The Great Escape

Mrs Turley, Housewife extraordinaire is in very deep trouble, Readers. I am under house arrest. Yes, at this very moment two (lovely) young gentlemen from Her Majesty’s Secret Service are standing to attention outside my door. Why? I hear you say… 

Well, it happened like this… 

Mr Turley forbade me from doing any more blogging until the house was spick and span and I’d completed all my charitable deeds for the boys' sports clubs. So by last night I was wild, livid, and prepared finally to throw the tea towel in. I could stand no more drudgery and so I planned a cunning escape. Having failed with the tunnel, I decided to take the more conniving route of escape... Through the front door in the early hours (Mr Turley would never expect such blatant audacity) and Mr Turley who sleeps like an elephant (and makes a similar sound too) would not hear me and I would slip quietly away into the night… 

And so I packed my handbag with all the necessary items I needed to start a new life:

 1. Mr Turley’s credit card. (Also his cheque book, savings account, current account card and the loose change he keeps by the side of the bed.)

 2. A kilo of chocolate. (It’s a large handbag)

 3. Clean knickers. (Essential for any woman who’s had a child)

 4. Spare clean knickers (Essential for any woman who’s had three children.) 

5.Lipstick. (Just in case I ran into Pierce again, I needed to look my best.)

 6.Tissues. (So I can wipe around the toilet seat of any public convenience that does not have sufficient squatting room.)

 7. A small pen knife which has my emergency tin opener on it. (Vital for impromptu meals.)

 8. A can of baked beans. (For the emergency meal.)

 9. A map of The Outer Hebrides and a one-way ticket to said place (and also a map of Pierce Brosnan’s house just in case I decided to stalk him.) 

10. A wind up two-way radio so I can keep in contact with the outside world in case of nuclear war.

 And so at 12.45 am I tiptoed out of the house. I decided not to take the car in case anyone should hear and I also took the precaution of puncturing Mr Turley’s tyres with my penknife so he could not pursue me... and then I headed off into the night.

 At first, I walked. Then I trotted...and then feeling the breeze on my face and the sense of freedom I broke into a run… my pulse was racing, my heart pounding… I could hear the music of the theme tune to The Six Million Dollar Man in my head as I gradually ran faster and faster. My imagination took flight…

 ♫♫♫ Der, der, der derrrr…Der, der, der, der, der, der, derrrrrrrrrrr ♪♫♫ 

“Mrs Turley, housewife. A woman barely alive. Ladies, we can rebuild her. We have the technology. We have the capability to build the world’s first Bionic Housewife. Mrs Turley will be that housewife. Better than she was before. Better. Stronger. Faster.

 ♫♪♫ Der, der, der, derrrrrrr…Der, der, der, der, der, der, derrrrrrrrrrrrrrr ♫♫♪♫ 

And so I ran on and on and on… until I reached a stile and as I made a daring leap over it… the earth began to shake, the trees tremble, I began to sway from side to side and then suddenly… I landed flat on my stomach with my face in a cowpat. The ground continued shaking. 

What was happening? Had I lost my senses? Had I gained more weight over Christmas than I dared imagine?

Eventually, I wearily raised my head and to my amazement saw an array of black shiny boots. 

“Mrs Turley, Housewife Extraordinaire?” A voice barked in the night. 

“Ye…essss,” I replied fearfully. 

“You are under arrest for the wilful damage of Her Majesty’s Lands."

 “I am?”

 “Your running, Mrs Turley, has caused the strongest earthquake in this country for 25 years.”

 “It has?” I replied, suddenly anxious that I might be imprisoned in Her Majesty’s Tower and forced to watch endless reruns of Prince Charles’ wedding to Lady Diana Spencer. Worse, I might even have to watch The Duchess of Cornwall at Ascot. (Although I’m not sure which race she might have been taking part in.)

 “5.2 on The Richter Scale, Mrs Turley. It was lucky you fell otherwise we might have had to call a national emergency.”

 And so here I am - confined to my house under house arrest. Responsible for an earthquake and with nothing better to do than housework…. and blog... 

