Moghul struggles on

As part of my rehabilitation I have been asked to form connections with the ordinary, hum-drum working peoples on my estates.

Although it was those very sort, 12 of them in fact, who deprived me of my liberty, I hold no grudges or malice.

Moghul is quite prepared to break bread at the Silver Star or enjoy a pint at the Tut and Shive with even the most grubby commoner. Moghul forgives and forgets.

It has been strange adjusting to life after prison, a part of me yearns for my cosy cell and finds sleeping in the old four-poster quite uncomfortable.

Still, is is good to hold a shotgun again, even if I keep having to tell myself that the modern, socialist dictatorship that we endure these days prohibits the shooting of poachers, scroungers and the undeserving infirm.

If you would like to correspond with me, I have set up an email account at wicked@champnews.com. I will especially happy to hear gossip and wicked whispers of what people are up to, especially those guilty of hypocrisy, political humbug or shenanigans.

The more petty the observation, the more I shall delight. Don't bother telling me about the druglord or murderer, I want to know about the milkman who wears women's clothes or the councillor with an untidy garden.

Time for bed

I believe it may be time to pack up my computer and put my energies into something more worthwhile. The latest reports by Google confirm that no one - not even the dreaded Googlebots — have visited this blog in a over a month.

Not even the ballad of Jim Sharpe brought in a viewer. It appears I have delighted you long enough.

Watching girls in their underwear

Sorry for the lack of blogging recently, I've been occupied with watching YouTube footage of a young woman dancing in her underwear.

Whenever I see an attractive woman now, I instantly press a Nintendo's Wii Fit game into their hands with the suggestion that I will be invited to see the results, once she has had time to master the hula-hoop routine.

The Wii has been a marvel of an invention, but I'd like to see better games on it. What about virtual foxhunting or bash-the-rat?

Any offers?

After growing tired of that Heywood fellow, I sent him packing with one of the "King Edward" cigars I reserve for the servants on Boxing Day.

Before the bounder left, he manged to take £260,000 or more from the petty cash drawer in my study, leaving me short for the weekend.

This lack of ready funds has been compounded by the need to advertise the vacant position in the Sunday Times, whose rates compare unfavorably with the Formby Champion, where I usually place my messages.

Bearing all this in mind, I find I can now only offer a salary of £150,000pa for the Sefton job. I know it's not much, but maybe there's a single young man out there, probably still living at home, who will be able to stretch it out.

I'll bung in use of the rolls on Monday's to sweeten the deal.

Lib Dems wager

After studying an analysis of positive and negative press stories, Lord Moghul has bet on the Lib Dems to come second in the Crewe and Nantwich by-election at very generous 12-1 odds. Don't blame me if it goes wrong, but it's a safer bet than Chelsea to win the Euro Cup.

Dennis must take Holy Orders

My nephew has begun taking the Beano, a publication I thought long gone. Happily it is just as much fun as I remember, with the likes of Minnie the Minx and the Bash Street kids making fools of authority figures like the local mayor with joyful abandon.

As a boy, I preferred to take the Dandy (which is also still on sale), finding Desperate Dan's adventures more exotic than Dennis the Menace. I wonder though whether children still thrill to the sight of a large cowboy eating giant pies?

The only thing I would say that has changed is the quality of drawings, the Numbskulls, for example, are a shadow of their former selves, although Dennis seems to have greater care taken on it than times past.

Dennis has an added poignancy these days, one storyline involved the boy discovering password-protected computer files which proved his softy father was once, like he, a source of menace and anarchy.

As a bowl of pudding few through the air, there seemed a woebegone edge to Dennis' countenance, betraying the realisation that he, too, will grow out of his menacing ways and settle down to a sentient, middle-class existence.

If I was Dennis, though, I would not consider reproducing. The priesthood would be the safest bet.

Beards rule

As master of Sefton I have decreed that only people with beards shall be allowed to hold public office.

Any attempts to depose people (both men and women) with beards will be frowned upon, especially if anyone tries to get rid of Tony Robertson – the man who saved Maghull.

Must we vote for chair sniffers?

