Thursday 9 June 2011

YASMIN ALIBHAI-BROWN.

Yasmin Alibhai-Brown, you know, the bitch on the broomstick of British journalism, she who must not be argued with lest one be accused of racism, not that such a charge would worry me. Buggerall-Brown has made a career of biting the hand which feeds it and expects to be cheered to the rafters for doing so, the ungrateful cow is as smug as a well turned arse on a gay pride march.
The hectoring old besom came to this country just before the expulsion of the Asians from Uganda, and seeing which way the wind was blowing, promptly married a British passport, as one does, and from that day to this has never forgiven us for being so accommodating, neither have I come to that.
Buggerall-Brown has been described as being the stupidest woman in Britain, sharing the accolade with Diane Abbot, another harridan who blew in from God knows where to lambaste us for our tolerance, together they make up the Dolly Sisters of the race relations farrago, that pair ought to open a bawdy house in Brick Lane, offering halal sex to the brotherhood, getting ahead with Islam so to speak.
Brown’s trademark is anti racism, but this is a heavily qualified term because the woman never lets slip an opportunity to sneer at the poor old native Brits and their traditions, but then in the world of Buggerall-Brown and her mates, the only racists are a whiter shade of pale, the woman will not be satisfied until our Muslim friends have bred themselves into the majority and are leading us off to the gas ovens.
Like all of her kind, darling Yasmin is very good at dishing it out but when it comes to taking it, well that is a different proposition alltogether, offend old Buggerall-Brown and you are more than likely to find plod feeling your collar, as Gareth Compton found out to his cost. Gareth, tongue in cheek suggested Buggerall-Brown should be stoned. What’s wrong with that? Some people just do not have a sense of humour, personally if such an event should come to pass I would be first in the queue with me bag of brick and a jam doughnut to fortify myself, but, I digress. Gareth was arrested, at night of course, after all this is politically correct Britain and Stalinist principles must be adhered to. The outcome was predictable, Gareth was suspended from the Conservative Party, always ready willing and eager to throw one of it’s members to the race relations wolves. Brown was in her element, striding through the airwaves, Nemesis with a tampax, not that she would need one at her age, demanding vengeance, and retribution for the remarks of the hapless councillor.
Now before you good folks say that miracles do not happen, I have news for you. Despite all expectations to the contrary, the CPS dismissed the case, thus depriving Buggerall-Brown the chance of a racist rant from the witness box, and Gareth Compton was free to continue with his life, up to a point. It should come as no surprise that Councillor Compton has now stood down as a representative of the people, and his chances of a political career are as substantial as the survival of a snow ball in hell. Well, what would you expect?
As for Buggerall-Brown she continues on her merry way, unchallenged by common sense or a consideration of her hosts. I rather think she should be stoned, or at least given a one way ticket back to where she came from.

Monday 23 May 2011

THE ISLAMIC REPUBLIC OF TOWER HAMLETS.

The election has gone, the votes have been fiddled and the dead have been returned to their graves, that is until the next election, when, stiff with boredom they will once more be resurrected, thereby to enrich the democratic process. In the meantime things have returned to normal in Tower Hamlets where the Third World comes to enjoy the unparalled benefits system, and sue the natives for racism when they are short of the price of a World cruise.
Here in the Borough life in all it’s rich diversity can be sampled, provided of course that you are not expecting to find any white Anglo Saxon protestants, there are limits to the tolerance that can be expected from an illegal immigrant, so the authorities make sure there are not too many of the native species on display at any one time.
The Sheiks and Sultans of Whitechapel have not as yet got around to introducing Sharia law, much to the chagrin of the Archbishop of Canterbury who thinks the best way to save his church is to slit its throat rather as if it were a lamb being slaughtered according to Halal rites. But, fret ye not, like Dominique Strauss-Kahn, Sharia will come, and there will be beheadings in Altub Ali Park on Friday mornings, which the metropolitan intelligentsia, anxious as ever to avoid giving offence would undoubtedly describe as a little local culture. You could say stone the crows to all of this, but stone the queers would be nearer the mark as gays will not be tolerated, and they will certainly not be awarded seventy two rent boys when they get to paradise.
This bodes well for Cornish hoteliers. These folk as we all know are banned from banning gays from their premises, they can now emigrate to Brick Lane and pitch their tents slap bang in the middle of Sharia land. In that neck of the woods they can set up shop, stick a notice in the window announcing ‘No poofs in the parlour’, and that’s it. No one would dare to sue them. Of course they would have to change their names to Patel or some such, but to paraphrase the French King Henri IV ‘A buggery free Brick lane is worth a Patel’.
In all honesty I should issue a warning here, the local mutawah is diligently enforcing it’s intolerance in direct proportion to it’s medieval ignorance and threatening to cut the throat of any bint not bubble wrapped to the eyeballs in a burkah. Hardly enlightened behaviour this, telling women how they can dress, but hell, they probably got their ideas from the French, and one must not forget that they are ethnic minorities and should be allowed a certain amount of rope, enough to hang the rest of us, egged on by the commission for racial equality, a body which sees it’s remit as an obligation to bite the hand that feeds it.
The new mayor has taken to his elevated position like a duck to water, swanning around the streets of Whitechapel in a motorcade with outriders. Strewth it is only a matter of time before the old poseur is carried about on a sedan chair like the Popes used to be. There is nothing like a whiff of power to turn a fool into a complete idiot.
Meanwhile life follows its merry course and public money goes down the pan so fast it does not even touch the side, there is an outfit on Whitechapel road called the Jagonari Centre where they teach such essentials to British life as how to ride a bike in a burkah. The local caterers dole out salmonella burgers safe in the knowledge that they will not be shut down (The Patel factor again). This in all its glory is multicultural England, and what in the name of god did we do to deserve it?

