That is all.


“When I was a chylde I spake as a chylde
I vnderstode as a childe
I ymagened as a chylde.
But assone as I was a man I put awaye childesshnes.”
1 Corinthians 13:11 – Tyndale translation

When I was a child I rather like Prince Charles. After all, we got a day off school for his investiture, and (if I recall correctly, but probably don’t) were gifted some pointless gewgaws – perhaps a mug and a coin. And at that time anything with the word “Wales” in it seemed good to me. It was only later that I realised how the role of the so-called “Prince of Wales” symbolised the systematic oppression of the Welsh by the English; it substantialised the English authorities’ desire to eradicate the Welsh culture and language; and was a start of the systematic rape of the country’s natural resources and brutal exploitation of its workforce for the benefit of the English robber-barons.

And that was before I came to understand that his status was gifted not upon merit, but upon from whose uterus he was squeezed out. And in the womb-squeezing lottery he won first prize.

It’s probably fair to say that today I’m no longer a fan of Brian.

Still, I’m not a man of rigid beliefs, and when I saw his Duchy tea bags for sale half-price I bought a couple of boxes.

When I opened the first box my disappointment started: the inner foil wrapping designed to keep the contents fresh was silver – not gold. Hardly the royal wrapping I’d been expecting. Perhaps His Majesty thinks that gold is too good for hoi polloi? Perhaps he keeps a gold-wrapped version just for himself and his family?

On ripping the wrapping I saw the teabags, and again my heart fell. I’d expected the bags to have strings and little tags attached. But then, perhaps the Colonel-in-Chief of the Royal Regiment of Wales he thinks that we all, like him, have some flunky to pluck the sodden sachets from the boiling water whilst burning their fingers so there’s no need for string or tag.

And then the bags themselves, they weren’t separate, but in pairs. Frankly, I’d have thought that the Honorary Commodore of the Gurkha Rifles and the Duke of Cornwall (they’re both the same person) might have found some time whilst sitting on his gilded throne to tear the bags apart before packaging them. After all, what else does he have to do whilst waiting for the latest suckling from the teat of the British tax payer?

And as for the bags themselves, the paper is brown. Are they made from recycled cardboard and used manila envelopes? And if so, would a little bit of bleach have been too much to ask.

So, Charlie-boy, I’m sadly disappointed by your abject failure.


A certain blindness to the law appears to run through the Shinawatra clan, and that’s despite the family’s recently-acquired role as the country’s feudal overloads.

It was most unfortunate that former Prime Minister Thaksin Shinawatra fled the country just hours before being found guilty of corruption. But not to worry. One of his sisters – Yingluck was shortly to be granted the role of premier – albeit blatantly as Thaksin’s puppet.

And now it seems entirely possible that the little sister will be tried for and convicted of crimes of corruption and so will lose her positions as MP and PM. So what’s a family to do? Line up another sister – that’s what.

In Chiang Mai – home territory for Thaksin and his clan – a current senior MP has mysteriously resigned without warning or explanation. It’s widely anticipated that Yaowapa Shinawatra will stand for election to his constituency and (undoubtedly) be elected, making her eligible to be the next PM should Yingluck fail and fall. (In Thailand only a standing MP can become Prime Minister.)

It’s perfectly possible that the square-faced one would be very happy with the substitution. Yingluck has so far totally failed to pass legislation that would grant him a “get out of jail free” card. Yaowapa, however, has a reputation as a bit of a political bruiser (even though she’s never stood for political office) and may well be able to secure that card for the country’s most notorious fugitive from justice.

