HARK THE HERALD ROZZERS SING.

Now I know that you who live in the real world, the one where you spend all day stacking shelves in Tesco for a bleeding pittance, and not a denizen of luvviedom where for ridiculous amounts of dosh you stand in front of a camera and fart for a living while pretending to be intelligent, in short the folk who get the bus to work, that’s right, you lot. In short the sort who have to rely on common sense to propel them through the rigours of the daily grind without the guidance of the guardian newspaper and the sustenance of half a dozen skinny lattes. Getting there? I am of course referring to the common sods of this benighted nation, the ones who voted to leave the EU and think changing their underwear more than once a month is socially pretentious.

This offering is chiefly concerned with culture. Not something which suffuses my readership with enthusiasm, but you are going to get some all the same, it will do you good. Not only will it do you good but will illuminate the idiocy to which the official class has descended and from which I fear we can not be rescued. I am referring to the events surrounding the Derbyshire Constabulary Male Voice Choir. Now what, you may ask is wrong with that? Nothing of course, but then we live in the real World, unlike the pillock who occupies the post of Chief Constable of Derbyshire, this shining intellect has axed the choir because there are no women in their ranks. No women in a male voice choir? Scandalous, not only that but there are no gender benders, you know, the dopey pricks pretending to be women, which are all the rage these days, especially in the corridors of power where it is practically mandatory to pretend to have nothing between ones legs while offering irrefutable proof of having nothing between ones ears.

Where will all this end? Alas I can not answer that, well I could but I am attempting to keep this as decent as possible. The root of the problem is the individual who saunters through the upper ranks of the police force under the name of Peter Goodman, there’s a laugh for a start. Considering his stance on this matter perhaps he should change his name, how about Diane Abbot? Or even Shirley Temple. The fellow, if indeed one is permitted to use such a gender specific term in these ultra censorious times, demonstrates with debilitating clarity what is necessary to rise to the top in the ranks of law enforcement, and catching burglars is obviously not a requirement of the job, as indulging in such mundane activities as protecting the public would definitely detract from such essential duties as adjudicating on the sexual composition of police choirs.

The fact that there are no women in a male voice choir is obviously a bone of contention, but there is another gripe lurking in the organ loft, the buggers are all white. White. I ask you? What are those warbling coppers thinking of? After all you can not, in this politically correct day and age have a coon free choir. How embarrassing for the Chief Constable, no wonder he shut the joint down. It has in all fairness to be pointed out that the choir has raised £750k for charity but that is no excuse for not having a compliment of one legged black lesbians in its ranks, plus a couple of gender benders, just for balance you understand.

It has been most remiss of the choir to allow this situation to develop, knowing as we do the feelings of Mr. Goodman, so eloquently expressed for public consumption, which I will encapsulate for the benefit of my readership, most of whom are probably on benefits themselves, not that I am trying to be elitist you understand, heaven forefend I should do such an unfeeling thing, but, I digress.

Copper Goodman has stated unreservedly that he does not want to be represented by a tribe of old white men, perfectly understandable, but what I find difficult to comprehend is while the man displays obvious distaste for old white men, he is perfectly happy to live off them, for the taxes these deplorable white men pay, funds his wages. Funny old world innit.

THE WORKING CLASS CAN KISS MY ARSE.

Oh joy. Oh rapture. What you may ask is it that has excited my enthusiasm? And transformed this placid, unemotional being, the face you all know which I habitually present to the World, into this incontinent bundle of irrational joy spilling onto these pages. Yes, I am about to fulfil my most cherished ambition, after a lifetime of yearning, I can at last join the Communist Party. You will undoubtedly wonder why I have waited so long to requite my love for the comrades. Easy, there was no way I could have associated myself with all those common pricks, but now it is all change over at commie land, and about time to.

