AM I alone in thinking that the pile of bones found in a Leicester car park may not belong to Richard III who, in 1482, three years prior to his demise, invaded Us?
The damsel who financed the successful dig says she had a feeling in her stomach that it was the murderous hunchback, possibly because she once parked her car on top of him and has felt bad about it ever since. Who knows. What I do know is that much nonsense is muttered in the name of science, particularly genetics. By the way, I am related to Adam and Eve, Julius Caesar, Wolfgang Mozart, Michelangelo and Martin Luther King, and I have certificates to prove it.
ANENT – hee-haw! – buried kings, I am indebted to a Times reader who is convinced that the remains of James IV of Scotia are waiting to be dug up on a golf course in Surrey. How this conclusion was reached I know not but it surely cannot be a coincidence that Jamie's nemesis – at Flodden! – was the Earl of Surrey.
I know little about this gentleman except that he was late in arriving on the battlefield, doubtless due to a slow-running train from York. James, I am reliably informed, ought to have triumphed at Flodden but did not, according his biographer, Norman MacDougall, historian extraordinaire, because of his "fascination with new technology". Let that be a lesson to us all.
Meanwhile I implore Alexei Salmonella, Czar of the Gnats, to carry out a midnight raid on the Surrey golf course and rescue James from the rough into which he appears to have been ignominiously dumped.
But where to bury him? May I suggest Murrayfield, the current graveyard of Scotia's fallen hopefuls?
THE Daily Record says Lord "Lucky" Lucan, while on the run from Dixon of Dock Green, found refuge in a but 'n' ben on Eigg. Indeed, he may still be hiding there, though my own more recent experience of that island suggests the islanders would have rumbled him the moment he stepped ashore. Scotia, of course, has a long history of accommodating folk who want to make themselves scarce. Indeed, Jimmy Goldsmith, Lucky's chum, eloped to the Frozen North with a Bolivian heiress, as one does. Very inconspicuous in Kirkcudbrightshire they were.
Venerable readers of this throbbing column may recall that it was to a west coast B&B that JD Salinger ran when he wanted to avoid publicity for his novel Catcher In The Rye. Then there is my old chum Salman Rushdie who, having been fatwa-ed, went on a whisky-tasting tour of Shetland. As yet I have been unable to verify whether Osama Bin L was ever here but give me time.
I am on a quest to buy a jacket with a single vent. In one emporium I tried on one with a double vent and asked if it could be converted. It was possible, intimated the salesman, as it is possible for Papa Razzi to convert to Rastafarianism.
Cut-wise, however, he did not recommended it. The alternative was to have a jacket made from scratch – at a cost of over twice that which the double-vented jacket costs. Such is the price one must pay to remain at fashion's cutting edge.
LINCOLN, I confidently predict, will win Oscars galore. This is because I've seen it and none of the other contenders.
I hear good things about Life Of Pi but, personally, I'd rather see the movie of Sally Magnusson's opus, Life Of Pee. I jest!
I viewed Lincoln at a cinema in Morningside. It was late on Sunday afternoon and I had hoped that the locals might be fast asleep in their bath chairs, having managed to OD at lunch on the sherry trifle. Fat chance of that.
They were out in force and eager to immerse themselves in the intricacies of the American Constitution.
First, however, they needed to fuel themselves for two-and-a half-hours of immobility.
This involved drink, including that of the alcoholic variety, and food, principally hot dogs and popcorn, although one movie-goer managed to create hysteria-inducing sound-effects by the simple measure of unwrapping sweeties.
Not long after the film began, the first punter got up, possibly, I surmised, because he found it too intellectually challenging. Moments later he was back, having returned a bottle of lager to where it may have begun its journey.
Shortly thereafter, another patron left, then another, and another. All of them seemed to be seated in the same row as the Home Secretary and myself, which, now I come to think of it, may have been reserved for folk with weak bladders and other incontinence issues. It would certainly explain quite a lot.
Spoiler alert! Lincoln dies.
TO Pompeii, as you might expect of this most archaeological of diaries. The EeYou has decided to spend £90 million in the hope it will stop it falling down. The first buildings scheduled for restoration – not, apparently, by Barratt – are the House of the Dioscuri and the House of the Cryptoporticus.
As I found a couple of years ago, Pompeii is in a grim state, not helped by the chaps employed to stop vandalism. For a few euros they will show you things – phallic things! – normally kept from prying eyes, and have been known to poke precious frescoes with a stick.
As ever in Italia there are fears Brussels' best intentions will be a boon to the Camorra. Pompeii is slap-bang in Camorra territory though, as we know thanks to brave Roberto Saviano, its tentacles are far-reaching, including, of all places, Aberdeen. There, wrote Saviano, seeing the Italian-owned "restaurants, offices, insurance firms and buildings was like being grabbed by the ankles, turned upside down and flung about until everything – house keys and small change – fell out of my pockets and mouth, even my soul, if that can be commercialised". Jings!
Opinion is divided over Lord Lucan's connections with Eigg
Plenty to eat at the cinema – and Lincoln was pretty good, too!
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