Cometh the hour, cometh the man. Unfortunately, for we in this benighted nation of
ours there is no man to succour us in our perilous times, there are men at the pinnacle
of what could comically be described as our democracy, but in actual fact they are
nothing more than a bunch of bloody old women, not that such a term would be
considered acceptable in modern society where the function of men is to be charged
with rape by drunken tarts who change their minds over the culpability of the male
after having had a damn good screw. So, we are left with Teresa May, who could
hardly be compared to Julius Caesar not that she has ever heard of the fellow, after
all the dame is in receipt of a modern education, which if nothing else guarantees that
one can face the world confident of knowing nothing whatsoever about the place. A
perfect qualification for a politician.
Mrs. May is Prime Minister of England, a position in life she acquired by offending
nobody other than the electorate, who, we all know to our cost, count for nothing in
the real world of politics, which is why it is safe to hold elections every now and
again, as the results if unpalatable to the ruling elite can always be ignored safe in the
knowledge that the buggers will not know the difference. The same situation
prevailed in ancient Rome, the mob was kept quiet with a plentiful supply of bread
and circuses, whereas now we give them the dole coupled with endless episodes of
brain destroying soap operas, nothing changes does it? They play, we pay.
Daisy May is now lady of all she surveys, as the daughter of a clergyman the woman
probably feels that Jesus wants her for a sunbeam, perhaps the old boy does but he is
probably the only one of that persuasion, I do not think the Conservative party is
singing too many hosannas in her praise other than they who wish to scupper the
brexit process, which is why they voted her in as leader in the first place. To have
done otherwise would have given the voters the impression that their opinions
counted, and god knows where that might have led to. It is all well and good talking
about democracy but putting the concept into practice is another kettle of fish
altogether, a thing not to be tolerated in a freedom loving society.
Our glorious Prime Minister has just returned from Florence, home of the spiritual
godfather of politics, Machiavelli, an apt choice as the purpose of the shindig was the
interment of brexit, which will be vigorously denied despite all the evidence to the
contrary. Mrs. May undoubtedly sees herself as the modern Boadicea, but we all
know what happened to that old broad, only with only a modern education to fall back
on, the mistress of the shoe shops remains in blissful ignorance of the fate awaiting
her.
It is said that all political careers end in tears, they do not, they end with a stab in the
back, as will assuredly be the fate of mother T. Who will yield the knife? For Caesar
the coup de grace came from Brutus, the big B of his time, consumed by resentment
and ambition. If you are of an historical disposition would put your money on Boris
doing the dirty deed. But, mark my words, Brutus stuck the knife in, but he did not
last too long afterwards. Enjoy your domination of the Forum Teresa, it ain’t going to
last, and you will be replaced by another charlatan, ‘twas ever so.
Saturday, 23 September 2017
Friday, 15 September 2017
FEMINISM IS ALL BALLS.
Of course one should not say such things as this, indisputably it would be considered
as being derogatory towards women, the fact that most men would agree with this
statement counts for nothing in the arse about face world of political correctness
which as we all know is the Nicene creed of modern life, and God help any who are
so intellectually incontinent as to question this unassailable fact. Well, I am
incontinent therefore I am about to sally forth in defence of the male of the species,
most of whom have no balls, as those useful tools have been swiped by the harpies of
the metropolitan dykehood.
Where do we start on this inexhaustible subject of which nobody of any sense had ever heard of until recently? A good place to kick off is Miriam Gonzalez, who is she? You may ask, anything to do with Mrs Pankhurst? nothing so exalted, the lady referred to is none other than the missus of Nick Clegg, a clapped out British politico who was given the bums rush by the electorate at the last election. This dippy bird is a lawyer, well what else would you expect? When she is not helping shady characters to evade their just deserts, she is running around looking for excuses to be outraged over, usually some perceived slight to feminine supremacy.
Mrs Clegg always gets a splash in the papers when throwing a wobbly over the iniquities of male attitudes, in the argot of the age the woman is a celebrity, but why does she enjoy all this attention? What has she done to earn such deference? The answer to that is sweet fuck all. This harridan glides to the attention of the nation on the coat tails of her old man who she castrated before the poor sap had even shuffled down the isle, if there is one thing guaranteed to send our Miriam screaming up the wall it is to be addressed as Mrs Clegg. That’s feminism for you lad, Hypocrisy in a D cup.
