This is not so much as breaking a butterfly on the wheal as Agamemnon sacrificing Iphigenia to a vengeful god. In this case it is not an innocent virgin being thrown to the wolves, rather than a wretched and inadequate pratt being slung to the wolves. I am talking about Gary McKinnon, and the overwhelming likelihood of his being extradited to America for offences committed on the sovereign territory of the United Kingdom.
McKinnon is a self obsessed fool who does not really deserve any sympathy, but that is no excuse to extradite him into the embrace of a savage penal system. We in this country give house room to rampant Islamic savages who wish us nothing but ill and are actively plotting to harm this land of ours. Some of these individuals are wanted in America, but our inglorious masters refuse to extradite these haters of the Western world on account that to do so would breach their human rights, what of the rights of Mr. McKinnon to the protection of his country, a protection so lavishly awarded to those who were not even born here.
Would France, Germany or Italy be so eager to surrender one of their own? They would not even consider doing so, and I seriously doubt that the Americans would ask such a thing, suspecting the answere they would get.
Gary made a fool of the Americans and they want revenge, quite understandable, and they are to be commended for standing up for their national interests, but is it absolutely essential to the furtherance of Anglo-British relations that we, or to be more precise, they who rule over us, to roll over and play dead whenever Washington whistles? I think not.
Of all the distasteful issues on offer here, the most poisonous is the action of those at the top of the political tree. There is Allan Johnson, the betrayer in chief, who repeatedly says he has no power to stop extradition proceedings, only one comment here, lying son of a bitch, nothing else necessary. Let us not forget Sarah Brown, so fragrant, the Mary Archer of New Labour, who met with Gary’s mother and afterwards stood in front of the cameras oozing empathy for the plight of the frantic woman, knowing full well nothing would be done, she should stick to telling us how wonderful her husband is, which is all the damn woman is any good for. And there is Gordon Brown, old bum face himself, who could, even now, stop this fiasco in it’s tracks, and chooses not to, but then why would he? Remember this is the man who gladly pours the blood of British soldiers down the drains of Afghanistan in a vain attempt to secure an invitation to the White House.
Lastly, do not forget those spineless Labour MPs who signalled their support of Gary, then when it came to a vote in the Commons, abandoned him on the orders of what laughingly passes for a government in this country. There is only one way in which to deal with these pusillanimous political time servers, and that is at the ballot box. In a few short months there will have to be an election, and when that time comes, then every MP who betrayed Gary, and by so doing also betrayed this country, should be turfed out of office and back into the obscurity which they should never have parted company. During the election campaign these individuals deserve to be heckled and hounded all the way to the polling station.
They who have with such glee thrown the hapless Gary McKinnon to the American wolf are not butterflies, but, by God, they deserve to be broken on the wheal.
Thursday 10 December 2009
Tuesday 29 September 2009
S. P.Q. R.
SPQR, an abbreviation chiselled onto Roman monuments from North Africa to Scotland. The letters stand for Senatus Populusque Romanus, which translates as The Senate and the People of Rome, and the two went hand in hand, the Senator with his immense agricultural estates and the lowest citizen on the corn dole, the one could not exist without the other.
The first principle of the Senate was leadership, especially in times of war. When the Senate declared war in the name of the Roman people, the members were obliged to play their part in the ensuing conflict. Unlike our present enlightened times, in war the Senators served with the troops, and not in the back row or behind the lines either. Command of an army, and the commanders were always Senators, meant standing in the front line of battle facing the enemy, when the Senate chose one of their number to lead a campaign, the job was no sinecure. Many of the Senatorial class, up to and including and including Consuls, lost their lives in battle, particularly in the Punic Wars.
Contrast the above with the antics of our tawdry political class, who blithely send British troops into conflicts not of our making to shed their blood in the furtherance of American commerce. Would our television studio warriors do this if their lives were put at risk by such actions? Of course not, which is just as well when you contemplate the mess they would make of things if given a military command.
The Romans arranged their political structures much better than we have managed. To put one’s Roman foot on the initial rung of the Cursus Honorum, the road to high office, it was first necessary to serve for eight years in the army. This was the sine qua non to political advancement. The Roman public official had experience of life, which is more than can be said of our modern tribunes, who seem to be chosen for office according to their closeness to puberty rather than for any experience they may have garnered in their short lives.
The Roman Senate did not pass laws, they merely proposed laws, to come into effect, those edicts had to be voted on by various committees, who in turn were voted into office by the citizenry, each of whom had the right to vote.
In twenty first century Britain, every subject of the Crown has the right to vote, but once in Parliament, our representatives are under no obligation to pay any heed to they who sent them there. So different from the system pertaining in ancient Rome, and they call this progress, no wonder history is no longer taught in schools any more.