As someone who often wrestles with thoughts of how to get rid of the political classes that are ruining our once great nation, I was encouraged by events in Australia, where they are picking off politicians one by one.

Latest to fall is Troy Buswell, who has been exposed as a secret chair sniffer.

If that is is enough to get rid of Bustwell, how many of our local worthies could be thrown out for similarly uncouth behaviour? I once saw a Lib Dem sniff a cardigan, surely that is enough.

Mind you, if the BNP man who called me yesterday to complain about lack of coverage in some newspaper called the Champion is to be believed, then half of our elected members are child molestors, with the other half crooks.

As it is polling day today, I shall put my cross against the name of the BNP representative - but only as long as he can assure me that he has never sniffed a chair or put his hands down the front of his trousers while surfing the internet.

An ode to Jim Sharpe

What thoughts I have of you tonight, Jim Sharpe, for
I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache
self-conscious looking at the full moon.

In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went
into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations!

What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families
shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the
avocados, babies in the tomatoes!

I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the
pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel?

I spoke too soon?

The price, as predicted, has moved up to 8/13 on the Tories to have the most seats at the next general election but I am feeling more nervous than my previous carefree post. Why? Because there is a growing body of opinion that Gordon Brown won't make it. Best of the bunch of soothsayers is this piece by Matthew Parris.

As far as the local elections go, Rosie Cooper looks like she will hang on by her whiskers and Debi Jones will take the new Sefton Central.

As for Southport, I recoil from predicting the outcome to what will be a close race possibly two years down the line. This website sees a win for Brenda Porter based purely on the redrawing of the electoral map, if Cameron's romping home that will give her a big bounce, too.

But enough of boring politics, how am I to tell my nephew Maramaduke that Smarteenies is never going to be on television again now that Mark Speight's been found dead?

Maybe the Turkish gentleman who keeps hacking the Champion's website can provide an answer?

Money where my mouth is

Does anyone read this blog? Of course not, why should you, but for the 3 to 4 people who look at it each day, I give this advice: get some money on the Tories to win the next election.

When things were bad, I got cash on at good prices. Why? Because I knew Gordon Brown was coming in and I knew women would never vote for him. He's been a disaster from day one, even worse than my expectations, I recklessly haven't laid off a single bet since he took office.

I really think a lot more trouble is going to hit him very soon as well.

I have just made a sizable bet for Cameron at 8/11 - the last bit of value I think we'll get. Unless David Cameron blows it with some sort of sex scandal, such as shacking up with his sister in law, then he's home and hosed with a majority of around 40.

Forget whether you want him in or not. Mogul has told you who will win, so you may as well make a small wager (yes, small, mr gambling lawsuit freak) and get yourself some beer money.

No end in sight

As someone who has done very well out of wars in the Middle East, I tend to turn a blind eye to reports of trouble there, but even I have to admit that things are going badly.

All the talk about weapons of mass destruction never fooled anyone, we went to war because we like war, and very entertaining it was too when there was still an Iraqi army fighting by Doonesbury rules and lots of laser-guided bombing footage on TV and old men hitting statues of Saddam with their slippers.

But now that all the glamour and excitement is over, I wonder if it's all been worth it. I have no care for the countless dead or the breakdown of 'society' but balk at the way business failed to take off there and the way untold billions have been squirreled away to persons other than myself.

My anarchist nephew Marmaduke even claims that the whole operation was probably corrupt but certainly hapless from the start. There was just no plan, no thought, only lust for battle and greed for Persian riches. He may have a point!

I'm beginning to think this George Bush character is not so sound after all. Perhaps Hilary Obamboo will do better, who knows.

I think what we need do do now is to leave quietly, in the way one does when one's had too much Champagne at a party. We've created hell on earth for these people, staying will just deepen the catastrophe.

Depression no more

Moghul is sorry to lean that No Depression Magazine is to cease trading, but hardly surprised.

While an invaluable source of good country music news and reviews, it suffered, like a lot of journlism these days, from a lack of humour and eventually bored too many advertisers and readers.