So, if any country is looking for a new Prime Minister – one politically naïve and poor at debate but with a pretty face and a penchant for Burberry boots – then possibly a soon-to-be former Prime Minister will be available for the job.


i think i ve rather disgraced myselfWhisky Portrait
a few mornings ago
i was patrolling the garden
looking for frogs
when i saw a strange man
walking past the house
he was bald and wearing sandals
and an orange wrap around dress
well that wasn t usual
so i barked at him to scare him away

how was i supposed to know
that s what a monk looks like


as you all know
i m a bit of a gay icon
thanks to my incredibly good looks
i even have my own gay stalker
he still comes around
from time to time
to gaze longingly
at my fine masculine physique

i appreciate the loyalty of my fans
i was therefore disturbed
to learn recently that
a dog is going to be executed
for being gay

the newspaper didn t use the word

it said put down

put down
put to death
bumped off

they all have the same end result

it seemed particularly unfair
because they don t put down humans
for loving somebody with
the same shaped naughty bits


master tells me that
in countries such as sudan
mauritania nigeria somaliland
saudi arabia united arab emirates
yemen and iran
they do kill you for that

and in lots of other countries
they send you to a crate for
a very very long time

that s not so good


when you spend as many
hours a day asleep as i do
you can become bored
with your sleeping positions
so it s important to try new ones
here s one that i ve been
working on lately

Whisky sleeping

however i rather think
i could take lessons from this chap

I think my dog is broken

he s a real expert



Sleeping Doberman photo shamelessly stolen from from Reddit which has a lot of very funny comments (and a few rather rude ones).


Thailand’s hopelessly misguided rice pledging scheme has lead to a stockpile of more than 12 million tonnes of ludicrously overpriced rice, much of it of poor quality and decaying, which nobody wants to buy. The nation’s rice warehouses are full to overflowing, yet still the government pledges to take every single, last grain of rice produced by the nation’s farmers. This led to a rather dark joke about the situation.

Japan’s Prime Minister Abe visits Thailand. He sees a vast mountain of rice and exclaims:

“Wow! You have a Mount Fuji in Thailand. And snow, too!”

To which Prime Minister Yingluck replies:

“It’s not Mount Fuji, it’s Mount Rice-Pledging Scheme. And it’s not snow on the top. It’s just the rice that hasn’t gone rotten yet.”


The government announced some months ago that it would be phasing out 91 octane petrol in favour of gasohol, and finally that has come to pass. The petrol pumps are running dry, and soon only gasohol will be available.

The government didn’t consider the growing body of evidence that using gasohol damages car engines, leading to high motor repair costs in the longer term. Instead they dreamt up some sort of rationalisation for getting rid of petrol – something to do with balance of trade or the environment, or something. The cynic in me, however, makes me wonder which person (or persons) of influence is now making vast profits producing bioethanol which is now being thrust down the throats (so to speak) of unwilling consumers.


well a few days ago Whisky Portraitafter dinner i decided
to pop out and patrol
the garden
just to make sure no frogs
had sneaked in

much to my surprise
there was something interesting
under the shoe cabinet
master had a quick look
but didn t notice anything unusual
and went back inside
should have worn his glasses
there was a snake
all twisted up under there

it wasn t like the
long green water snake
that helps master wash the car
this one was much shorter
a little less than half a metre
and very thin
and it wasn t green but dark coloured

i thought it might be fun
to play with the snake
but it wasn t very interested
in fact it quickly slithered
under the car
i kept trying to encourage it
to come and have some fun
by poking my nose under the car
no dice

then master came out
he was very upset
i think he really wanted
to play with the snake himself
he shouted at me to go in
but why should I
i saw the snake first

then he got the broom
and pushed me away
that was so unfair
and then after that
he didn t even
play with the snake

selfish master


master says i m very willful
and why shouldn t i be

when he tells me to sit
does he think i like
to put my bottom
on the cold floor

and anyway its fun
winding him up
by pretending not to
understand what he says

yesterday he wanted
to tie me up whilst
he took the car out
but i was chewing
a dried up old stem of strelitzia

oh that sweet sweet strelitzia

anyway every time he got close
i ran away

it was quite funny
to see master lumbering around
trying to catch me
his face getting redder
and redder