The first principle of the Senate was leadership, especially in times of war. When the Senate declared war in the name of the Roman people, the members were obliged to play their part in the ensuing conflict. Unlike our present enlightened times, in war the Senators served with the troops, and not in the back row or behind the lines either. Command of an army, and the commanders were always Senators, meant standing in the front line of battle facing the enemy, when the Senate chose one of their number to lead a campaign, the job was no sinecure. Many of the Senatorial class, up to and including and including Consuls, lost their lives in battle, particularly in the Punic Wars.
Contrast the above with the antics of our tawdry political class, who blithely send British troops into conflicts not of our making to shed their blood in the furtherance of American commerce. Would our television studio warriors do this if their lives were put at risk by such actions? Of course not, which is just as well when you contemplate the mess they would make of things if given a military command.
The Romans arranged their political structures much better than we have managed. To put one’s Roman foot on the initial rung of the Cursus Honorum, the road to high office, it was first necessary to serve for eight years in the army. This was the sine qua non to political advancement. The Roman public official had experience of life, which is more than can be said of our modern tribunes, who seem to be chosen for office according to their closeness to puberty rather than for any experience they may have garnered in their short lives.
The Roman Senate did not pass laws, they merely proposed laws, to come into effect, those edicts had to be voted on by various committees, who in turn were voted into office by the citizenry, each of whom had the right to vote.
In twenty first century Britain, every subject of the Crown has the right to vote, but once in Parliament, our representatives are under no obligation to pay any heed to they who sent them there. So different from the system pertaining in ancient Rome, and they call this progress, no wonder history is no longer taught in schools any more.
Tuesday 11 August 2009
LET’S MAKE GORDON BROWN A WANKER.
What is he talking about, I can hear you say. Gordon Brown is, was and always will be a wanker, talk about taking coals to Newcastle, you might as well take Gordon to charm school for all the good it would do or difference it would make. Let me break off from my narrative to illustrate a point. This rant was inspired by a piece I read in the Sunday Times, not that I often read the rag, I just buy it to impress the neighbours and fool them into thinking I am an intellectual, but yesterday I gave it a brief glance, and lo and behold, pay dirt. Now, at this point it is important to remember that journalists writing for posh papers, and the Sunday Times is posh, despite being owned by Rupert Murdoch, do not tell porkies unless they are absolutely certain they will not be found out.
The article was about two towns one in Austria, and the other in Germany, well it was not so much about the towns as their names. The town in Germany is called Wank. As soon as I read that I thought of dear Gordon, face like a slapped arse and lying through his teeth while planning to extradite British citizens for offending the Yanks. The town should adopt Gordon, he could then officially be called the First Wanker, think of the election slogans, placards bearing the legend, “Wank For Brown”. It would be a hard life but our Gordon could Survive and thrive in such an atmosphere. Imagine a night in the Wankers Arms, all standing around the Wurlitzer, necking pints of jiz and belting out the town anthem, “Gordon had a wank, Gordon had a wank, ee eye adio, Gordon had a wank” Brings tears to my eyes it does.
Now to the next town mentioned in the article, this one is in Austria, now you may be offended by this, but frankly my dears I do not give a f…, yes, got it in one you clever wankers, the place is called Fuck. Harriet Harman came to mind, I have always felt the sanctimonious man hating bitch should go to fuck, and, bugger me blind on a Thursday, there it is, slap bang in Hitler’s own country, waiting for her with open legs. Harriet would be a promotional gold mine for them. They could have a lovely line in tasteless hats bearing pictures of Hattie, along with the legend “Fuck Me Quick” Just think what that would do for the local economy and they could have a local fair called Fuckers of the World Unite, it would knock spots off The Salzburg Festival, who would want Mozart when you could have Harriet and a good fuck.
But now, little sadness creeps into our jollifications, there is no place in this narrative for Peter Mandelson, you remember him, how could you forget the prick, Lord Mandelson of Cleethorpes, Wigan Pier, Bombay and Tonypandy. Please believe me when I tell you that I have scoured the atlas, with unbearable intensity, but nowhere, nowhere at all can I find a town called poof.
The article was about two towns one in Austria, and the other in Germany, well it was not so much about the towns as their names. The town in Germany is called Wank. As soon as I read that I thought of dear Gordon, face like a slapped arse and lying through his teeth while planning to extradite British citizens for offending the Yanks. The town should adopt Gordon, he could then officially be called the First Wanker, think of the election slogans, placards bearing the legend, “Wank For Brown”. It would be a hard life but our Gordon could Survive and thrive in such an atmosphere. Imagine a night in the Wankers Arms, all standing around the Wurlitzer, necking pints of jiz and belting out the town anthem, “Gordon had a wank, Gordon had a wank, ee eye adio, Gordon had a wank” Brings tears to my eyes it does.