The Communist Party has finally surrendered to its rightful masters, the proles have been booted out and the upper classes have taken control of the organisation, which is the natural state of affairs, do not forget the example of the hereditary Russian nobleman Vladimir Ulyanov, he put the plebs in their place and kept them there, which is as things should be. Never forget that the lower classes are for talking about not listened to. Listen to the buggers and you will end up with democracy, and we all know where that ends up, don’t we boys and girls? and them what can’t make their minds up, stop reading and join the Lib Dems, who do not think but read the Guardian instead.

This change in direction was signalled recently by a jamboree held at the Marx memorial library, the star attraction was the opener by Susan Mitchie who kicked things off with the phrase “We the working class”. Now Sue, the Madame Roland of the movement has a few other names etched on her belt, one of which is Dorinthea. Dorinthea, how working class can you get? You do not gat many Dorintheas down Bethnal green way, but hell this is the Communist Party of Great Britain and we all know how the Brits worship a touch of class, providing of course it is the genuine article and not some Islington ponce with delusions of grandeur, that lot are better off with Jeremy Corbin over at the labour party, but as for our Dorinthea, she is the genuine article, her grandfather was a baron and her old woman left fifty million smackers in her will.

What you may ask would such an individual know about the working class? Plenty. With such a background the woman would have grown up surrounded by servants, I doubt that she has ever changed a roll of bog paper by herself in her entire life. Believe me she knows all about the working class and she would not hesitate to sack a flunky who forgot to bow when she walked into the room. You have to give it to Dorinthea and her ilk, they know how to keep the lower orders in their place, which is entirely as it should be.

Then there is the husband, no horny son of toil he, the bugger’s in Debrett for god’s sake, and works in Jeremy Corbin’s office. Talk about incest, but then that’s the upper classes for you, keep it in the family as the tradition goes, they never could resist a bit of inbreeding, screwing each other while screwing the country. By the way she gave her better half the elbow in 2016.

So, there you have it, Socialism a la Brit, nothing like it anywhere else, for which we should all be truly thankful. But now the Communist party has given itself a social hoovering I feel confident That I can join up. The only problem is would they have me? The comrades are now so posh, and here am I, as common as dog’s bollocks at Crufts.

KISS ME QUICK SHIT FACE.

Yes, I know that sounds vulgar, but there is no other way to describe the foundations of this piece because that is what it is all about, faeces, which is a posh word for crap. What we are addressing here is the uses to which the said substance is put, and not on the garden, it also addresses the extremes to which female vanity will go in pursuit of sexual allure, although with all this me too bollocks on the rampage one is forced ask why they bother in the first place, give a bloke the come hither, and when the poor sap responds in the time honoured fashion, accuse him of rape. Modern life ain’t half strange and getting stranger, after all what is the point of tarting oneself up if a man is debarred from sampling the goods? Daft does not even begin to describe this situation, but then when did reason ever enter the realms of sex. There, now I have said it, pricked the bubble of this discussion so to speak, and from here on in all will go with a bang.

What you may ask has the faecal substance got to do with a bit of hankey pankey? Everything in fact, it is the fons at origo of sexual attraction. I am not for one Minuit suggesting that having a crap on a dull day turns one into a rampant lothario, but it is a by product of those urges. Why do women wear make up? To make themselves attractive to a prospective mate, or, if you prefer, to facilitate a quickie behind the local Odeon if time is of the essence and connubial bliss is too much of a gamble. OK so they put on the slap and take off their knickers before sallying forth for the kill, nothing new there Now we get to the nub of the matter, cosmetics, what is in them? That’s right dear ones, shit. The word is often used loosely and out of context, such as, “That tofu and quinoa salad from Waitrose was a load of shite” not that shoppers at the said store would use such coarse language, but you get the gist of things. I will keep you in suspense no longer, you may think cosmetics are a load of crap, and you would be perfectly justified to do so, because that is exactly what they contain, shit.

This is not fake news, I am not taking the wee wee by recklessly talking crap, this is pure fact, heaven forefend that I would dump on the sensibilities of my readership, it is beyond dispute that when you buy some face cream you do not get a fly in the ointment, but it does come with a turd in the pot. There, I have said it, and I rest my reputation on the veracity of what I have wrote. It is the Gospel truth.

