Today is not a day for Blogging

Spyker is Saabs last hope according to the Media the analysts and of course GM's chairman Ed Whitacre ( well he would know wouldn't he )
Reading between the lines he sounds positively optimistic.

Even reports about the Russian investor behind Spyker ,his father and the Russian mafia have surfaced in recent days.
Saab and the Russian Mafia, now thats an interesting constellation.

I am trying to train myself NOT to use the word bizzare, mainly because even though the situation is exactly that B****e

Instead of me whittering on I decided to include a little entertainment in the shape of a " pulled " article in the FT. It amuzed me and I hope that anyone if anyone is remotely interested in reading my blog has the same experience.
Blog On

The enlosed article was in this week's Sunday Times but
has since been 'pulled' - probably by the subject of the article, Mandelson.
So much for free speech. But poor old Manglebum fails to appreciate how the
blogsphere works and in no time the article finds itself going viral round
the world. Wonderful. Enjoy it - and feel free to pass it on if you enjoyed
it.....
Jeremy Clarkson
Sunday Times 15/11/09



I’ve given the matter a great deal of thought all week, and I’m afraid I’ve
decided that it’s no good putting Peter Mandelson in a prison. I’m afraid he
will have to be tied to the front of a van and driven round the country
until he isn’t alive any more. He announced last week that middle-class
children will simply not be allowed into the country’s top universities even
if they have 4,000 A-levels, because all the places will be taken by
Albanians and guillemots and whatever other stupid bandwagon the conniving
.idiot has leapt

I hate Peter Mandelson. I hate his fondness for extremely pale blue jeans
and I hate that preposterous moustache he used to sport in the days when he
didn’t bother trying to cover up his left-wing fanaticism. I hate the way he
quite literally lords it over us even though he’s resigned in disgrace
twice, and now holds an important decision-making job for which he was not
elected. Mostly, though, I hate him because his one-man war on the bright
and the witty and the successful means that half my friends now seem to be
taking leave of their senses.

There’s talk of emigration in the air. It’s everywhere I go. Parties. Work.
In the supermarket. My daughter is working herself half to death to get good
grades at GSCE and can’t see the point because she won’t be going to
university, because she doesn’t have a beak or flippers or a qualification
in washing windscreens at the lights. She wonders, often, why we don’t live
in America.

Then you have the chaps and chapesses who can’t stand the constant raids on
their wallets and their privacy. They can’t understand why they are taxed at
50% on their income and then taxed again for driving into the nation’s
capital. They can’t understand what happened to the hunt for the weapons of
mass destruction. They can’t understand anything. They see the Highway
Wombles in those brand new 4x4s that they paid for, and they see the M4 bus
lane and they see the speed cameras and the community support officers and
they see the Albanians stealing their wheelbarrows and nothing can be done
because it’s racist.

And they see Alistair Darling handing over £4,350 of their money to not sort
out the banking crisis that he doesn’t understand because he’s a small-town
solicitor, and they see the stupid war on drugs and the war on drink and the
war on smoking and the war on hunting and the war on fun and the war on
scientists and the obsession with the climate and the price of train fares
soaring past £1,000 and the Guardian power-brokers getting uppity about one
shot baboon and not uppity at all about all the dead soldiers in
Afghanistan, and how they got rid of Blair only to find the lying twerp is
now going to come back even more powerful than ever, and they think, “I’ve
had enough of this. I’m off.”

It’s a lovely idea, to get out of this stupid, Fairtrade, Brown-stained,
Mandelson-skewed, equal-opportunities, multicultural, carbon-neutral,
trendily left, regionally assembled, big-government, trilingual,
mosque-drenched, all-the-pigs-are-equal, property-is-theft hellhole and set
up shop somewhere else. But where?

You can’t go to France because you need to complete 17 forms in triplicate
every time you want to build a greenhouse, and you can’t go to Switzerland
because you will be reported to your neighbours by the police and
subsequently shot in the head if you don’t sweep your lawn properly, and you
can’t go to Italy because you’ll soon tire of waking up in the morning to
find a horse’s head in your bed because you forgot to give a man called Don
bundle of used notes for “organising” a plumber.

You can’t go to Australia because it’s full of things that will eat you, you
can’t go to New Zealand because they don’t accept anyone who is more than 40
and you can’t go to Monte Carlo because they don’t accept anyone who has
less than 40 mill. And you can’t go to Spain because you’re not called Del
and you weren’t involved in the Walthamstow blag. And you can’t go to
Germany ... because you just can’t.

The Caribbean sounds tempting, but there is no work, which means that one
day, whether you like it or not, you’ll end up like all the other expats,
with a nose like a burst beetroot, wondering if it’s okay to have a small
sharpener at 10 in the morning. And, as I keep explaining to my daughter, we
can’t go to America because if you catch a cold over there, the health
system is designed in such a way that you end up without a house. Or dead.

Canada’s full of people pretending to be French, South Africa’s too risky,
Russia’s worse and everywhere else is too full of snow, too full of flies or
too full of people who want to cut your head off on the internet. So you can
dream all you like about upping sticks and moving to a country that doesn’t
help itself to half of everything you earn and then spend the money it gets
on bus lanes and advertisements about the dangers of salt. But wherever you
go you’ll wind up an alcoholic or dead or bored or in a cellar, in an orange
jumpsuit, gently wetting yourself on the web. All of these things are worse
than being persecuted for eating a sandwich at the wheel.

I see no reason to be miserable. Yes, Britain now is worse than it’s been
for decades, but the lunatics who’ve made it so ghastly are on their way
out. Soon, they will be back in Hackney with their South African
nuclear-free peace polenta. And instead the show will be run by a bloke
whose dad has a wallpaper shop and possibly, terrifyingly, a twerp in
Belgium whose fruitless game of hunt-the-WMD has netted him £15m on the
lecture circuit.

So actually I do see a reason to be miserable. Which is why I think it’s a
good idea to tie Peter Mandelson to a van. Such an act would be cruel and
barbaric and inhuman. But it would at least cheer everyone up a bit.