Special Relationship with Man's Best Friend

Having a coffee and a fag and a squint through the morning papers I found the following story in The Grauniad.

'Animal lovers hit the roof after it was revealed that Republican presidential candidate Mitt Romney strapped his Irish setter to the top of his car during a 12-hour drive from Boston to Ontario, terrifying the dog and causing a health hazard to other road users'.

Bearing in mind that the US President is also, de facto, GB President, the possibility that this dickhead could have his finger on The Nuclear Button is enough to turn a poor Merkin to drink.

Ah well, it is still only Saturday morning and already we have had some grist for the mill.
Thinking about the diaphanously attired Lavender's story of the morning cabaret, I was trying to think of a suitable title to describe my weekend so far on the blog.
Gottit.

'Flashers and Fuckwits' seems to say it all.

What a life is led by some people, no?

And then it gets even more surreal.
During my time in Poland, lessons occasionally centred on National Drinking Habits.
A very important topic for the majority of Poles - not just those in my classes.

Usual questions, of course, from the students.

Do you prefer Scotch or Irish or American Whiskey?
What can I say?
Do you like Wodka?
What can I say?
Do you drink it the Polish way?
What can I say?
Do Scottish women drink?
What can I say?

Then the question of toasting arises.

In Poland, they say 'Na Zdrowie' as most people would know.
Naturally, there are lots of alternatives.
Often you will hear what sounds like 'Dengko'.
(A 'dengko' is the thick bottom of a glass)
My uni-polar favourite is 'Na Pohybel' which, roughly, means 'Fuckit All'.
We talk about the English versions.
Cheers.
Your health.
All the best etc. etc.

Someone with an older book (or a previous teacher with a wicked sense of humour) will inevitably come across with 'Bottoms Up' which, for years, he has probably roared with pride every time he has actually met, dah dah dah.........................
'An Englishman'.

I give them my idiosyncratic favourite, 'In Like Flynn', without explaining to them the full horror of the actual meaning of the phrase.

Which brings me back to the subject of Saturday morning mirth.

So, once again.
Having a fag and a coffee and a squint through the morning papers and a thought of that morning cabaret in Nottingham and the stupid American Presidential Candidate and a listen to the Queen opening the Scottish parliament.
OK. Still with me?
Gooood.

So, with my head cooking on all cylinders I am in reasonable form when the Cocktail Party Phenomenon kicks in.

Did he really just say that?
Astounded, gobsmacked, speechless all spring to mind.

As Our Dear Friend might say, 'I can feel a moment of weakness coming on. Dear Boy, where are my smelling salts' as he sweeps the back of his hand across his forehead.

The political analysts have been discussing the possibility of Scottish Independence with Queen as Head of State.
One of them suggests that Our Liz is not stupid and that, with regard to the discussions, the Palace would be 'In Like Flynn'.

In Like Flynn?
In Like Flynn??
In Like Flynn???

For those of you not so familiar with the origin of this phrase , just let me tell you it is not something I would commonly associate with The Queen or Holyrood Palace.

Pause.

See what I mean?

(Later, on reflection.
The Queen - No!
The Queen Mother - Yes!, for certain.)

Well, we started with Dogs and Arseholes and finished up with The Queen and a Ten Inch Dick.
The weekend is going well, so far.
Can't last.