THE TAKING OF EYPON

AS ANY SCHOOLBOY KNOWS, the Greek mythological story about the rape of Europe is a part of our Greco-Roman and Judaeo-Christian heritage here in the civilised Western world. The details of this corny tale may not be quite so well divulged among scholars who never got into the depths of the stories invented by old Greek men who had nothing better to do but invent things to tell to others over a glass of wine.

THE ‘FACTS’ ARE, HOWEVER, that Europe – meaning “bright-eyed” or “startled” cow in classical Greek, was led forward “forcibly from the rear” by Zeus in the 8th century BC, in the guise of a bull, from Asia Minor to somewhere corresponding to Macedonia in an attempt to subdue her and stop her interfering with the serious issues of politics in Tyre (now Lebanon).

THERE ARE THOSE WHO ENJOY proclaiming that history repeats itself or is circular. And the realities of today suggest that Greece, the country that has historically let itself be known as the “birthplace of Europe”, “the cradle of democracy” and other such bland nonsense, is now about to be butt-fucked out of Europe due to the fact that it is still, three thousand years later, full of men who have nothing better to do but invent stories to tell each other over a glass of wine, this being particularly true of the Greek government and its economics experts, yet extending down to the postman and the bootblack. The only constant in this history is the regular sodomising of each other. And the lack of any will to work as long as someone gives them money to let them take things up their Asia Minor.

SYRIAN MATTERS

THERE MAY WELL BE SUCH PEOPLE as wonder, as I do, why Syria is not quite getting the bashing that other states have been subjected to during the so-called “Arab Spring” (which is now in its second summer and has still not produced a Swallow) by our good offices in the Western World.

IT SEEMS RELATIVELY APPARENT TO ANYONE with a television set that people have been being mown down, blown up, gunned in their beds and sniped at in their tens of thousands by buffoon-faced Syrian President Bashar “Basher” al-Assad, for well over a year and that no one in the “free world” is doing anything about it other than sending unintelligible United Nations commanders and officials to make speeches on obscure channels late at night.

WHENEVER THIS HAPPENS WE KNOW that the UN is not really interested in the event or that something is standing in the way of the major powers to make them want to call a halt or cessation on proceedings.

MY GUESS IS THAT THIS IS THE CHARMING Asma al-Assad, the fruity, British-born totty who is First Lady of Syria, trophy wife to “Basher” and raised and educated in the United Kingdom. She is a good friend to our beloved Tony Blair and his wife Cherie. Were such contacts not enough to warrant a little benevolence on the part of the West in order to persuade us not to blow her mansions, swimming pools and leisure complexes to smithereens, we also have the fact that her contacts include many of the great and good in the field of medicine in London and, more importantly, the world of finance in the City.

WHILE EVERY DECENT CHAP THINKS that what is going on in Syria is jolly rum stuff, one would not want to do the dirty on one of our own, would one? Especially if one is the “special envoy” to the Middle East.

SOFT UNDERWEAR

IT IS MORE A SIGN OF MY ADVANCEMENT than my backwardness that when I first saw the word “software” written down I believed it had a meaning similar to lingerie, a word which, at the age of ten, I imagined to have some sort of mystical, magical meaning in the world of adults due to the fact that it was always whispered in my presence and accompanied by winking.

THE CONNECTION BETWEEN THE TWO was, then, one of something being hidden, probably close to one’s flesh, and likely to arouse someone, me or perhaps everyone. If someone had perfectly innocently and factually stated “I’m in software” I would have imagined (until I was about 22 years old) that this pervert had his hands in and on female undergarments. But I now see there is a link.

THE TERRORIST CHAPS WHO INVENT new methods of frightening us through their cruel and absurd “suicide bombing” attacks have now, so we are told, managed to produce a pair of men’s underpants that can explode whenever the wearer wishes this to happen, or can be programmed by special software from a distance, and cannot be detected at airport security checks.

THESE “UNDERWEAR BOMBS” HAVE, unfortunately for the makers and sellers of this apparel, been discovered by the United States agencies responsible for homeland security and looking into people’s underwear. “Underwear”, I have read, “is the next airport metal”. I imagine that our security services will have to reinforce their “patting downs” from now on.