EARTHQUAKE ROCKS THE UK 

On February 27 at approx 1am The UK experienced its largest earthquake for 25 years, registering 5.2 on the Richter Scale. Fortunately, there was no loss of life although structural damage is expected to run into millions of pounds. A woman in her forties has been placed under house arrest pending further enquiries into her weight problem.

 © Jane Turley 2008

More ludicrous waffle....

Oh what joy, at last I have (temporarily) finished doing all those charitable deeds that a mother of three boys must do and at last I am free to blog again! Anyhow before I get going tomorrow on various dubious subjects connected with the Art of Housewifery I thought I’d post my latest football report for the BBC; I’m afraid all that talk of Luke Warmwater put me in a Star Wars frame of mind over the weekend. There’s not a lot about football in it really… anyway if you like it and fancy reading other complete garbage in the vein of Charles Dickens and Jane Austen click on my BBC links for the other drivel.

Soccer Wars; The Return of Samba

Southcott Owls U7 3 -7 Samba Rio U7

A long time ago in a field far, far away there was a great Soccer War. The Rebels, Aylesbury Athletic, who came from a hidden Buckinghamshire base, had lost their first conflict against The Evil Sithcott Owls.

During the first battle, Samba Pele lost 2-4 but now they were fielding their premier team, Samba Rio, in an attempt to win The League and steal the secret plans of Sithcott’s ultimate weapon; The Death Ball, an armoured football with enough power to destroy an entire army of Droid football supporters.

Pursued by The Emperor’s secret agents, Darth Johnston and her Sith Younglings, The Young Jedi Masters of Samba took to the Sithcott field in the attempt to save their reputation, steal The Death Ball plans and restore sanity to The League……..

Darth Johnston, standing tall and flinging her black cape around her, assembled The Sithcott Younglings at her feet for a severe scolding. They crouched fearfully as today she was in a mood as vile and wretched as a school dinner because across the field The Evil Emperor of The Sithcott Owls, Chairman Murtagh, was training yet more Sith in the wicked ways of the Dark Side. The Chairman too was in a foul, hideous mood because despite his devilish powers he had not been able to discover the Magic Elixir of Eternal Youth and was growing even more aged and withered on this the day of his 40th Birthday. His only compensation were his plans for The Death Ball which he had secretly hidden in his shorts; it was Darth Johnston’s unpleasant task to protect these plans at all costs, for which she needed her infamous mask.

“Now Young Sith you must use your trust in The Dark Side to win this match,” commanded Darth Johnston. “Use The Force and it will make you strong; if you win you will become more powerful than you can ever imagine!”

The thought of increasing their Dark Powers inspired The Sith into some forceful, attacking play in the first quarter from captain Benedict Turley and his able conspirators Jake Sanders and Jaime Hunt and within minutes Sanders had scored a fine goal. The defence partnership of Craig Rattray in goal, Karl Waydick and Miles Drabwell was also looking resilient. Drabwell was particularly adept, running the full length of the field to add to the strength of the Sithcott attack. Rattray kept a clean sheet and as the end of the first quarter drew to a close Sithcott were looking formidable.

In the second quarter The Samba Jedi began to utilize the noble powers of The Force as their passing and aptitude began to increase. Unluckily though, they had forgotten their lightsabres but fortunately so had Sithcott… so both teams had to make do with their right foot and occasionally, their left. If Samba wanted to restore balance it was vital that they equalised and sure enough, despite Sithcott keeping up the pressure with substitutes Lauren Avery and Tommy Johnston on the field, Samba fired an unstoppable shot that flew into the top corner of the Sithcott goal over Turley’s head to bring the score to 1-1.

In the third quarter, the more experienced Samba’s skill began to show as they shot two more goals past Rattray to take them into the lead. Sithcott began to tremble with fear because the wrath of Chairman Murtagh was known to be awesome and should he loose his plans for The Death Ball there would be a punishment worse than death. (Watching a Luton Town FC match.)

