LAUGH. IT’S THE CREDIT CRUNCH

On reading the above statement, the majority of you, especially those who have been sacked, or about to be sacked not to mention those being turfed into the street by banks eager to repossess their homes, will probably come to the conclusion that the SOB has finally lost his marbles and should be sectioned, better still, tarred and feathered before being run out of town. But, bare with me, there is a logic behind my inflammatory statement. Not my logic you understand, but that of a certain female journalist.

The above mentioned lady, writing in one of the posher Sunday papers, was waxing lyrical on her liberation from the bonds of fashion by the advent of the credit crunch. The entire article was an illumination of the most blinding brilliance, of how remote our metropolitan elite are from the rest of us.

Miss Marrin, for that is her name, started by rejoicing that with hard times cavorting down Oxford Street like a whore with her knickers in the pawn shop, she no longer had to go shopping. Now call me thick if you must, but I was unaware that prior to the banking crisis, people were being frog marched into Selfridges at the working end of a shot gun and forced to blow their brass on things they do not need or want but think they should have in order to impress the neighbours. This is the nub of Miss Marrin’s dilemma, she felt she had to spend relentlessly so as not to fall behind the Joneses in the social steeple chase which is life in fashionable London.

Miss Marrin was also ecstatic over the fact that financial constraints meant that she no longer had to change the wall paper every five minutes in an effort to be abreast of every new fad drifting through the virtual reality that is Notting Hill. Poor lamb, my heart bleeds for her, well, it would if I had one, but then bleeding hearts and I have never really got on together, not that I would get on at all with Miss Marrinn who receives large amounts of money for writing the sort of shite which ruins the Sunday mornings of ordinary folk.

Now I fully recognise that what the accused actually wrote was very much a tongue in cheek journalistic piece, and should not be taken too seriously, or should it? Miss Marrin is all too representative of the metropolitan elite who live in a world ring fenced by arrogance from the real world we the unenlightened majority inhabit, and as such is a danger to the rest of us. When governments talk of public opinion, it is the opinion of the intellectual nomenclatura it is referring to, these isolated beings who fret over whether the pattern on the wall paper is out of date, it is they who decide what the rest of us think, or to be more precise have arrogated to themselves this right.

What is to be done to right this situation? Short of a bit of revolution nothing, the Tabithas and Jontys of Islington have the Nation by the short and curlies and display no inclination to let go any day soon. I suppose I could take a lone stand and strike a blow against the tyranny of the smug, but what the hell, who would listen to me? I’ll content myself with toddling of to Harvey Nicks for some sushi.

NON ILLEGITIMUS CARBORUNDUM

You can forget that for a start, and if you can understand the title then your are too posh for this page and should bugger off to Selfridges and buy some sushi for your tea. Our dearly beloved rulers of choice, God forgive us our sin of voting for them in the first place, have outlawed the hunting of the fox, but have, perversely declared open season on the Middle Classes. Watch it Acacia Avenue, Harriet is after your blood. She needs it to prove to the lower orders that she is not posh, or, at least that she has stopped being posh after a life spent at the silver trough, which is ceasely replenished at the expense of the long suffering taxpayer.

Miss Harman, or ‘Arman as we should now say (The aspirate is far too elitist to be used, innit?) has declared war on the middle class, they must be prevented at all costs from realising their potential and rising in the professions. The lower orders must be given the top jobs, irrespective of whether or not they are competent to undertake them. Ability is no longer to count for anything, if you want to be a doctor, you will need to prove that you can fart and pick your nose while eating a plate of blanc mange, and if you can spell medicine then you are definitely out of the running.

All this will play well in the salons of Islington, whose denizens are never happy unless they have something to feel guilty about, but what will be the effect of this mass cull of ability? The professions will be stuffed with people who cannot spell or do sums but could not be bothered to take the dishes out of the sink before pissing in it. This will be the new definition of class, take it from me, if you are too posh to enjoy a good crap and tell the neighbours all about it, you will not make the grade in ‘Arriet’s utopia.

What Our rulers do not realise is that the Middle Class is the engine which powers the nation, they obey the rules, do not complain and pay the tax, which provides the cash for ‘arriet and her pals to tip down the pan as soon as they get their incompetent paws on it. Come the election this government will get it’s comeuppance, that lot in the middle of society are ready to take their revenge. I can’t wait.

The Middle Class are ever resourceful, they will not take this threat to the future of their offspring lying down. Instead of shelling out on private tuition in academic subjects for their children, they will be trawling the sink estates of the nation hiring yobs to teach their children to be as common as udders in a cow shed, and ‘Arriet and her pals will still be out on their ears come the next election.

THE BITCH AND THE BASTARD

I have always suspected the quality of the loyalty of New Labour’s hierarchy to this nation and this weekend my suspicions on this point were confirmed by an article written by a former assistant high commissioner to Ghana. The gentleman recounted an incident at an official dinner given by the government of Ghana for Clare Short, who at the time was Overseas Aid Secretary, whose official remit was to distribute money extricated under duress from British taxpayers, to overseas despots, to enable them to squander specie on luxuries they would not otherwise have been able to afford.

