PLEASE CRY FOR ME MIDDLE ENGLAND.

Oh, the pity and the pathos of it all, the heart wrenching bathos, Gordon Brown wants our sympathy, not only that, the mendacious two faced thieving son of a bitch wants us to vote for him, and the tool he uses to prise our votes from the mamaries of common sense is the sight of him bawling on the box over the death of his daughter. Who could refuse to vote for him after such a performance? Well I could for a start, I might not be thick but by God I am heartless, and the sight of bum face emoting on the tele did nothing to alter my disposition, not that I was inclined to be changed in the first place.

Of course lots of folk are weeping buckets already, it’s a wonder entire suburbs have not been submerged in the anguished tears of the middle classes, not that they are mourning Gordon’s pain, far from it, they are howling in grief over the fact that the fat Scotch tosser destroyed their pensions with a vindictive levy, financially raped the hard working bourgeoisie with surreptitious taxation, then went on to wreck the economy, all the while pretending that he was prudent, a fiction the gullible ranks of the press corps were ready eager and willing to go along with, despite abundant evidence to the contrary, but then that is journalism for you, never let the truth get in the way of your proprietors prejudices. And, to top it all the bastard let Harriet Harman loose on the nation, that alone would make most people bawl until Christmas 2020.

The strategy was that we would feel so sorry for the desolated soul, that we would rush out and vote for him at the earliest oportunity, well that was what the Downing Street spin doctors calculated, which only goes to prove that such creatures, anaesthetised to the realities of life beyond the perimeter of the M25, are nothing more than the faeces of the political hierarchy. So there was old bum face, he sat there in front of us trying desperately to squeeze a tear out on our behalf with an intensity which suggested he was sitting on the lavatory while trying to overcome the effects of constipation. If that charade was not tasteless enough, there was dear Sarah sitting in the audience with a camera full on her, joining in the waterworks like a re-run of the dam busters. We know Sarah loves her misogynous spouse, at least that is what she has told us, although why she should think that was necessary, or that we were interested to know in the first place is beyond my comprehension. If there is one consolation to be gleaned from this tawdry saga it is that even less people are likely to vote for bum face than ever before.

As was the bubonic plague in days of yore, this disease is catching, scarcely had Brown ceased weeping for votes than Alistair Campbell, the colostomy bag of New Labour takes up the lachrymose baton to bleat and weep over the fact that folk do not like him, fancy, at his age one would think he would be used to the fact. How thick does this hectoring thug suppose we are? This is the not so wilting violet who pushed government scientist David Kelly into committing suicide. Campbell was Tony Blair’s Tyrell, the man Blair licensed to commit the sins he did not have the guts to undertake himself, Campbell was and remains a psychotic bully with a mouth resembling a blocked lavatory, and we are supposed to feel sympathy for this lout? Give me strength.

But we are not finished yet folks, oh no, alas, there is more to come, Dinkie Davie, the Romulus Augustalus of the Conservative Party, determined not to be left off the band wagon, bags a camera to tell us of his anguish at the loss of his son, well I am sure he was devastated at the passing of his little boy, we all have bereavements in our lives. Not so long ago I lost my pet hamster, did I go on the tele to bawl for Britain and beg the public to go out and buy my books? No, but that was just be cause no one would have me, but that is not the issue, I stiffened my upper lip, put the remains of the hamster in the recycle bin and got on with my life, as one does.

Could I be the only one to feel the whole tribe of politicians and their hangers on are due their comeuppance? I genuinely feel that come the next election the nomenclatura of the British establishment will be given a pasting by the electorate, and Nigel Farage and Nick Griffen will form the next government, then Brown and co really will have something to cry about, and so will the rest of us. Plus ca change, plus ca la meme chose.

ARE THEY TAKING THE SWISS?