The lady is not alone on the rostrum populated by professional offence takers on behalf of womankind, head and shoulders above all others is the doyenne of dick destroyers, Germaine Greer herself, perpetually fulminating against the insufferable domination of men, although I seriously doubt that any man has dominated this crusading academic, or at least having tried to do so, walked away from the confrontation fully intact and in working order. Once wore hypocrisy rears its ugly head, if it were not for men, who would have heard of Germaine Greer? Oh she needs us, believe you me, if the woman had a shred of gratitude she would offer grateful thanks to the male sex for the limitless publicity their presence on the planet has afforded her no,t forgetting the shed loads of money she has made from being perpetually outraged.
One more, then I will promise to disappear into the ether and hold my peace, at least until the next time I feel the urge to sound off about the preposterous mores of contemporary life. My final vignette concerns a lady by the name of Bel Mooney, never heard of the dame? Not to worry, very few have, so, I offer one or two biographical details. Ms Mooney is an agony aunt for the Daily Mail, dispensing crap tarted up as advice to those poor souls witless enough to write to her. The lady in question, and believe me she is a Lady, television royalty no less, once married to a Dimbleby, you don’t get much royaller than that in this day and age. Unfortunately dear Bel has about as much experience of everyday life as did a French aristocrat of the anciene regime, which is why she is divorced and now wedded to fashionable causes.
Many years ago they were building a motorway near Bath, as is obligatory in such circumstances the event attracted the mandatory compliment of weeperes, wailers and assorted tree huggers. Naturally Bel was there handing out moral support by the bucketload. One of the protesters asked a favour of Mrs. Dimbleby, the answer he received was priceless. Unwilling to accede to the request, Mrs. D. fearless feminist that she was fell back on this priceless bon mot “I’ll have to ask my husband” That dear readers says it all., which proves that behind every unflinching feminist there is a strong man. As I Said at the beginning, feminism is all balls, and where the hell would they be without ours?
Where do we start on this inexhaustible subject of which nobody of any sense had ever heard of until recently? A good place to kick off is Miriam Gonzalez, who is she? You may ask, anything to do with Mrs Pankhurst? nothing so exalted, the lady referred to is none other than the missus of Nick Clegg, a clapped out British politico who was given the bums rush by the electorate at the last election. This dippy bird is a lawyer, well what else would you expect? When she is not helping shady characters to evade their just deserts, she is running around looking for excuses to be outraged over, usually some perceived slight to feminine supremacy.
Mrs Clegg always gets a splash in the papers when throwing a wobbly over the iniquities of male attitudes, in the argot of the age the woman is a celebrity, but why does she enjoy all this attention? What has she done to earn such deference? The answer to that is sweet fuck all. This harridan glides to the attention of the nation on the coat tails of her old man who she castrated before the poor sap had even shuffled down the isle, if there is one thing guaranteed to send our Miriam screaming up the wall it is to be addressed as Mrs Clegg. That’s feminism for you lad, Hypocrisy in a D cup.
The lady is not alone on the rostrum populated by professional offence takers on behalf of womankind, head and shoulders above all others is the doyenne of dick destroyers, Germaine Greer herself, perpetually fulminating against the insufferable domination of men, although I seriously doubt that any man has dominated this crusading academic, or at least having tried to do so, walked away from the confrontation fully intact and in working order. Once wore hypocrisy rears its ugly head, if it were not for men, who would have heard of Germaine Greer? Oh she needs us, believe you me, if the woman had a shred of gratitude she would offer grateful thanks to the male sex for the limitless publicity their presence on the planet has afforded her no,t forgetting the shed loads of money she has made from being perpetually outraged.
One more, then I will promise to disappear into the ether and hold my peace, at least until the next time I feel the urge to sound off about the preposterous mores of contemporary life. My final vignette concerns a lady by the name of Bel Mooney, never heard of the dame? Not to worry, very few have, so, I offer one or two biographical details. Ms Mooney is an agony aunt for the Daily Mail, dispensing crap tarted up as advice to those poor souls witless enough to write to her. The lady in question, and believe me she is a Lady, television royalty no less, once married to a Dimbleby, you don’t get much royaller than that in this day and age. Unfortunately dear Bel has about as much experience of everyday life as did a French aristocrat of the anciene regime, which is why she is divorced and now wedded to fashionable causes.