In the final quarter Sithcott began to panic as their defence fell apart entirely and Turley was abandoned in goal with only his gloves for protection. In quick succession Samba shot four goals past him. Turley’s anger began to mount and his eyes glow red as the power of the Dark Side began to grow inside him.

“Where are you Sith?” he cried “You are my brothers! Do not leave me to the mercy of The Samba Jedi!”

Suddenly reawakened by the cries of Turley’s distress and fearful of Darth Johnston’s anger Sithcott regrouped and in the dying minutes Sanders scored two rapid goals to bring the final score to a more respectable 3-7.

Turley’s mother was returning to her Speedo with her son trailing behind. He was still furious with the defeat and as his mother strapped him into his restraining harness she could see his eyes burning with intense rage.

“This is the end for you Mother,” he said. “You were supposed to buy me magic goalie gloves that would bring victory to the Sith, not leave us in defeat. You will suffer.”

“I am no stranger to the Sith,” replied his mother. “Do not underestimate my powers.”

“My strength is growing and yours is fading,” the juvenile Turley responded, drawing out his water pistol. “And now Mother you must feel the full force of the Dark Side!”

Meanwhile, The Young Jedi of Samba gathered proudly in the centre of the field and made as if to capture Chairman Murtagh. Fortunately, he had surrounded himself by a huge circle of vicious Trainee Sith, so fearful for their lives and not enamoured by the idea of retrieving The Death Ball plans from his shorts, Samba decided to return to Aylesbury knowing that they had won the second conflict fairly.

However, Samba should be warned that with more practice, the naturally talented but relative novices of Sithcott, will soon Strike Back.

© Jane Turley 2008

Oh, for the Love of……Washing Machines.

Well, it wasn’t long after I’d finished posting yesterday when Usha left her comment asking me if I was going to be allowed a period of mourning for the beloved washing machine. She’s quite right, of course, an item that has served the household with such honour should be given the send off it deserves. However, Mr Turley in his eagerness to install the replacement which arrives tomorrow has already dragged it, huffing and puffing, out onto the driveway awaiting the Deliverers of the New Washer who are to remove it for the unwholesome sum of £15.

Now I’ve never known Mr Turley to be so generous in the disposal of any item before; he has cut up sofas, paving slabs, cabinets and various household accoutrements in order to avoid paying refuse charges. But not this time, his is unbearably eager for the replacement as he knows his life will not be worth living if it is not installed promptly. However, I have suggested a number of more attractive disposal options, including;

1. Burning it in the back garden in the manner of Darth Vader’s funeral pyre. Whereupon it’s spirit will arise and restore balance to The Turley Household. As a result, its replacement, Luke Warmwater, will have his powers increased and be able to spin at incredible speeds of 1600rpms.

2. Stuffing the drum with a small, but effective package of Semtex explosives, which I then will light when the next door neighbour’s cat is passing (just for the added thrill.)

3. Tying it to the back of my car and dragging it along the nearby bypass singing through my tannoy, “Give me joy in my heart, keep me praising…” while it breaks up into many small pieces which inadvertently puncture the tyres of passing boy racers.

4. Since the cooker is terminally ill, I could use it as an impromptu barbecue; I could light a small fire underneath it and place the sausages, oven chips and onion rings inside the drum whereupon I believe they would be appropriately burnt in the fashion there are normally accustomed. Excellent.

5. Burying it in the back garden in the area in which we normally dispose of the cat litter and planting a fragrant rose bush on top so that when it blooms it will always remind me of the many hours I have spent in its precious and welcome company.

Now, Ladies and Gentlemen to continue on a vaguely related matter, I wish to inform you that I am writing my own Dictionary. You’ve heard of The Oxford English Dictionary and The Collins English Dictionary… and soon to be on the market is The Turley English Dictionary. It will available for vast amounts of cash and hopefully make me a millionaire. Now it’s not a normal dictionary; it gives you the standard definition and then the REAL definition of the word. So I’ve just checked what I’ve written for Washing Machine and this it what it says;

Common definition; a square shaped inanimate object used for the cleaning of clothes. It holds no interest for men even though it has a round door which opens and closes with ease without any required foreplay.