At this point in my narrative it is necessary to exercise a little caution. I do not for one moment infer that posh dives like Harrods flog adulterated slap to their august clientele, for while such people might talk nothing but shite they would undoubtedly draw the line at plastering the stuff on their faces, faeces for faces would not go down too well in the drawing rooms of Knightsbridge. Nor I imagine would the manager of Harrods be too keen on being told to scour the streets with a bucket and shovel, scooping up tomorrow’s special offer. No, all this happens at the common end of the supply chain.

So, where would one go to obtain a supply of this wondrous product? Your local market, where the stalls are loaded with crap and nobody expects anything better, which is just as well as they would be unlikely to get it, although the market trader will give you a smile and assure you that it will make you look ten years younger, omitting to inform you that you will smell like an outside lav.

At this point we must consider the lads, there he is, gazing with rampant lust at the object of his desires before planting a good old fashioned smacker on her lips, nibbling frantically at her face while anticipating the glories to come. Poor sap, if he had known what she had been plastering her face with he would either turn queer or promptly join a monastery.

There is nothing new under the Sun, all what I have said has gone before. Take that ultimate siren, Cleopatra. In the ancient world a manuscript was published cataloguing the ladies beauty secrets, she should have kept them to herself. Recommended as a hair tonic was mouse crap. Well. If old Cleo was rubbing mouse shit into her barnet then it was no wonder Marc Antony gave her the bums rush.

ABIDE WITH ME.

And with these words the Good lord invited his followers, when their days of tribulation and toil have wound to their conclusion to join with him in the fields of Elysium for an eternity of harping and hymn singing. Well, there are plenty of simple souls who are only too willing to fall for this tripe, although I cannot but feel that the prospect of enduring such a cacophony of sanctimonious righteousness would encourage the average person to sin till they dropped in order to avoid a permanent slot in the heavenly band of hope. After all, not all that many mortals can either sing or play a harp so why should it be expected the angels would be any more talented. The promise is that if you are good you will ascend to the hereafter, nothing is said about reaping the ability to twang a harp. However there are those down here who are determined to get up there irrespective of the cost.

What in God’s name is he banging on about this time? You may be wondering, puzzle ye not, an explanation is on the way, whether or not you believe it is another matter, but I do assure you I worship at the feet of veracity, or to put it in the vernacular, I ain’t frying no porkies. As in most situations it all boils down to the middle classes, yes, it’s them again. That lot are everywhere, there is not a cranny of existence into which they have not stuck their beaks, including the hereafter, that’s right folks they are storming the Pearly Gates.

Now suicide in this country is against the law, I cannot fathom why, if the type of person as featured on the Jeremy Kyle show is indicative of the generality of the population, then all I can say is that the sooner they are dispatched to the hereafter then the better for the rest of us left down here. Naturally I am talking about the lower orders of society, not you lot who digest my offerings and are of an entirely different strata of humanity, and who go to the opera, vote labour and would rather die before committing a social faux pas such as farting in mixed company. So down to business, what is all this about? And if you are easily offended then what the hell are you doing on this site in the first place?

This piece is all about the lengths to which the middle classes will go to in order dance the fandango with the Almighty, or to be more precise, the amounts they are prepared to spend in order get the opportunity to do so. No, I have not been on the giggle juice or attempting to pull your plonkers, assuming that is that you have not had them chopped off to comply with all this transgender bollocks. Now where was I? Ah yes, Heavens above and how to get there. Ten grand to join the band, that is the going rate.

Yes I kid you not, that amount is what you have to pay that clinic in Switzerland to guide you over to thy great redeemer. In plain English that’s what they charge to help you top yourself, a bit steep I would say but that’s the Swiss for you, why could not the bastards stick to cuckoo clocks? Come to that why could not them posing middle class sods just jump off Tower Bridge with a brick around their necks. And yes I have an answer to that last one.