in the end i compromised
before master had a heart attack
i trotted to the front door
carrying my prized strelitzia stem
sat down and let him tie me up

unfortunately there s almost
no strelitzia left now
i don t know what i ll do
when its all gone



earlier master was playingWhisky Portrait
with the long green water snake
i call it that because
it s long
it s green
and when master squeezes its head
water comes out

and it looks like a snake

first master squeezed the snake
so that the water fell into a bucket
and became all frothy and delicious
i love licking up
the white foamy stuff
both from the bucket
and from the floor
when it spills over

even better is the sponge
which master puts in the bucket

when his back is turned
i snatch it from the bucket
and run away with it
but every time he chases after me
not fair
why should master have the sponge
and not me

master also makes the
long green water snake
squirt water all over his car
i don t know why he does this
i love sniffing the wheel arches
for the delicious aromas
of all the dead things
he s run over

perhaps he does it
because the wheel arch is full
and he needs to make space
for more tasty smells


i love stinky things

so does master

he loves blue cheese
and anchovies
and so do i

but for some reason
master doesn t like stinky bones

perhaps that s why he gives me
all of them

he gave me an extra large
stinky bone for new year

but whilst he s allowed
to eat his stinky food inside the house
he gets most upset
when i try to bring
a stinky bone in
for him to share


dragged master past the house
with five pomeranians yesterday
only to be horrified to see
that now there are six of them

what s going on

i just hope it s
a pomeranian deportation centre
far too many of them here already


and speaking of pomeranians
there s a particularly mad
white one that lives on the corner

there s a gap in the fence
which has been covered with
a sheet of plastic to stop its fleeing

every time i go past
i heard the sound of its skull
bashing against the plastic

it s rather a hollow sound

anyway this time
the plastic had slipped
and the pomeranian escaped
albeit whilst half ripping off
its stupid looking jacket
it stood there
a few metres away from me
half clad
barking senselessly

can a pomeranian bark any other way

i wanted to go over there
and give it a little bit
of friendly advice
such as

that tartan really isn t your colour


you really should do up those buttons
might catch a cold


wouldn t you be happier
back in pomerania

but for some reason
master wouldn t let me
and thought we should go
and sniff some doggy poo
on some nearby grass

well if that s what master wants
i m game



Well, I was pootling along in the old jalopy when I decided to turn on the wireless, only for my ears to be assailed by the latest musical stylings of the popular beat combo that passes by the name of “The Ting Tings”. Sadly, long gone are the days when the aether was but the sole preserve of long-dead, white, European males with at least a modicum of musical talent. The libretto of The Ting Tings’ oeuvre appears to be somewhat limited both in linguistic scope and in variety. To wit:

“And the drums, the drums, the drums, the drums, the drums, the drums, the drums, the drums, the drums, the drums, the drums, the drums.”

Yet it took me but a moment to realise that this was a heart-felt tribute to the works of the late, great Victor Hugo*. Perhaps yet not all hope is lost for society.

*And before anyone corrects me, I know that Quasimodo never actually cried “The bells, the bells!” – not even in the 1939 Charles Laughton film.


Back in ye olden days children used to cut out paper figures, colour them in, and attach them to wires and use them as characters in performances dramatic behind a paper proscenium arch with scenic backdrop. Since the very earliest days of the moving picture directors have been trying to replicate the effect. D.W. Griffiths couldn’t manage it, nor could Cecille B. DeMille. Eistenstein tried, but failed, as did Hitchcock. Not until the arrivial of Peter Jackson could the movie-goer be treated to something on a par with those paper puppet theatres of a century and more ago.

Of course, Jackson’s technique is at an early stage of development: the voyeur has to wear special glasses, unlike the viewers of the Victorian spectacle, and today one needs to keep one’s head still to view the spectacle in its full 3-D glory. In the case of The Hobbit one mustn’t move one’s noggin for 2¾ hours. But still, it’s worth it to see the true cinematic majesty harking back to the technique our Victorian forebears.