(My photos show exactly the type of suspicious underwear that will need careful attention and a thorough patting from the airport security staff in the future)

BOJO COMES HOME

AFTER ELECTIONS DURING WHICH the “ruling” coalition parties have been given a sound whipping by the electorate due more to the fact that the coalition politicians seem to have no idea of what is going on in the world rather than the fact that they are mismanaging the economy, everyone across the political sphere must be pleased that Boris Johnson has been re-elected Mayor of London.

IN THE LIGHT OF THE CONSERVATIVES being thrashed to within an inch of their lives, leader David “Dave” Cameron must now be nursing a dilemma: Johnson’s victory should surely mean that the blond phenomenon will not be challenging his fellow Bullingdon Boy for the leadership of the Conservative Party, yet eight years as Mayor of London will surely mean that Boris can swat Cameron aside whenever he should wish to do so.

CAMERON AND BOY OSBORNE may well be happy in their roles as leaders and cheque-book holders of the nation, but they will never manage to scale the heights of recognition afforded to characters such as Boris.

I DO NOT VOTE IN LONDON and have no real interest in housing developments in Lower-by-Blackheath-upon-Eel-Pie-East-Cheam or whatever the myriad of London boroughs call themselves, but I will stay up late (as is the case now) merely to listen to Boris Johnson talk. David Cameron must surely know this is the case; George “Boy Gideon” Osborne must have no idea what this means in relation to his future in the Conservative Party, nor what I am writing about.

AT OXFORD EVERYONE KNEW what was going on, and there were perhaps those among us who could not understand why Boris took a back seat and allowed lesser men to progress. Now we see why. Johnson is someone who is too honest, sensible and humorous to be the sort of dickhead who runs the present Conservative Party. Anyone who ends his acceptance speech as Mayor of London with “May the Force be with you” has to be either a loony or someone with that little, slight, cutting, edgy approach to serious business that ends up making the difference.

LIKE WHEN HE EMBARRASSED all the Chinese dignitaries during the Olympic Games “changeover” in Beijing (which he called Peking) in saying that “Ping-Pong” (sic) used to be called “whiff-whaff” and was invented by British army officers in India, who knocked balls across “nets” made of books stacked up in the middle of the dinner table. Thus, he stated “Ping Pong is coming home”. The sallow Chinese officials who had to listen to this declamation seemed bemused. Those who were in the know knew Boris was winking to us now in the future.

FOOD FOR THOUGHT

THE FOOD RIOTS THAT RAGED throughout Portugal on Tuesday the 1st of May have given many of the good and great in the country something to think about other than the abstract figures and graphics that they usually turn to in order to gauge the state of the nation. The fact that, when questioned by journalists on the evening news, not one of the political leaders or members of the Portuguese national parliament had a clue about what had happened the length and breadth of Portugal on Tuesday shows just how cut off they are from real life.

WHAT HAD HAPPENED was that the nationwide supermarket chain Pingo Doce decided to make a one-day-only special offer of 50% off all shopping over the value of €100. Nobody – not least the hapless managers of the supermarkets – were prepared for the outrageous scenes that followed as soon as word was passed around. (The announcement had only been made on popular radio stations.)

THE SUPERMARKETS AND OUT-OF-TOWN megastores became naturally overrun by shoppers eager to benefit from this special offer. The chain had innocently imagined that people would shop “normally” (whatever that is) and would be pleased by the discount. Instead, people descended on the stores in transit vans intent on buying, say, fifty bottles of whisky or twenty mega-packs of children’s nappies.

AS ANY INTELLIGENT PERSON would have been able to tell the owners of the chain, fights would ensue, bottles would be broken, nappy-bags would be ripped to shreds, police officers would be called and shops would be closed down for the day. And even the “peaceful” stores would run out of stock sometime during mid-morning.

THE FACT THAT IN FORTY CASES police intervention led to arrests and a large number of people were injured and needed to undergo medical treatment shouts facts about the parlous state of the Portuguese economy; the fact that all of this took place without the attention of the nation’s leaders shows how the financial crisis (and indeed daily life in general) bypasses the political classes.