It all boils down to snobbery, and there is no greater snob than your middle class snob. Jump off Tower Bridge as per my suggestion and what would the neighbours say? Well, that’s a no brainer if ever there was one, everyone in the street would assume you were too tight to fork out for the cost of topping yourself in a fancy Alpine death dive, or, what would be even worse, that you could not afford to do so, why, that would be a case of social death if ever there was one, appearances are everything in those circles.

Now we have established that one cannot go triping off to Switzerland if one is not a fully paid up member of the social establishment, but I ask you, why would these people want to do so in the first place? After all they are all professional atheists, so why would they pay ten grand to break bread with the Almighty? More important what would they do after barging through the pearly Gates as if they going to the Harrods sale, I doubt there would be a joyous reception awaiting them, especially if they ask Jesus if he has gone transgender and if not why not?

ONCE MORE WITH FEELING.

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.

CITIZEN KHAN.

I must state that I am not suffering confusion over the iconic film by Orson Wells, this is nothing to do with Hollywood or stars of the silver screen. No. There is no mix up, for the individual who is the object of my attentions is not Citizen Kane, but Khan, you know, the publicity hungry prat currently masquerading as Mayor of London. Not the revered Lord Mayor whose provenance stretches seven hundred years into antiquity, but the designer wog who exists for the sole purpose of squandering the tax payer’s cash on projects conceived only to flatter his vanity. Although one should not be too censorious, he gives us of his all, expending his considerable energies on what he does best, which is frankly fuck all, or at least nothing of use or benefit to this our benighted capital of London Town.

Now, I have flattered the man and his abilities enough, my tolerance and kindness can only be stretched so far and their boundaries have now been breached, so no more kind words for the individual to whom this monologue is directed. The office of elected mayor exists only to bung financial rewards into the wallets of clapped out politicians too incompetent and idle to go out and undertake a proper job, a charge which could equally be levied at the entire tribe of politcos for whom honesty equates with a dose of the clap.

Our hero loves a bandwagon, can’t resist one if truth be told, not that truth and Sadiq Khan have ever formed any sort of bond. However the man is incapable of letting one pass him by on the high street without jumping on it, especially if it is running in support of some fashionable cause beloved of the urban intelligentsia whose enthusiasms are of no interest to the toiling masses whose taxes they rely on to pay for their generous subventions. But do not complain, that is democracy in action, you might get to vote for the bastards, but by God you pay through the nose for the privilege. Make no mistake, old man Khan costs us a pretty packet, and in return we are expected to be grateful for his attentions.

So. What exactly is the shyster up to. For a start there is air pollution, despite the fact that city life has never been healthier and we are no longer expected to walk the streets ankle deep in horse crap, but we must not let a seasoning of common sense get in the way of screwing the motorist to enter central London as Khan is proposing. The Guardian reading luvvies adore this sort of posturing, it makes them feel superior, especially as they can afford the charges having sheltered their large incomes in tax avoidance schemes.

Oh, I have not finished yet, not by a long chalk, fear ye not, there is more to come. Our fearless social warrior has declared war on wood burning stoves. Now I have never come across a wood burning stove, nor have I met anyone who has, admittedly I do not move in the social circles where such affectations are practiced, although I was rather under the impression that wood burning contraptions had not been seen since the Romans waved us ta ta and took them home with them some sixteen hundred years ago. Still it makes a damn good headline, and that is all that matters. In politics one must be seen to be compassionate, and if ones compassion causes distress to large numbers of people, well that life innit.

I cannot for the life of me work out why the likes of Sadiq khan have been foisted on us, it is not as if we are unable to navigate the vicissitudes of this world without his assistance and guidance, but there you are, we are saddled with the preposterous sod. Gawd ‘elp us. Now I will take a tour of the history of this political indulgence, the Mayoralty of London. First there was Ken Livingston, an adenoidal Marxist, an individual who has never done a job of work in his life but still manages to live high on the hog whilst acting like one. Ken is a weird cove whose hobbies are newts and wolloping his missus, ah well one must make allowances for prominent Marxists as the rules of society do not apply to them, which makes me think that if I turn Marxist will I be allowed to wallop the missus and get away with it? Are we not all equal?

