I'll gamble on my pal Arthur

I’M NOT much of a gambler. I work too hard to throw my brass away.

Indeed I gave up on the National Lottery when they doubled the price to £2 a ticket, about the same time Batley woman and Camelot boss Dianne Thompson got a peerage for making herself a millionaire on the back of making poor people even poorer.

I’m sure her Damehood was more about the good causes the Big Lottery Fund helps ... like all of those fake Savile Town community groups they funded, then conveniently covered up.

I have no intention of returning to the lottery, especially since they increased the odds of winning the jackpot from 14 million to one, to 45 million to one – as if it wasn’t hard enough already.

No, if I want to throw money away on a daft gamble, I’d rather do it via something like backing a horse in the Grand National with ‘Arthur’ in its name – as in Arthur the labrador, my best friend and only confidante.

I do hope regular Press readers took note of our top tipster Mike Smith’s comments about One for Arthur, backed up by our ‘nap’ from Carrigill’s Bookmakers.

That’s my Arthur’s dog biscuits paid for for the next couple of years! We even went for a ride round the garden in celebration (see picture) although he did struggle a bit getting over the wife’s magnolias.

Anyway, I digress. Forget the lottery, forget the ponies –  if you want a surefire bet, get over to the USA and find an airport that United Airlines flies out of.

There are two ways of winning the United Airlines lottery. Firstly, make sure you don’t have any hold luggage and linger near the gate desk.

When United staff ask for volunteers to be bumped because of overbooking, you’re in like Flynn. Apparently they’ll throw cash and tickets at you like confetti – up to $1300 a pop.

And that was before this week’s disgraceful scenes where they dragged a man kicking and screaming off the plane.

Okay, a bit of compo is hardly a lottery win. But if you’re feeling really brave, keep an eye on the other bumpees because if there aren’t any, you can bump your odds right up to the potential jackpot.

If you’ve no hold luggage you’re high on the hit list for people to turf off the plane.

You could improve your chances by having BO like a dead skunk and garlic breath which you’ve already breathed all over the United gate attendant. Remember – you need her not to want you on her flight.

Lastly, make sure you’ve smiled, nodded and assisted all the passengers in your  proximity because you want them all to have their smart phones at hand when you are told: “Sorry sir, as per the terms and conditions, paragraph 104, sub-clause 37, we can request vacation of your seat and offer you an alternative service...”

Being an experienced United Airlines traveller, you’ll have fastened your seat belt so that when you decline the offer to disembark and three knuckle-dragging steroid donkeys haul your sorry ass off the plane, there will be more struggling and flailing arms than strictly necessary.

A bit of blood flowing will get you not just an extra 100,000 Youtube viewers, but put just as many dollars on your subsequent claim.

What, you’ve heard the chief executive of United Airlines saying publicly this can never happen again?

Listen, I’ve flown that awful airline too many times to believe any boss can change the ways of what a former girlfriend (and rival airline flight attendant) described as the ‘United Airlines sky-hags’.

It couldn’t have happened to a better airline. I do hope the victim Mr Dao makes them pay through the nose.

 

IF YOU do this job long enough it will make a fool of you, and last Friday it certainly did. In my tribute to VC hero Pte Horace Waller I invited readers to contemplate the last paragraph of his story on page 12.

I can’t remember when this ever happened before (it must have) but sure enough, in a perfect storm of sub-editing and proof-reading cock-ups, the last few lines had been omitted.

No, it wasn’t a poor and overdue April Fool; not in the least cryptic. In reference to how we now mourn, wail, breast-beat and publicly prostrate ourselves over an occasional lost life, it told how in the month of April 1917, Pte Horace Waller VC was just one of 46 Dewsbury men who gave their life for their country. Not Batley, not Mirfield or Spen, just one town and 46 lost lives, in a single month out of years of brutal war.

And for what? So the youth of today could urinate on War Memorials and blame ‘old farts’ for “ruining our future” by voting last June 23rd to try claw back just a vestige of what our appeasers seem happy to give France, Germany and Brussels.

With respect, it is not their gift to give.

 

I DON’T mind the UK having one of the world’s most generous overseas aid budgets. We are still, relatively, one of the planet’s most wealthy and civilised nations (I obviously exempt Nicola Krankie from the ‘civilised’ bit).

Starvation, famine, natural or humanitarian disasters – we should be at the forefront of any and all efforts to aid the needy. Every time.

But paying out hundreds of millions of pounds in cash ‘aid’ to third world dictators, gangsters and, at very best, plain fraudsters? Millions a year to silver line the pockets of an entire Westminster department of untouchable, nepotistic public school appointees?

The Department for International Development as much as admits its job is to bribe poor countries into being our ‘friends’. Wow, that’s worked well over the years, hasn’t it?

No. Enough’s enough.

Our own letters page today outlines very humbly, honestly and yes, angrily, how we are punishing the twilight years of the very people whose sacrifices made this nation so wealthy that today we can indulge overseas crime, bribery and money laundering under the guise of international aid.

It is disgraceful. We need a Silver Surfers political party.

 

ONE of my closest American friends, an intelligent, well-read man who happened to be a Donald Trump voter, poured scorn on my fears when we met up just before the US elections.

He emailed me this week, in the wake of the frightening spectacle of Trump letting loose bombs, threatening North Korea and Russia and sending a full-on fleet of warships to go park on their doorsteps.

If that wasn’t scary enough, it was accompanied by the most childish, nonsensical ranting, as cringingly unPresidential as you can imagine (let’s not even get into his pre-pubescent press secretary Sean Spicer, who somehow ‘forgot’ Hitler gassed millions).

Is there really no one dare tell President Trump he looks and sounds like an OAP

transvestite doing an impression of Shirley Temple throwing a hissy fit?

My friend’s communication was a rather brief email, in light of Trump’s turbulent first few months in office:

“Oh s**t. Sorry, world.” Too late now, pal.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Share this post