BUT THE MOST UPSETTING EVENT of the whole sorry affair involved my good self. Having decided to make Ossobuco for dinner, I innocently walked down the avenue to my local branch of Pingo Doce to buy a bottle of Napoleon brandy and a small packet of walnuts for the sauce. I assumed that the broken glass and liquid on the floor of the almost empty shop was due to a shelf-stocking accident, and proceeded to the drinks area.

WHEN MY LIFE WAS THREATENED by two swarthy ruffians who were “guarding” the strong spirits shelves “for a friend”, simply because I had attempted to take a bottle of brandy from among the bottles, I realised that my custom might better be granted to other purveyors.

SO ADIEU THEN

WITH A BIT OF LUCK AND GOOD WEATHER, by next Monday the world will be free of Nicolas “Fifi” Sarkozy, the present president of France and debonair bon vivant responsible for at least an attempt to rehabilitate the global image of the French male after several years of their being referred to as “foul-smelling, snail-eating surrender monkeys”.

ALAS! A PART OF ME believes that, even after all his efforts, M. Sarkozy’s tenure at the helm of La Belle France has not managed to give it the public image in the eyes of the world that it has in the eyes of French men. Of course this does not mean that we do not recognise here in the United Kingdom that French men have a certain je ne sais quoi which will never be bestowed upon our politicians in Britain, most of whom either look uncomfortable in a suit (the Labour Party) or uncomfortable in a job (the Conservatives) or just uncomfortable to be alive (the LibDems).

MUCH MORE LIKE A BRITISH POLITICIAN is the dullard François Hollande, the likely winner on Sunday, a man as exciting as a week-old croissant and, after he wins, bound to become the most forgettable French politician since Édouard Daladier.

BUT BEFORE WE SAY ADIEU to Sarkozy, we must remember his most recent contribution to the health of democracy. Yesterday he stated that if he loses on Sunday he will retire from politics. At a time when one of the most problematic issues of modern politics is the fact that hardly anyone bothers to turn up to vote, Sarkozy’s statement is surely an incentive for punters to turn up and vote against him: I have never voted, as in my opinion no politician I have ever been able to vote for has been deserving of my trust, but I can guarantee that I would vote every time if I knew that my vote might contribute towards getting someone out of politics.

ON A MORE SERIOUS NOTE, I am slightly worried about the state of France. Once again I was recently forced to pass through the country en route to Portugal, spending a night in Paris. What I can say is that in comparison to a few years ago, I sense that most French people look somewhat downhearted, or even bored. As I sometimes say about depression in general, my opinion about the French people nowadays is that they need a good shagging. But the only one who looks like she is getting this is Christine Lagarde, the French head of the International Monetary Fund, who took over from Dominique Strauss-Kahn, who apparently did his best to get a bit of action but was unsuccessful.

A REAL SAMANTHA

IT IS NOT OFTEN THAT ONE CAN witness the incorporation of a new linguistic vocabulary item into the mainstream of language usage, but those of us fortunate to be reading the Daily Mail and – since its “Samantha Brick” article – any other organ of propagating useless tittle-tattle and prattle, which more or less describes all the British newspapers and a good many websites, will now know that a new “Cockney” rhyming slang term has slipped into our everyday chat.

SAMANTHA BRICK, for those who may not have been following this utterly frivolous issue of recent times, is a lady journalist who, it seems, thinks she is attractive in the physical and sexual sense that is so beloved of men who merely see women as sex objects and describe them as ‘fuckable’, among upper class gentlemen, and ‘fit’, which is the term used by lower class chaps, occasionally, one imagines, to describe similar women.

MS BRICK PUT HER FACE on the line in writing an article in the newspaper in which she stated that “ten out of ten men fancy me" at "any dinner party", and that it is difficult for her to live her life normally and be respected because “women do not like attractive women,” and thus, presumably, the only people who like her are those who want, using her own logic, to ‘shag’ her, with their enthusiasm perhaps waning after their way with her has been had.

TO BE PERFECTLY HONEST, I am not sure what the fuss is all about, although I see a certain parallel in our political world. We do want our politicians to be exciting, invigorating and challenging individuals who will take us to places new, and give us pleasures we have not discovered before. That is perhaps not the case of our two leaders Cameron and Osborne, with the hanger-on Clegg, pictured above. Altogether they are a right set of Samanthas.