Tuesday, 2 February 2010


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.

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