regrets about Iraq, and given the chance he’d do it all again. Even Bush has never said that. Next week, Tony makes his forty-fifth attempt at crossing the Alps on a lawnmower. He has more chance of making it than Murray does of beating Federer: somebody needs to tell our Andy that he hasn’t got a convincing grunt. Grunts are a top-dollar commodity right now, but he should take the plunge and buy some. It’s the key to triumph at Wimbledon.

That’s it for the time being. It’s getting dark and so I better climb back in the coffin….whose insulation, by the way, is powered by a wind-farm propeller I stumbled across while sawing one down near our house the other day. It occurs to me that this might also be another escape ruse; so Fred, if you have any advice of an aeronautic nature, do let me know.

Stay happy and ensure your chocks are away before taking off

John x