Monday, 20 November 2017


Well folks, here we go again, Harvey Wallbanger has certainly started something. After the revelations concerning his proclivities hit the headlines, the quivering ranks of mankind have been deluged in oceans of tears, deafened by accusations of rape largely promulgated by females pissed off by the fact that their largely nonexistent talents have not been recognised or rewarded. This I admit is a somewhat cynical overview of the prevailing situation, but then, I am, as they say, a cynical git, and am more than a mite suspicious when some dame goes rushing to the press complaining she was abused by some self-important pratt thirty odd years ago in order to garner the attention her less than perceptible attributes have been able to attract. A nice pair of knockers do not a prime minister make, nota bene Angela Leadsom. Who? You may ask, have patience and read on, I assure you, all will eventually be explained with as little offence as is possible under the circumstance, which is damn all under the circumstances and considering the subject matter.

The dames of dykedom are on the rampage, with the male of the species in their sights, having just done a resounding performance with the bollocking shears on male thespians, they have turned their attentions on the alternative gender of the political class, few of whom could have been suspected of being in possession of a pair of balls in the first place which only goes to prove that life is full of surprises. Now we all know what has been going on in Hollywood, not that anyone has been surprised, after all we all know what actors are like and did not need reassurance that our suspicions were correct. No more were we astonished at the revelations concerning the political class whose concupiscence was not exactly a well kept secret. We all knew what they were up to and did not require confirmation on the six-o-clock news on a daily basis such as we have been receiving on ad nauseam and dished up as divine revelation.

So, one has to ask the question. Why all the fuss? Simple, the Brits poor saps like nothing more than a sex scandal, to them a dose of moral outrage is as good as a wank in the dark and, as, an added bonus, socially acceptable. Nothing like a good tut tut on the doorstep with the neighbours to make one feel morally superior, which of course is what all this fuss is about.

There has been a hell of to do over some politico, his name I do not remember and can not be bothered to look up, who is accused of watching porn on his computer. Shock horror mes braves. So the bloke was having a bit of second-hand rumpy pumpy on the net, it is not as if he was doing a Spacey with the boys in the chorus or asking the eighty year old tea lady to demonstrate one of the positions, lumbago permitting. As did happen in Salem Massachusetts, innocence is no bar to being hung, indeed, innocence is totally irrelevant, to be accused in the first place is sufficient proof of guilt.

The latest contre temps concerns Andrea Leadsom, who? Do not worry, the woman will be forgotten long before you will have managed to remember her name so there is no point in bothering to make the attempt. Suffice it to know that she has initiated another squawk fest and has hit pay dirt in the form of Sir Michael Fallon’s head, regular Salome ain’t she?

Mrs L claimed Fallon had used naughty words in her presence, the woman was shocked rigid by this experience, so shocked that it took five years before she could articulate her outrage, but then better late than never. Every cloud ha a silver lining so at least we now know that Sir Michael is not bent, not that one can be entirely sure of that in this day and age, but, we will give the chap the benefit of the doubt, for the time being anyway.

Sir Michael had suggested to Leadsom that he needed somewhere to warm his hands, the dirty minded cow took offence, god knows what she was thinking of, perhaps he only wanted a pair of gloves, but that explanation was far too innocent to be effective, no. Sweet Angie, meek and not so mild, went running to the Prime Minister to demand Fallon be sacked. Naturally the silly bitch obliged, the sisterhood must stand together, Fallon was out and Leadsom got untold hours on the telle parading her martyrdom. The moral of this tale is simple. If in the presence of Andrea Leadsom never under any circumstances forget that while cold hands are a prerequisite for making pastry, but not for feeling up Mrs L.

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