After Ken we had Boris. No discernable improvement there. Bone idle and the national buffoon is the best I can manage on this subject, the man is all balls, not that I have seen his balls you understand but enough women have, even his wife sees them on the odd occasion when they are not employed elsewhere.

Back to sadiq. His latest wheeze is to take the licence to ferry people around the capital from the firm Uber, thus putting thousands of drivers out of work, and up to their eyeballs in debt trying to pay off the cost of the cars they bought and inconveniencing hundreds of thousands of the public who use their services. You have to give it to the man, he certainly knows how to stuff things up. How will our hero go down in the annals of London? After the taxi fiasco he will undoubtedly be labelled, London’s Uber Mensch.

SEND FOR THE THERAPIST FIDO.

There comes a time in the life of man, when having scanned the newspapers and digested the latest inanities of Hollywood royalty, that preening, prancing troupe of marginally talented individuals who are convinced they have the solution to all the problems of the world and wear their hearts on their sleeves while their brains are in their arse, supposing that is that they possess any in the first place, and digested the latest offering of tripe on the TV before throwing a brick at the contraption. Having done all that one is tempted to utter the immortal epithet, “Now I’ve seen it all”. Believe me dear ones, you ain’t seen nothing yet, there is more and dafter to come.

Everyone knows the Brits are barmy over their animals, especially the family canine, so am I, come to that, in fact I even make pets of the mice in my house, but I draw the line at this, leaving a bit of cheese out for Mickey is both sane and rational in comparison to what our dog lovers are up to, you couldn’t make it up, believe me, I know what I am talking about, I am a dab hand at making things up. Not here you understand, this is as kosher as a pork butchers in Golders Green.

The nub of the issue is that some people feel their pets are picking up conditions of medical significance from their owners, including obsessive compulsive disorder. I would not recognise such a disability in a human, let alone a dog, but then I am a normal cove living in Whitechapel, not some cerebrally spayed prat from places like Hampstead where loony middle class types are germinated prior to them being let loose on the generality of the population.

So, there you are, sitting in your leafy suburb, insulated from the realities of life and with nothing to do having just demonstrated with that Socialist Luvvie, Emma Thompson, against the opening of a branch of Tesco. After all you can not have anything as common as Tesco in Hampstead, just think, allow that to happen and the next thing you know, the working classes will be turning up to shop there. After all empathising with the lower orders is one thing but lining up with the buggers to buy a bag of spuds is another kettle of fish altogether, they might start praising Brexit. So, what does one do to fill the void in your life? Simple, send the family mutt to the head shrink.

You are not in need of specs, what I have just mentioned is the current craze amongst they who dwell amongst the dope sniffers of North London and regard the realities of life as a vulgar intrusion on a par to earning money as opposed to inheriting it. Now, let us get down to the Winalot. There is a strand of humanity which feels we transmit to our canine friends our own depressing obsessions, such as the afore mentioned obsessive compulsive order, so, what is there to do? Get a psychiatrist of course, what else would one do under such circumstances? Well you could always chuck the mutt a bone, but, bear in mind we are talking Hampstead here where a dose of piles is enough to send one scarpering to the shrink let alone a mutt who is going doolally. From whence came this nonsense? Answer, Paw Squad, an outfit headed up by a dame known as Sarah Page-Jones. There you have it folks, a hyphen.

If one is going to talk shite while expecting to be heeded then one has to be in possession of a hyphen which is the indelible mark of a senior member of the socialist tendency, a fraternity which insists on a good pedigree and no brains, prime qualifications for preaching to the lower orders who can be relied on not to argue with a hyphen. What is wrong with these bloody women? Can they not be satisfied with turning their three year old sons into girls, must they now start on the defenceless family dog. What has poor Fido done to deserve this? Being hectored by a shrink too idle to earn an honest crust, and talked to as if he was as daft as his owner. Stand up for your rights Fido, bite the sods, they’ll probably have you put down but I rather think that would be preferable to being marched off to a shrink every time you throw a wobbler.