Cuckoo. No, I am not talking about clocks, the subject up for dissection is the Swiss, they are not just cuckoo, the entire nation is up the creek, on top of the Alps, and off it’s bleeding trolley. The Swiss, God assoil them for their lack of wits are a generic testimony of what democracy can do to a country if taken seriously by it that countries ruling class. The Swiss have referenda on anything and everything, I would not be surprised to find out that they had held a referendum on the criminalisation of picking ones nose in the street, come to think of it they probably have. The trouble with democracy is that if taken to it’s logical boundaries the voters will think that their opinions matter and that those said opinions must be deferred to by the rulers. This is all absurd, as everyone who is capable of thinking and breaking wind at the same time, knows that the most successful democracies are those where they who have won the election, stick two fingers up to the voters and tell them to get stuffed until the next time their votes are required. And provided that all political parties in the system obey the rules, it works magnificently, just look at Britain if you wish to see an example of this system in eternal operation.
Now with the Swiss it is an entirely different proposition, the moist ridiculous proposals routinely get passed into law, principally because eighty five percent of any population is certifiably thick and will fall for any daft notion without even thinking of the consequences, not that they are capable of so doing in the first place. Naturally I do not expect you trusting souls to take my words at face value. Evidence you cry. Coming up folks, along with a piece of Toblerone my dears.
Let us start with the exercising of ones bodily functions, a normal enough activity in most societies, not in Switzerland, at least not after the hour of 10PM. Allow me to clarify this, it’s not to say that you are forbidden enjoy the relief of a jimmy riddle after the stated time, but if you are a male, you can not stand up and spray after the magic hour. But how would anyone know that you were transgressing? I can only assume that the national Swiss pastime is standing at the partition walls of their apartments with a stethoscope listening in on the neighbours to make sure they are not having a piss out of hours. I suppose it would not be too bad if one lived on the Swiss borders, imagine the scene, three minutes past ten on a dark and moonless evening, within spitting distance of the witching hour.
“Hans, Where the ‘ell do you think you are going at this time of night you long streak of piss?”
“Not to worry Gretel my petal, I’m just nipping over to Germany for a slash”. Where our hero stands amongst the cabbages and peas.
But the absurdities of Swiss life do not end there my darling readers, they have scarcely begun. Take plants, according to the burghers of Zurich or wherever, plants have feelings, and, ipso facto, if they have feelings they have rights, I kid you not, in the Alpine paradise you can be done for picking a bunch of daffs, snatching a daffodil from it’s nurturing sod is cruel, and you must not be cruel to plants, it’s not nice, not nice at all. But there are greater ramifications here, imagine the scene, there you are strolling down the street in Geneva enjoying a bag of chips when the local plod pounces, lo and behold, you are arrested for committing GBH on spuds, and if you had a bit of fish to go with it, well, that just complicates the issue as fish have rights too.
It is not only fish that is in question here, not only do animals have rights, they are entitled to legal representation, so if fido takes a chunk out of the post man’s arse then the mutt can claim a lawyer to represent him. And don’t even think of getting a budgie, you have to have at least two, as one bird, all on his lonesome is a crime as he might get lonely. You have to laugh at all this nonsense, but in Switzerland that is probably against the law as well as practically everything else.
So as I said, this is where democracy gets you. Tell folks they can have what they want and invariably end up with what they deserve. But for all it’s imperfections, I would put up with the Swiss system if it led to the expulsion from public life of bum faced Brown, even if it meant I could not take a leak after ten at night.

KEEPING ABREAST OF THE NATION.

No. I am not talking current affairs here, I am not banging on about bum faced Brown and his entourage of political pimps all poxed to the eyeballs with political correctness. I am not here to discourse on the ills of the nation, while keeping my readership abreast of the doings of the great and the dodgy. No sir, this is all about tits. You know, tits, Knockers, bristols, them bouncy things you’d bump into if you were to attempt to shake hands at a distance with Dolly Parton.
As usual I am digressing, an activity at which I am inordinately good, but, in the interests of clarity I shall take myself in hand and get down to the nitty gritty as they do not say in the posh parlours of Islington. This is all about breast feeding in public, or to be more specific the demands made by the hairy arsed lesbians of the feminist tendency who tend to feel that giving suck in public to their in vitro fertilised bastards makes an enormous contribution to gelding the males of the nation. The fact that this hoped for imposition on the nations women is not in the best of taste would never occur to these harpies.
I don’t think the women of Britain would be in favour of this ritual exhibitionism, after all there is a time and a place for everything, breast feeding is perfectly natural, but then so is evacuating ones bowels, but society, not to mention the law, would take a dim view of anyone who took it upon himself to have a dump in the middle of Oxford Street on a Saturday morning, so why should it be acceptable for certain women to whip out their tits on a whim at any public venue of their choosing?
Now do not be fooled into thinking that the women of this benighted land of ours are desperate to display their dugs in every street corner Starbucks, far from it, most females would be horrified at the prospect of such lurid exhibitionism, what would the neighbours say were they to be spotted titivating the punters at Tesco? Might just as well do a fan dance on the steps of the town hall. All this hullabaloo is an enthusiasm of the metropolitan sisterhood, who have crafted a complete absence of good taste into an imagined virtue. But these women are representative of nothing more significant than their own narrow obsessions with turning the glories of womanhood into a slatternly mass of females with bawling brats hanging off sagging tits and talking claptrap in posh accents.
As a man, at least, I was the last time I looked, I can not but look askance at these latest posturings of the Harriet Harman tendency, and the only advice I wish to give them is to follow the example of the little Dutch boy, and to go away and stick a finger in a dyke.