I'm forever telling the fatty editor of the Champion that what the people of Southport want more than anything is a laugh, but he always shakes his head manfully and claims that a small but significant minority want misery above all else.

I suppose I pay him to make these decisions, but can't help thinking I'd be better off with that on the spots fellow or the chap who writes about pubs.

The new improved Catholic Church

A a Catholic aristocrat, I always have mixed feelings about the Faith after Holy Week.

It is the best time to be a Roman Catholic, a moving time that helps one feel at once connected with Catholics everywhere, to feel timeless almost, as if you where somehow here and also there when the Greatest Story Ever told reached its cliffhanging climax.

Easter vigil Mass, for those who don't know, is much longer than normal, and my parish priest - getting on a bit in years – was under a lot of stress this year.

The few of us who turned up to parade round with our candles and listen to the seemingly endless lists of readings did so, I think, with a sense that something has to change before the church in England dies on its knees.

What will happen to the Church? Its aging congregations are dwindling each year a little more. Even the little old men who take care of the offertory and the wee women who polish and arrange flowers, people you thought would be there forever, are starting to drop off the twig.

The pressure on numbers will mean that soon more churches will have to close. Some of those communities will join the new parishes, others will melt away.

In the sermon on Easter Saturday the priest talked of a cultural revolution that is beginning in the Church.

I feel that's the right right track, a Church should emerge that is less about doing things properly, less about condemning sin and more about experiencing all the beauty of the Mass, the fullness of the scriptures and closeness to all people of faith.

Remember, the Church is not about Popes, priests and bishops, it's about all the people in it, be they rule-breakers or not.

It's also encouraging that the Church is standing up against this Frankenstein bill currently before parliament, which aims to turn us into mutants or at least stick two fingers up at the norms of English life.

That's what we need now, some old-time leadership and new thinking. Not compromise, just a new confidence.

A Brush with the law

My old friend Basil Brush arrived the other night, ashen faced, his tweeds in tatters.

The old fox has been on the run after discharging a joke in a public place. Now that the police have solved all the murders and rapes that have taken place, they are clamping down on children's TV characters who push at the boundaries of taboo.

For those of you how don't know of the crime, Brush is alleged to recounted asking for a consultation with a Romany fortune teller who predicted that the old loafer would soon embark on a long journey.

When asked what happened next Brush is said to have replied: "He stole my wallet and I had to walk all the way home."

Disgraceful, I know, but now that the economy is in crisis, we toffs have to stick together.

Meanwhile, I am riding out the financial storm by buying up huge reserves of lucky pegs and heather. However by the looks of some of the sellers, the talismans have not been so lucky for them.

Stinging shame

My time travelling exploits have failed. According to today's Telegraph, all bees will be wiped out by 2018.

If only we could wipe out Lib Dem leader Vince Cable, who wants to force feed us fruit smoothies before dinner instead of our usual cocktails.

Bring back that Clegg fellow.

Naughty nurses

Hearing from my friend Lord Mancroft that all nurses are grubby and promiscuous, I immediately feigned a gammy leg and booked myself into hospital for some slumpy pumpy.

After being forced to wait an interminably long time for service, jostling for position in the waiting room with hundreds of drunk children, my turn on the trolley finally came.

I must say I was disappointed with the girl they offered me, I'd had visions of a naughty Babs Windsor or an large and experienced Hattie Jacques type. The girl I got was thin, pale, obviously overworked.

She asked nicely for me to take my trousers off, but to be honest I didn't have the heart to go through with the arrangement. I made my excuses and left, placing a handful of tenners on a swing bin as I exited.

Is it any wonder that the NHS is in such crisis? Any young man with non-uxorious tastes would choose a private parlour over the state-run flop house that our local services have become any day.

Bevan would be tossing in his grave.

Transatlantic Sessions

No one ever tells you what's on television these days, most of it being rubbish, so it was with delight and frustration that I caught the second half of a BBC4 programme called Transatlantic Sessions.

The finest musicians from the Celtic traditionon played with their counterparts from Nashville. Paul Brady remembered Louisiana, Karen Matheson astonished with some Gaelic mouth music and American star Joan Osborne made her UK television debut in a series of memorable performances.

