Here’s an interesting question posed by Jalopnik (no link, fuck ’em, the woke assholes):

We’re talking (say) 1970-1974 here, and no extensions either way.  Fortunately, the average age of my Readers being 75+, the early ’70s should be easily remembered, assuming of course that we can actually remember that time and not have lapsed into total senility (like me).

Early 70s… oh yeah,in my case that would be the last two years of high school and the first two years of college failure.  Easy-peasy.

And if you can’t remember what cars were available back then, here’s a little list which might help.  (Remember: cut-off date is 1974.)

Remember:  “daily drive” means it can’t fall to pieces after 10 miles (which should rule out most Fiats, Alfa Romeos and pretty much all British Leyland cars).  Assume they’re brand new off the showroom floor, in the standard configuration of the time, unmodified.  And to make things more interesting, you get to pick three:  one for you, one for your wife and a weekend / “date” car.  (Yeah, I’ve bent the rules a little.  Whatever.)

Here are mine:

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She’s Still Around?

Some things just don’t fade away:

Representative Nancy Pelosi (D-CA) said Sunday on CNN’s “State of the Union” that the FBI should investigate if Russia is funding some anti-Israel protestors in the United States.
“I’ve been the recipient of their exuberance as recently as in Seattle on Thursday, unfortunately, wanting to disrupt our very exciting Democratic meeting there. They are in front of my house all the time. I have a feeling for what feelings they have. We have to think about what we’re doing. What we have to do is try to stop the suffering in Gaza. This is women and children and people who don’t have a place to go, so let’s address that. For them to call for a cease-fire is Mr. Putin’s message, Mr. Putin’s message. Make no mistake, this is directly connected to what he would like to see. Same thing with Ukraine. It’s about Putin’s message. I think some of these protesters are spontaneous and, organic and sincere. Some are connected to Russia. I say that having looked at this for a long time.”

Well as for Pelosi, there’s just one thing to say:

Leaker Buried

Via indefatigable contributor and Reader Michael L. comes this welcome news:

The former Internal Revenue Service contractor who leaked the tax records of former President Donald Trump to The New York Times as well as the tax records of billionaires like Jeff Bezos and Elon Musk to ProPublica was sentenced Monday to five years in prison.

Somewhat harsh for this evil little weasel, you say?  I don’ theenk so, Speedy:

Prosecutors said that Littlejohn “weaponized his access to unmasked taxpayer data to further his own personal, political agenda, believing that he was above the law.”

The only way I’d feel better about this would be if the sentence contained the phrase “weekly whippings while incarcerated”, but no doubt someone’s going to have a problem with this.

And I’m not especially pissed off at whose data was leaked;  I’d feel equally angry if it was my data (not that it’s in any way as momentous as the tax data of the above Ryche Pharttes).

By the way, I’m getting really sick of the word “weaponized”, as in this case where “abused” would have served equally well or better.  It’s a betrayal of trust, not trying to take a life, FFS.

Itchy Feet & A Thirst

Just as a pretty girl makes one’s loins stir, and a lovely gun makes the trigger finger twitch, this article by Tom Parker-Bowles makes me want to sell everything I own and take a trip to Britishland, just to visit the pubs he talks about.  I mean:

The 50 cosiest pubs in Britain. From roaring fires in winter to breathtaking riverside views and — of course — a fine selection of local ales on tap, the watering holes you’ll want to linger in

To my absolute chagrin, I haven’t been to any of them;  although I would put some of my favorite pubs — e.g. The King’s Arms in All Cannings, Wilts. — against all of them.

And leaving The George Inn in Norton St. Philip off the list of West Country pubs is nothing short of a travesty.

Of the Haunch of Venison in Salisbury, or rather its omission, we shall not speak.

Frankly, I don’t care about the view in a pub — unless it’s that of a pretty barmaid — because I go to a pub to drink and make merry with friends and not to look out over a valley, a canal or the sea.  Atmosphere is the thing, only in that it makes the merrymaking easier and me less likely to leave after only a cursory pint (it’s happened).

Also less important is the food;  I look with alarm at some of Parker-Bowles’s choices (caramelized shallot and thyme tarte tatin — WTF is that?), when all I’m looking for is a decent fish & chips, a sausage roll or even just a toastie or cheese sarnie.  (Fortunately, I see that Mr. Parker-Bowles dined mostly on good pub fare like toasties, stews and ox-tongue sandwiches.  Attaboy.) Whatever.  I don’t go to a pub to eat, FFS, I go there to carouse.  Eating is best done in restaurants or at street stalls, where booze is the accompaniment rather than the raison d’être.  Of “gastropubs” we shall not speak, either.  (Okay, just one:  I remember going to one such excrescence in London somewhere, and upon reading the menu that featured overpriced crap like “Sea salt & cracked black pepper squid, £28.75”, asked for a bag of potato crisps — to be met with a supercilious sneer and a “We don’t serve that kind of thing here” response.  I left after drinking only half my pint of — mediocre — ale.)

Anyway, as I said at the start, I need to get over there and try some (all?  ye gods) of these places out for myself.

(I know, I know:  a half-pint?  It was my “taster”, followed soon by a full pint, or maybe two.  My memory is somewhat fuzzy, as often happens.  That was at The Haunch.)

Also, I need to revisit some of my old haunts:

Let’s just hope they all survived Teh Covid.

But I sure as hell won’t be going to this foul place, and that’s for sure:

For nearly 200 years, the Stag Inn has been the beating heart of a tiny village. But a recent revamp has split opinion, with some welcoming the modernisation and others claiming its ‘spit and sawdust charm’ has been ruined by being turned into a trendy gastropub.
Critics say unacceptably avant garde measures at the drinking hole in West Acre, Norfolk, including graffiti in the toilets, an upmarket menu with options such as venison burgers, and garishly-coloured furniture have driven them away.

Me, too.  No pics because ugh, as you will see if you dare to click on the link.