Miss Short took great joy in squandering our money, it gave her the balls which nature had cruelly denied her, it also gave her a platform for her views, for under normal circumstances nobody of any sense would have taken the slightest notice of the woman. At the afore mentioned banquet, her hosts made some flattering remarks about the British Empire and its achievements. At this the egregious Miss Shortarse started foaming at the mouth and delivered a vituperative diatribe on the subject of the Empire. It obviously did not cross her mind that she was representing the British state, and to denigrate her country under such circumstances was disloyal as well as being insulting to those who paid her wages.

Clare Short is all too typical of our current ruling class, crude, ignorant and desperate for publicity, like all of her kind there is virtually nothing she will not do for a few minutes on the tele. I vividly remember a few years ago her announcement that she had been re-united with her illegitimate son who she had given away for adoption the she stood, in Victoria Gardens, adjacent to the Houses of Parliament with the hapless young man in tow, beaming at the cameras. In television terms, the Bitch and Her Bastard was not up there in entertainment value with Gone With The Wind, but it did illustrate the lengths she was prepared to go for a few minutes of publicity. We should I suppose be grateful that she did not do an Edwina Curry and destroy the egg industry in her quest for camera time, but then I do not think Miss Short has Edwina’s imagination.
Clare Short’s day has now passed, but unfortunately there are all too many ready willing and able to step into her shoes. O Tempore O Mores.

GOD ROT YE MERRY GENTLEMEN

Did you have a good Christmas? If one more person asks me that question, I swear to God I’ll smack the bastard, the bastard that is, not God. By the time the big day arrived, I was ready to go thirteen rounds with fate.

I know it was supposed to be the season of goodwill, but there is only so much false bonhomie a body can take, and as they started selling Christmas decorations on Oxford Street back in August, I was thoroughly sick of the festive season by the first of October. Who wouldn’t be.

It wasn’t only decorations which were being flogged to death well ahead of schedule. Mince pies, Christmas cake and puddings, all were available by late October with best before dates for the first week in November, which meant they had to be eaten there and then, by the twenty fifth of December, I could not have eaten another mince pie without the risk of throwing up.

Don’t worry my dears, things get worse. Remember, this is me we are talking about, not Santa, and I have no elves as helpers, if I had then I would throttle the little perishers as an affirmation of my attitude to Christmas past, present and future. Now we all know Yuletide can be expensive, not if you are broke it isn’t, and I was as broke as broke can be and still remain breathing. My bank kept on sending payments made into my account back to their place of origin, not once, not twice, but three bloody times. Not content with stuffing up the World’s economy, they thought they’d have a go at mine while they were at it. Charmant. Tres charmant.

Despite being sick of traditional festive fayre, I felt bit incumbent on me to get in some cake for the big day, not having much in the way of spondulicks, I was forced to settle for a slab of the cheapest muck I could lay my hands on. Muck is the operative word here. I do not know if it was the cake itself, the icing or the marzipan, but whatever it was, it gave me the squirts, I hadn’t farted so much since I went on the cabbage diet.

Now do not, I beg of you, despair, there is more to come, oh yes indeedie. Christmas Eve I flicked the lights on and the fuse blew, I spent the entire festival with a frigging candle as my only illumination. I can hear you now, how Dickensian, how romantic, huh! You try having a crap while holding a candle. Dear God, I take my hat of to Scrooge, the old sod had it right the first time. HUMBUG.

Christmas, don’t get me started, I have lived with it since August. I was so relieved on the twenty seventh of December, when finally it was all over, and the shops started selling Easter eggs.

DO THEY REALLY NEED A BIG DICK AT THE MET?

It’s a good question, and one which needs answering, especially after the antics of assistant commissioner Cressida Dick, who has turned making a cock up into an industrial science.

It was Miss Dick you may recall, who masterminded the case against Paul Burrell, an effort which cost the taxpayer a great deal of money, while making even more of it for Mr. Burrell, who, without the attendant publicity would have sunk back into the obscurity which so sorely missed his companionship.

Miss Dick’s next virtuoso performance was the Menedes affaire. What was deplorable here was not the shooting of that unfortunate, in the climate of the times, with the nation expecting another terrorist attack, such an incident was virtually inevitable. The blunder here, was in the puerile attempt to draw a veil over the events at Stockwell tube station. Miss Dick should have told the baying mob to shut up, as they who were baying for police blood, would have been squawking even louder if someone had blown up another train because the police were too timid to act. One has to ask if Miss Dick is the right tool to have in the fight against crime.

Now we come to the affaire of Damian Green, the MP who was arrested for offending our divine Caesar, Gordianus Salvator Mundi. Who was it who was caressing the gonads of this little affaire? You guessed it good people, there she was, our Cressida, right in the thick of it. It takes a lot to put Miss Dick off her stroke, I can tell you, and on this one her hands were well and truly on the pump.

After such stunning example of incompetence, one has to ask why Miss Dick is still in her job, indeed it is puzzling as to how the lady achieved her current eminence, the suspicion here is that Miss Dick was promoted because she was a woman, a token, chosen to illustrate that all in then Scotland Yard ball park was not as feminist clowns such as Harriet Harman would have the gullible believe, an organisation tooled up against the promotion of females.
Equal opportunities as a policy is all very well, but not at the expense of efficiency, especially where the exercise of justice is the paramount requirement. Found wanting on the job, Miss Dick should take herself in hand and resign.