Tuesday 29 March 2011

GOING TITS UP DOWN AT THE NICK.

By God you need a sense of humour in this day and age although you’d be arrested if you were so indelicate to laugh at the wrong things, the sort of jokes pub comics had them in stitches with in days afore, when you could enjoy a fag and clout the missus without being banged up for the rest of your natural. I think that at this point I should confess that I am not politically correct, save a lot of explanations further down the line that will.

Now this is all about humour, laugh? You’ll have diarrhoea ‘till doomsday by the time you’ve got through this lot. Down on the Jurassic coast, often referred to as Dorset, the panjandrums of authority, starting with the police have finally lost their marbles, that’s assuming they had any in the first place, and they certainly didn’t have any balls to substitute for them. A woman police officer visited Purbeck School in Wareham to talk about a playground spat, a task vital to the security of our nation.

When she was out of the room, the right on P.C was referred to by some of the boys as P.C Nipples. Thirteen year old lads taking notice of a pair of Bristols, whatever next, at that age they should long since have been taught the superiority of homosexuality, and a proper appreciation of a nice pair of nuts. Anyway, the upshot of these remarks was that someone, probably the teacher, undoubtedly constipated with political correctness, immediately rushed off to inform the officer of what had been said about her. The PC, obviously as daft and as humourless as the teacher, set in motion the modern equivalent of an excommunication, a full bell book and candle job.

A “restorative justice conference” was called into being. Apart from the five boys and their parents round the table, there were three uniformed officers and, now get this folks, a plain clothes community safety manager, all that was missing was Jasmine Buggerall-Brown sitting in on the pow-wow and insisting the children should be charged with racism.

But there are a few questions that need to be asked, P.C nipples? Take it from me, thirteen year old lads know the difference between nipples and knockers. What was the dame wearing to illicitate such a comment? Why did such a production have to be mounted? Have they called time on common sense in that neck of the woods? And if the actions of the police are representative of a front line service then the sooner we get those cuts the better.

As the Bard so memorably said “Much ado about nothing.” Hours of time wasted, thousands of pounds down the drain, and all for the want of an old fashioned clip around the ear.

Thursday 17 March 2011

WHAT A CUNNING STUNT.

Television, especially the news programmes, could not survive the week without a plethora of surveys and studies. Making few programmes which are worth watching, the T.V. companies fall back on broadcasting the latest research of various bodies. These polemics are designed for two things only, to frighten the crap out of your archetypal couch potato, and to pressure the powers that be into handing over money to continue the said research, in most cases this amounts to nothing more than a re-hash of the gospel of the bleeding obvious.

The latest in this genre to hit a television screen near you is from a clutch of medicos and suchlike who claim that magnets can relieve menstrual pain, the mind fair boggles at the implications contained therein. I mean to say, we have all heard of a magnetic personality, but a magnetic pussy! Well, the generality of mankind know the attractions of a cunning stunt, but would it still need the additional pull of a magnet to draw attention to it.

Lets go down on the nitty gritty here, as far as I can remember, a magnet is an object shaped something like a horse shoe, naturally the size varies (It is the magnet to which I refer) but I should imagine it would have to be of reasonable size to be effective, and if that is so what about the possible embarrassments which could materialise at the most inopportune moments. Say for instance you are a model and supposed to glide elegantly down the cat walk, well you could hardly do that with a magnet stuck up your mitch, not to mention the bitchy comments that would arise from the fashion tricoteuses, such as for example.

“Second month she’s missed Anna”.

“I had noticed Sapho. You can’t walk like that with your magnet in”.

“And there was me thinking she was one of us. The bitch”.

The permutations on the theme are endless, imagine what could happen on an aircraft. The magnets could effect the instrumentation, passengers would have to be demagnetised before boarding, and British officialdom is not noted for it’s delicacy of expression except when dealing with poofs and illegal immigrants who are not portrayed in television series.

“Roll up, roll up, get yer magnets pulled ‘ere, and that means you missus, you can’t fool me, I can tell a full un.”

“Of course the odd one will get through, desperate to avoid the humiliation of the magnet check. Picture this, auntie Lil sitting in cattle class, looking forward to two weeks in Benidorm and already half cut on duty free Bailey’s. Old Lil is coming up to the change but not quite there, so she still needs her magnet, when suddenly the Captain comes on the intercom.

“What James Blunt back there is wearing her magnet?” Oh, the humiliation of it all. Where would one put one’s face, let alone anything else?

“No leave well alone, technology has it’s place but not up the rosebuds of the nation, I know we live in disturbing times but is it really necessary to make such a cunt of things.