Is nothing sacred?
The festering politically correct lefties that are ruining this country are at it again. You can’t open a door for a woman without someone accusing you of being sexist, you can’t respect a tradition without someone trying to tear it down and you can’t call the towel-heads terrorists without being accused of racism. What’s the world coming to?
Last week they stopped tennis players bowing in front of the Royal Box at Wimbledon and now we’ll have all sorts of sweaty, ungrateful colonials walking past the lovely Duchess of Kent without so much as a tug of their forelock. You let these people take part in the world’s greatest sporting tournament (apart from the World Cup, the Olympics, the European Championships, the Commonwealth Games and The Embassy World Dart Championships) and they throw it back in your face. Instead of being proud of appearing in front of our Royals and paying due respect to them, they just want to pick up their free towels and Robinson’s Barley Water and hurry back to get their nails done. And the women are just as bad, they can’t wait to get inside for a spot of “leg over-Navratilova” if you know what I mean.
Next on the lentil crunchers hit list of institutions is bingo. Okay so it may not be your highbrow opera or ballet but it has been a staple of British life for generations. And if it keeps Mrs Plumb and her mother out of the house for three nights a week then it’s fine by me.
Obviously I don’t play bingo, I’m a man, but I remember many happy days at the seaside winning packs of ciggies and half bottles of vodka just for shutting wee windows over numbers. Lovely. Clickety click. Legs eleven. Sweet sixteen, never been kissed. Those were the days.
But oh no. Two little ducks, no more. Tom Mix, no more. Burlington Bertie, no more. The Bleeding Britpop Brigade have decreed that bingo names are old-fashioned and have come up with a list of new-fangled 21st century names. Old-fashioned? Is Big Ben old-fashioned? Is British justice old-fashioned? Is the class society old-fashioned? If you want to change traditions then hop on a plane to Iraq and stop women wearing masks over their faces and men wearing tea towels. Leave bingo alone.
How is Mrs Plumb’s mum going to cope with all this rubbish? For a hundred years she has lived quite happily in the knowledge that 71 means “bang on the drum”, now she is being told that it is “J-Lo’s bum”. Not bad enough that they are changing it but they have to bring in the derriere of some Cubanist-American pop star. If they need to bring bums into it then why not Kylie? Much nicer in my opinion and she’s more or less British.
So now we have Gareth Gates number 8, which doesn’t even rhyme and anyway there is absolutely nothing wrong with garden gate. We have Jimmy Choo 32 — I’m told he makes shoes — so how is that better than buckle my shoe? Go on tell me that.
These people should just leave well alone. What would happen if they started changing u-bend to w-bend or s-bend to t-bend? Well you’d get a lot of confused plumbers and water all over your floor. My old gaffer always said that everything should be left the way it is except crap on the floor. And, as we all know, if it’s true in plumbing then it’s true in life.
Next thing you know you won’t be allowed to smack your kids, smoke in public places or drive your car down the road for free. They will be scrapping the House of Lords, getting rid of red phone boxes, allowing women to referee snooker matches and changing the name of the Post Office so many times that Postman Pat’s head will explode. Oh hang on, they’ve already done that.
I hardly know this country anymore. Today bingo, tomorrow Buckingham Palace. You mark my words, this is just the beginning of the Trotskyist revolution. When The Duchess of York and the Countess of Wessex are being beheaded on the Mall, just you remember — Two Fat Ladies. That’s how it all began.
Plumb on.