Most British Headline Ever

I remember a story told to me once about a British bishop who was given a residence which happened to be in the middle of a golf course.  As it turned out, the property was unfenced, which ordinarily wouldn’t have been an issue, except that the bishop owned a black Labrador pup and club regulations banned all dogs from the course.

So, in the best British manner, they made the dog a member of the club, which resolved the issue.

I was reminded of this story when I saw this article, with the exquisite headline:

Guinness-guzzling Shetland pony BANNED from pub just one week after being made mayor

The story goes:

Council bosses have banned the Guinness-loving horse from The Drum Inn, in Cockington, after he was given his special title at a ceremony held on July 23.
The honour was granted in response to an online campaign to elect him to the post following the death of previous mayor Don Mills.
Despite his job title, Patrick, a Miniature Shetland, is now in trouble, as a planning enforcement officer told the pub they need planning permission for him to be allowed to graze in the pub garden.

This is easily the most British story ever, in that it combines love of animals, eccentricity and humorless, bullying officialdom all in a single tale.

The only thing that would make it a perfect story would be if Patrick were to bite the pissy little planning enforcement officer in the ass the next time he ventured into the pub.

Of All, Only This One

When you think of all the Lamborghini models ever released, the ones that probably come to mind quickest are the Miura:

…the Countach:

…or if you’re one of those Readers of more recent vintage, the Murciélago:

…or the Aventador:

It will probably come as no surprise to anyone that I wouldn’t touch any of the above with Bill Clinton’s dick.  (No comments on that topic, please, this is a serious automotive post.)

No, the only Lambo I would ever consider owning — and that only after Iain Tyrrell had worked his magic, re-tuning and rehabbing it — is the early-60s model 350 GT, with its 3.5-liter V12 engine:

Now, my children… if you are unfamiliar with the design expression “half a teardrop”, follow me to Mr. Tyrrell’s Workshop and let him explain, in just over half an hour, what that means; and along the way, you may just start to agree with me.

No electronic gizmos, no nanny warning noises, no rev limiters, double-clutch automatic gearboxes or any of that modern folderol;  just a car that one can enjoy driving, in the truest sense of the word.  With Mr. Tyrrell babying it for me on an annual basis, it is unquestionably the car I could drive for the rest of my life.

News Roundup

Sponsored by:

So let’s slip into the female anatomy:


I’m good on the exterior stuff:  boobs, hoo-hah, shoulders, feet etc.  The interior parts?  None of my business.


parole?  What about flaying, daily scourging and / or impaling?


because adding “terrorism” to “murder” will just make it doubleplusungoodAnd what about Remington and Browning semi-autos?  Oh, never mind.


probably just wanted to exclude all that White supremacist “logic ‘n rhetoric ” stuff from the debate, to be replaced with shouting, chanting and drums.


their state, their laws — just like SCOTUS intended.


of course it does.  Best cheese in the world, evvah.


just laying the ground for when the crime of non-payment of taxes results in summary execution.  You heard it here first.


sounds a lot, until you discover that her Las Vegas gig pays a million bucks a night.


that’s a real mood-killer, but not as bad as an actual killer:


not the best outcum, was it? (sp)

And in (link-free) INSIGNIFICA:

oy.

And finally:


not surprising, really.  As my old friend, the late, great Scot Bob Hill used to say:  “Och, you wi’ yer smearred makeup, yer scabby skin — yer so durrty, so slutty, so nasty… yer just ma type.”

 

All I can say is that ol’ Jenny’s come a long way since singing backup for Lynyrd Skynyrd… <eyecross>

Hurts, Don’t It?

In the Kurt Russell movie Tombstone, Wyatt Earp catches a guy whipping a horse in the face — whereupon he snatches the quirt from the man’s hand and whips him across the face, and when the oaf whimpers Earp says quietly, “Hurts, don’t it?”

Over the weekend, about half a dozen people sent me this video of someone getting a taste of his own medicine;  and I have to warn you now, if at the end your Schadenböner isn’t straining at your zipper, we’ve can’t be friends anymore.

We need more of this — a LOT more of this.

Sorry, I have to go and watch it again;  I am so weak…


Fixed the link, thanks for the heads-up.