Genuine definition; a short, fat woman in her forties, highly animated but with very sore hands.

If you’d like to add to these definitions please leave a comment as I’m still at the drafting stage. Just for your interest here are a couple of my other recent definitions;

Vacuum Cleaner.

Common Definition; a heavy, oblong or circular shaped object which is the cause of much earache. Used for the removal of fluff and dust from the households of over zealous husbands afflicted by the disorder Cleanus Upperus, which causes a life time of agony and unadulterated madness for their unfortunate partner.

Genuine definition; a short, fat woman in her forties with a large space between her ears.

I’m working on the genuine definition of Umbrella at the moment to which I’ve come up with…….

Posh Spice.

Again, if you have anything further to add please leave a comment.

And now my friends I must go… Happy Washing Everyone!

Oh and if you fancy watching Darth Vader going up in smoke and imagining the alternatives, here's the link;

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bIaYfLkpCdg

© Jane Turley 2008

A Word of Thanks from Jane, The Witty and Wayward Wife...and some other stuff...

Well folks, before I retreat in to my usual idiocy, I want to say a few words of thanks.

However, first I must inform you that both the washing machine and the cooker bit the dust last week. I have taken great delight in this…why I would have a genuine excuse not to wash and iron and even more importantly, not to cook. Hurrah! Oh, I have had dreams of this for years, fantasies of a relaxing week, indulging myself in a scrumptious box of chocolates whilst watch the steaming pile of fetid laundry grow so enormous that Mr Turley would be forced to employ a Housekeeper to prevent my imminent breakdown…..

But Alas! Woe, woe, woe is me, for Mr Turley, who has an affection for cleanliness and tidiness uncommon amongst his gender, dashed to his computer with undignified speed to peruse the internet for a replacement washing machine. (The said item being ancient and worn out by cycle upon cycle of dirty wretched football attire and not in the least worth repairing.)

So regrettably, and with a heavy heart and a clutch of tissues I must inform you that the replacement instrument of torture arrives on Wednesday.

Blast and double blast; I bet this never happens to HRH.

And what of the cooker I hear you say? Well… It is a double oven type thingy. Now I’m not good on ovens but I can assure you it does have knobby style things for adjusting the temperature (which frankly is not much use to me as I only have one temperature for cooking and that is the temperature at which everything burns) and also a door for opening and closing but that’s about as far as I can describe it. Oh, yes it’s white and somewhat…greasy.

Now Mr Turley, my veritable and beloved one, has informed me that I can cook in the little oven bit and also on the hob bit until such time has he has given the matter his full undivided attention.

No, no, no! I was planning an Indian takeaway, a Chinese Takeaway, A Mexican Takeaway……….

Why does he make me suffer unduly like this? I must still cook? How can a tray of oven chips, onion rings and pies fit into such a tiny space? It is not possible. I will have to mash them up into some kind of pizza in order to squeeze them all in. Perhaps I shall call it “The Turley Pizza Surprise.” The “Surprise” being that it may not be edible….


Anyway, a Big, Big, Thank You to all who have contributed to the lively discussion on the possibility of a new title for my blog; I’ve had such fun reading all your comments and enjoying all the repartee behind the scenes. Indeed, I have as much fun, if not more, enjoying all your conversations as I do writing my posts. A special Thankyou to Onedia, my first friend here in the blogging world, who came up trumps with the winning title. Thanks Onedia!

And now, alas, I must depart, for it was an early half term here last week and I am way behind with those household chores which I love so dearly. And as much as I adore my little fellows when the School bell rang this morning it’s sweet, ethereal chimes did sound like heavenly music in my ears….

“Freedom! Freedom!” I cried with joyous abandon, running towards the school gate...

Well till 3pm anyway……

© Jane Turley 2008

Mad Is Not Mad Enough.

Friends, Romans, Bloggers lend me your ears! ’Cos the Mad Housewife needs to change her blog name.

