All is not lost

Gstaad

These are quiet days and nights here, the noisy mobile telephone brigades having left immediately after the New Year. It is a sign of the times, the mobile telephone, that is. One used to be able to tell where a person came from by their manners, their dress, even their looks. Not to mention their accent. No longer. Everything is so dumbed down, everyone so common, one has trouble distinguishing the scion of an old noble family from a coke dealer. Both use the mobile pest non-stop, the former to gossip, the latter for business. Something must be done, but what? The thing is too far gone. I know a young woman in New York who walks around with two telephones, and talks into both of them simultaneously. They say she also uses them while screwing, but this I don’t believe.

What I do believe is that life’s absurd. For example, have you noticed that after every outrage by some Muslim or Irish fanatic the first thing the police do is to step up ‘security around Tony Blair and other public figures…’ What a crock! Blair and his useless lot are the last people who need more protection. Offer them the equivalent of what the public gets, and see how swiftly the hem-and-haw Straw and Tony Baloney will scream in outrage that ex-Taleban terrorists are given asylum and receiving legal aid.

What a ridiculous country Britain has become. One opens the newspaper and wonders if the whole thing is a spoof. Page one of the Sunday Telegraph breaks the story about the Taleban fighter seeking asylum in England. On page three there’s the story of how boxing’s governing body is attempting to end celebrity bouts by threatening to disbar any professionals who take part.