Many years ago they were building a motorway near Bath, as is obligatory in such circumstances the event attracted the mandatory compliment of weeperes, wailers and assorted tree huggers. Naturally Bel was there handing out moral support by the bucketload. One of the protesters asked a favour of Mrs. Dimbleby, the answer he received was priceless. Unwilling to accede to the request, Mrs. D. fearless feminist that she was fell back on this priceless bon mot “I’ll have to ask my husband” That dear readers says it all., which proves that behind every unflinching feminist there is a strong man. As I Said at the beginning, feminism is all balls, and where the hell would they be without ours?
Wednesday, 6 September 2017
TECHNOLOGY? DON’T GET ME STARTED.
We live in an age which worships all things technical, while being assured it is our
saviour and future, a fact embraced by all who can not think for themselves but rely
on a machine to do their thinking for them which probably the vast majority of the
human race, but then do not despair as there are those who think Elvis is alive and
well. Working as a fish and tater hawker on Whitechapel Road. If you believe that
you will believe anything, which unfortunately applies to most of the human race for
whom gullibility, as an incurable condition, has replaced bubonic plague.
Enough of this frivolity. Let’s get down to the nitty gritty of this piece before I sober up and write something sensible, worth reading and polite to my readership, so, on with the motley. I can’t stand technology, it is the bane of my life, all these computers and pass words and god alone what else, indeed it is getting to the stage where one can not get on a bus without a pass word. Admittedly I have trouble with all things technological, without doubt I have trouble switching the light on and off, nor can I stand telephones, intrusive bloody contraptions at the best of times which only ring when one is asleep or enjoying a good crap after a prolonged state of constipation. Well I have started so I will finish.
First and most obvious is those automata in supermarkets which squawk instructions at you while your are trying to figure out if your credit card is maxed out and you left the gas cooker on. They are irritating but this is just the start, things have got worse and worse, and getting a damn side worser. Is it only me who gets the impression that contact between humans is becoming an indictable offence. Phone up a supplier of a commercial product and what do you get? A bloody robot that’s what, and they are touchy sods them robots, you’d think they were human the way some of them carry on. One outfit I contacted put me though to a robot which could not understand what I was saying. Now I am a patient sort of old cove, but finally I lost my rag and started efffing and blinding at the bloody thing, what happened? Did I receive satisfaction? Did I hell, I was cut off. I ask you, cut off for cussing at a fucking robot, the indignity of it all. I think I have lived too long.
There is hardly an institution not infected by this insidious virus, bring back the Luddites, start wrecking these perverse machines which are destroying the ability of people to think and react for themselves, not that the fools could do so under the most propitious of circumstances, but at least we could enjoy the satisfaction of telling them what we think of them, or to bugger off and get an education.
Where will it all end I ask myself? The way things are going it is only a matter of time before you go to the doctors, only to be confronted by a machine and told to stick your cock in the hole and cough.
Enough of this frivolity. Let’s get down to the nitty gritty of this piece before I sober up and write something sensible, worth reading and polite to my readership, so, on with the motley. I can’t stand technology, it is the bane of my life, all these computers and pass words and god alone what else, indeed it is getting to the stage where one can not get on a bus without a pass word. Admittedly I have trouble with all things technological, without doubt I have trouble switching the light on and off, nor can I stand telephones, intrusive bloody contraptions at the best of times which only ring when one is asleep or enjoying a good crap after a prolonged state of constipation. Well I have started so I will finish.
First and most obvious is those automata in supermarkets which squawk instructions at you while your are trying to figure out if your credit card is maxed out and you left the gas cooker on. They are irritating but this is just the start, things have got worse and worse, and getting a damn side worser. Is it only me who gets the impression that contact between humans is becoming an indictable offence. Phone up a supplier of a commercial product and what do you get? A bloody robot that’s what, and they are touchy sods them robots, you’d think they were human the way some of them carry on. One outfit I contacted put me though to a robot which could not understand what I was saying. Now I am a patient sort of old cove, but finally I lost my rag and started efffing and blinding at the bloody thing, what happened? Did I receive satisfaction? Did I hell, I was cut off. I ask you, cut off for cussing at a fucking robot, the indignity of it all. I think I have lived too long.
There is hardly an institution not infected by this insidious virus, bring back the Luddites, start wrecking these perverse machines which are destroying the ability of people to think and react for themselves, not that the fools could do so under the most propitious of circumstances, but at least we could enjoy the satisfaction of telling them what we think of them, or to bugger off and get an education.
Where will it all end I ask myself? The way things are going it is only a matter of time before you go to the doctors, only to be confronted by a machine and told to stick your cock in the hole and cough.
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