I know, I know, I should have done my homework but I didn’t. Apparently there are lots of mad housewives; well I know this is true because madness is actually a very serious affliction which can become highly contagious particularly if you’ve been at home for at least 10 years. (Or in my case about approaching 17 as I managed to get pregnant on my wedding night.) It was a very (clears throat with embarrassment) “productive” wedding night, which is quite surprising really as some over zealous friends stole everything from our hotel bedroom except the towels. (Oh and I also locked Mr Turley in the bedroom the next morning so he couldn’t have any breakfast by which time folks he was in dire need of vital nourishment.) Anyway the product was Master Samuel who arrived (genuinely) 5 weeks early to sound of much tut-tut ting from aged maiden aunts. Thus I have remained, bar a few brief interludes, chained to the kitchen sink. I’ve been trying to make a break for it for sometime but alas it’s rather slow work trying to escape with only a nail file and a polishing cloth. (I’ve also tried digging a tunnel but not only did the teaspoons keep bending but even my trousers weren’t big enough to store all that earth. Indeed Mr Turley became somewhat suspicious when a mound appeared in the back garden; I had to tell him I’d run over the neighbour’s cat.)

Now, I am most disconcerted at there being so many “mad” housewives as I have always been considered genuinely bonkers; the first indication being when I tap danced on a friend’s dining table at her party when I was about 6 years old. (Unfortunately these days tables are the least of my worries ; I have a panic attack just walking across floorboards…luckily the downstairs floor of our house is made of reinforced concrete and the upper floor is strengthened with titanium girders.)

Anyway, before I get on to some long ramble as I am wont to do, here are some of my potential titles. Opinions welcome… and any if you can think of anymore please leave a comment.

1. A Series of Unfortunate Events; 17years of Marriage.

2. Me and My Bad Habits (Why I don’t want to be a nun.)

3. A Humorous Experience; The life and Times of Mrs Turley, Housewife Extraordinaire.

4. If I Ruled the World (Somebody would assassinate me.)

5. Plants; How to Make Them Die in One Easy Lesson; Don’t Water Them. (And some extra drivel for free.)

6. Humour Me. (No one else does.)

7. The Great Escape. (My life at the kitchen sink and how to fast track yourself onto prescription drugs.)

8. The Story of My Life; A Study of Dishcloths, Scrubbing Brushes and Damp Toilet Seats by an Overworked and Underpaid Housewife.

9. 1001 Ways To Be An Extraordinarily Bad Housewife by Mrs Jane Turley BA PHD FUC KED OFF

10. How to Get a Divorce; Write A Blog.

11. Me and My Broomstick, Cat and J Cloth.

12. Jane Turley and The Severn Dwarfs; Interesting Stories of a Sexual Nature.

13. How to Put On Weight Quickly; Get Married (and some other stuff.)

14. How to Loose Weight Quickly; Get Divorced (and some other stuff.)

15. Eats, Shoots and Leaves; Guide to Marital Harmony by Jane Turley.

16. Dusters, Dishcloths and Aprons and How to Avoid Them.

17. Bottoms and How to Clean Them by Someone Who Really Knows.

18. Great Expectations (How to Get More Out of Your Dishcloth)

19. Toilets, Loo Rolls and Bog Brushes; My Life and Interesting Household Accessories.

20. Origami for Loo Rolls and The Tales of a Slightly Disturbed Housewife.

© Jane Turley 2008

The School Run 2 ( The Bitch is Back.)

Now should you have been a brave enough person to have already read my previous School Run tirade or to trawl back and read it now you’ll know that The School Run is not my favourite time of day.

In fact, today may be the actual day that I am summoned into school to be reprimanded for Young Master Benedict not only repeating my colourful language but also his possible expulsion for his accompanying interesting gesticulations.

Yes, a very naughty man in a pickup truck thoughtlessly obscured my vision in two separate incidents; one on the central reservation of a highly dangerous road. I was not happy bunny at all; I was a very cross bunny indeed. By the way I don’t look like a bunny; it’s a metaphorical English expression. (Although I admit I did have plastic surgery to relocate my ears but I kept catching them in the car door so I had the operation reversed.)