Some people have called for the abolition of BBC4 as a thinlipped way of shaving a pound off the licence fee. Programmes like this one make it worth every penny.

You can watch the progamme again - for a few days only - on the new BBC iPlayer.

Tesco victory

As a major shareholder in Tesco, I read the proposals of the Competition Commission to force supermarkets to sell off land they own with interest.

Thankfully, these johnnies know which side of their Tesco bread is buttered, as the plans will merely prevent any smaller retailers from muscling in on Tesco's territory.

At the same time, the plans open up new possibilities for Asda to carve up what's left of small local shopping districts while bunging a bone to our so-called hard-pressed farmers that somewhere there will be an agony aunt who will offer tea and sympathy to any bumpkin who believes they're getting a bum deal.

Tesco is a great British success story, we mustn't let a few hippies derail this vast money-making express

Panic in the beehive

As I boy, I thought it great fun to go round killing bees. Like the bullfight, there was an element of danger involved in squashing one, timid or limp-wristed hands more often than not ended up stung.

Now we learn that the bee population is on the verge of extinction and that this could spoil the countryside as we know it and eventually all life.

My plan now is to travel back in time and prevent each bee killing from happening. Hopefully my mission will be successful and when I return the air will be thick with our buzzing friends.

At this point it may be a good idea to surrender dominion of the earth and beg for bee mercy. Perhaps they will make Debi Jones their queen and we can live side by side in harmony.

I'm going green

Drinkers voting in London's forthcoming mayoral election have much to think about as campaigning begins to get serious.

Ken Livingston wins sympathy for his habit of starting the day with a tumbler of whiskey, but he loses points for being a fat-cat control freak.

Boris Johnson's eccentric humour would be great news for the city, but his pledge to avoid drinking during the campaign* reveals a cynicism that hints at a personality without principals.

Lib Dem Brian Paddick seems an easy going fellow, who when he was a top cop took a sensible approach to policing drug matters and, presumably, will take a liberal approach to drink. However, can we really suppose that he won't revert to type when the going gets tough and start arresting all and sundry?

Green Goddess Sian Berry rolls her own fags and once called for a law that would ensure English beer was drunk on Christmas day rather than Australian wine. She seems the only sensible candidate.

*Many may point to the fact that Moghul has given up drink for Lent. He does so for his own pure reasons that are none of your business.

Williams is right

It's always a good laugh to see a vicar in trouble, even better when it's an archbishop.

But I think that Dr Rowan Williams has it exactly right when he says we need to introduce sharia law to Britain.

For far too long the working classes have been getting away with poaching, thieving and such like with nothing more than slaps on the wrist. A slap on the wrist with a sharp sword will make the point far better.

And, as I was telling my new niece the other day, the lower orders are far too preoccupied with fornication and drink to ever do an honest day's work. Muslim workers typically rise at 5am, are hangover free, and always ready for honest toil.

In the sharia workplace, industrial unrest would become a thing of the past, as all complaints can be pinned on women, jews or Yankees. As long as I allow a few minutes each day for peaceful prayer and flag burning, productivity should soar.

There will be no people going off sick with depression, either. In the sharia workplace, anyone with low self-esteem can be immediately transferred to the suicide bombing dept without claiming a penny in sickness benefit.

Dr Williams should be congratulated on his bold stance. I shall begin taking instruction in Islamism immediately and offer my workforce new terms of conversion or death.

A few alms in the right bowl should take care of things.

Give me some surveillance

According to today's Telegraph, up to 1,000 new phones are being tapped each day, many by local councils.

I find this hard to believe, what on earth are the listening for? Grumblings from members of the Southport Party? The whispered sweet nothings of ill-starred lovers? I was going to ask the bods at Sefton Council who they are listening to, but I doubt they would tell me as they like to keep their cards close to their chests.

I would be happy to discover my phone was being tapped. It would add spice to my otherwise dull existence to know that I was caught up in some sort of Smiley's People type of plot.

If you are reading this, Carol, give a discreet cough next time you listen in, so I know you are there and can make my conversation suitably fruity and mysterious.