However, I have been working on a series of viable of excuses to give the headmistress which are;

1. I have Tourettes Syndrome; I actually need sympathy and understanding. (Breaking down in tears and asking for a cup of lukewarm tea.)

2. I am going deaf; therefore regrettably I cannot gauge the level of my own voice and speech that would normally be muttered under my breath in a dignified manner is unduly loud.

3. I am teaching Master Benedict sign language and his interesting gesticulations are a poor interpretation of the number two.

4. Master Benedict is in training as an air traffic controller; his two fingered gesture does not have rude implications. In fact it means; “Do not land; one of your wheels is missing.”

5. It was not me ranting; the radio was airing an episode of the Jerry Springer show/ Question Time at the House of Commons/ A private conversation between His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales and his horse. (This is also metaphorical analogy.) Anyway; I haven’t decided yet; I like to fly by the seat of my pants. (And on a windy day I can travel miles.)

6. I had seen a steam engine and was unable to prevent myself from contorting both physically and mentally into extreme behaviour which was regrettable but nevertheless fully understandable. (You may need to read my previous blog “You thought I disliked football? You haven’t heard me rant about steam engines,” to fully appreciate this serious disorder.)

7. There was a football wedged under my brake pedal and I feared for our lives; any woman fearing death is allowed to “speak from the heart.” My accompanying gesticulations actually meant “Don’t throw balls in the car Master Benedict because now we only have two seconds to live.”

8. Master Benedict had found a mouldy old sweet down the back of the seats and the fluff which had attached itself to it was causing him to choke. In his distress he misheard me. I was in fact saying; “Suck! Suck! Suck!”

9. I am suffering from repetitive finger-strain injury; unfortunately my fingers now spontaneously do as they please; It is a serious medical condition and I have already been hospitalized on a number of occasions in order to have my fingers surgically removed from my nose.

10. Master Benedict is a compulsive liar; I said nothing whatsoever; he must have heard it somewhere else. In addition, he’s not my son and I don’t even know who he is.

If you have an alternative excuse please leave a comment or email me at Jane@Italka loadofrubbish.co.uk

In the meantime I have decided to take some serious steps to counteract bad driving;

1. I am going to mount a tannoy system on my car and follow the offenders around broadcasting to the world their driving offences.

2. I am also going to erect an anti-tank gun on my car; I believe it will have a greater “impact” than merely ramming offender and the added bonus of less damage to my car.

3. I am going to put a sticker on the back window which reads “Premenopausal Woman on board; cut me up at your own peril.”

4. I am going to put stickers on the side of my Volvo like they did on the side of WWII Spitfires for every boy racer I successfully “take out”. I will be known as either “Bomber Turley,” “The Blue Volvo,” or perhaps just “That Crazy Bitch.”

5. Eat some more chocolate.

Ps I reversed into a car on Monday.

© Jane Turley 2008

The Rise and Fall of British Pants.

I hope, Dear Readers, you have not been unduly concerned about my relative silence. I have indeed been struck dumb for a brief period by a most extraordinary event that has been the source of great consternation in this green and pleasant land. There has been a national scandal of truly tremendous proportions which has stirred the nation into vile and voracious argument. I have been lying prostrate in my bed, shocked to the core, by some terrifying news; for there has been unleashed upon the general public the breaking news that one of our most revered and distinguished broadcasters, a bastion of the BBC has soiled his pants…sorry his reputation … with the revelations that…

Jeremy Paxman’s pants aren’t giving him sufficient support!

Now I know “pants” in America actually means “Trousers” but in the UK pants are undergarments with a multitude of other names such as knickers, boxers, g-strings, hipsters, jockeys, y-fronts, thongs, briefs, shreddies and if your particularly common; cheese graters. In other words; they are items of clothing that cover your botty.

Or not as the case may be.

Because the fashion seems to becoming somewhat “aerated” over recent years. Why has this happened I just don’t know. Did it begin when Sharon Stone supposedly revealed all in Basic Instinct? Maybe. But the arrival of thongs has been the curse of womankind ever since. Pants just keep getting smaller and smaller and you know what... It’s a pain in the arse (literally) if you’ve got a big botty like mine. Yep, I like my derriere well and truly covered.

In fact the majority of women hate thongs because they are just so damned uncomfortable. If men were made to wear the equivalent, which is like wearing an overly tight elastic band, I’m sure they wouldn’t be wearing them just to keep the good wife happy.

And do men actually wear G strings? Please do tell. I’m happy to receive comments on this subject ( However, gentlemen readers please state if you’re extra small, small, medium, large, extra large or extra, extra large - as it may have an affect on the speed of my reply) Fortunately, Mr Turley doesn’t wear thongs and thank goodness for that ’cos I’d just die laughing. (I mean I like turkeys but I’m not keen on the dressings - except stuffing of course.) The only man fit to wear a g-string is Rod Stewart because any man who can parade on the stage in leopard skin leggings must also have a keen sense of inappropriate attire in the nether regions.

I do however have to admit to actually having bought a pair of Union Jack patterned thongs for my friend’s husband…. But this is because they already had 5 children and I thought it might be a good idea if she could see him coming.

Of course there are number of reasons why I DO like thongs and here they are…

1.With some sticks and dried beans you can make an extremely effective catapult. And if you wear your thong you can easily gets past security at the House of Commons and give Mr Brown the pummelling he deserves. (Keep the beans in your bra and say you’ve got lumpy breasts and that way you’ll avoid an intimate body search.)

2.Stuck on the motorway? You can easily repair your fan belt without any help whatsoever.

3.If you’re doing the DIY you can always use them as an impromptu face mask. (Make sure they’re clean though or you might have even more difficulty breathing.)

4.You’ve entered the three- legged race at the school sports day but they’ve run out of rope; whip off your thong, wrap them around your ankles and you’ll be away…..

5.When you’re out playing “jungle” in the local woodland you can cut them at one end tie them between two trees at ground level and make a useful tripping device. (And if you’ve got plenty of time you can dig a hole too and cover it with ferns; the kids won’t know what’s coming and I guarantee you’ll have a
quiet weekend.)

Anyway back to our esteemed presenter Mr Jeremy Paxman the host of Newsnight and University Challenge. You know, I’ve grown rather fond of Jeremy over the years. His arrogant, cynical attitude towards politicians, notables and indeed students has increasing appeal to me. (Not that I exhibit any of these traits myself; I’m a shy, sensitive gal.) I concur with Jeremy that most of these politicians need a right good whipping (and, of course, as we all know most students need a right good whipping just to stay awake.) In fact Jeremy makes me feel a little weak at the knees. (I’m only talking figuratively here as obviously with my somewhat stout disposition it’s a physical impossibility to be “weak at the knees”. Indeed, I was recently offered a position with the English Rugby Squad but I declined on the basis that they offered me my own changing room.)
You see Jeremy still has principles and in doing so he has now become a Crusader for the quality of Marks and Spencer’s underpants; a noble endeavour indeed. Because despite M & S protestations everyone knows that their goods aren’t the quality they used to be. No longer can you rely on your pants to stay up; instead you may find them round your ankles at a dinner party. And one thing us Brits like is security; we like to have faith in our pants; we want to know that they will withstand the test of time, an overdose of brussel sprouts and indeed invasion. You may recall the famous speech by Winston Churchill;

“We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the field and in the streets, we shall fight in our pants and our vests, we shall fight in our socks and long johns; we shall never surrender.”

A truer statement has never been made. Although, I have to admit I just don’t fancy Jeremy anymore; I’d always imagined him in Calvin Kleins and not holey, saggy M&S pants…..

On a final note, last year Jeremy gave a wonderful speech on the decline of British broadcasting which didn’t receive the publicity it should have. You can read in full at;


http://image.guardian.co.uk/sys-files/Media/documents/2007/08/24/MacTaggartLecture.pdf

To which I say; well done Jeremy; keep the good work (and your pants) up.

© Jane Turley 2008