Now to the next town mentioned in the article, this one is in Austria, now you may be offended by this, but frankly my dears I do not give a f…, yes, got it in one you clever wankers, the place is called Fuck. Harriet Harman came to mind, I have always felt the sanctimonious man hating bitch should go to fuck, and, bugger me blind on a Thursday, there it is, slap bang in Hitler’s own country, waiting for her with open legs. Harriet would be a promotional gold mine for them. They could have a lovely line in tasteless hats bearing pictures of Hattie, along with the legend “Fuck Me Quick” Just think what that would do for the local economy and they could have a local fair called Fuckers of the World Unite, it would knock spots off The Salzburg Festival, who would want Mozart when you could have Harriet and a good fuck.
But now, little sadness creeps into our jollifications, there is no place in this narrative for Peter Mandelson, you remember him, how could you forget the prick, Lord Mandelson of Cleethorpes, Wigan Pier, Bombay and Tonypandy. Please believe me when I tell you that I have scoured the atlas, with unbearable intensity, but nowhere, nowhere at all can I find a town called poof.
Thursday 18 June 2009
SEND FOR THE BOLLOCKING SHEARS NORMAN.
The last trump has been sounded for the men of this nation. Look to your tackle lads, Harriet Harman is after the country’s nuts. Anyone sporting a pair is under threat from the insidious Harman, or, as I prefer to call her, Henrietta Harpy. The damn woman is hell bent on taking the bollocking shears to the male population, God alone knows what she will do with her testicular dividend, probably start a collection, although it would not be as classy as the Wallace. Harriet could perhaps take them home, and decorate the walls of her halls with balls of the men who won’t vote for her, at least they would be an item she could not charge up to the tax payer.
The fons et origo of all this bile is our Harriet’s equalities bill, for that label alone, the dame should be done under the trades descriptions act, it is nothing to do with level playing fields. Harriet is not interested in equality, Harriet is not at all interested in equal opportunities for all, she would not tolerate such liberal nonsense for a moment. The queen of hypocrisy is leading the charge against the race of men on behalf of the militant harridans of the feminist tendency, in return for their support for her leadership ambitions. You know the ones I am referring to, those unsavoury old broads who refuse to shave under their arms and have not worn bras for so long their tits are dragging in the mud. Such is the self delusion of these Guardian toting tricoteuses that they think any man who looks at them has rape in his soul. Oh Sappho, what absurdities are worshipped in thy name.
On behalf of these sad creatures who think no male should be allowed to roam the streets unless he has been to the vet to have his tail docked, Henrietta Harpy plans to make discrimination against men the law of the land. All in the name of equality you understand.
Some of my readers may find the logic of all this hard to grasp, but, you do not want to waste time faffing around over logic, after all this is New Labour, you know, that arrogant shower who no more understand logic than they have ever come to grips with the concept of doing an honest days work, never having done one themselves.
The upshot of all this is that employers faced with gender audits, gender diversity audits and God alone knows what else to ensure that employers are not giving British jobs to white Anglo Saxon Protestants, will up stakes to India, or anywhere run by sensible folk who do not regard possession of a full tackle as a criminal offence.
All this frenzied activity by the cerebrally atrophied morons who rule over us will lead to even more unemployment, and having buggered up the economy, thus forcing thousands on to the dole where the authorities will harass them unmercifully for being so feckless as to have allowed themselves to be sacked as a result of the Government’s economic incompetence. The purpose of all this of course is to keep down the official unemployment figures which their policies created in the first place, which will be of tremendous comfort to those equalised by Harriet.
I could write more on this subject, I could fill more volumes than there are in Britannica, but honestly folks, I really do not feel equal to the task.
The fons et origo of all this bile is our Harriet’s equalities bill, for that label alone, the dame should be done under the trades descriptions act, it is nothing to do with level playing fields. Harriet is not interested in equality, Harriet is not at all interested in equal opportunities for all, she would not tolerate such liberal nonsense for a moment. The queen of hypocrisy is leading the charge against the race of men on behalf of the militant harridans of the feminist tendency, in return for their support for her leadership ambitions. You know the ones I am referring to, those unsavoury old broads who refuse to shave under their arms and have not worn bras for so long their tits are dragging in the mud. Such is the self delusion of these Guardian toting tricoteuses that they think any man who looks at them has rape in his soul. Oh Sappho, what absurdities are worshipped in thy name.
On behalf of these sad creatures who think no male should be allowed to roam the streets unless he has been to the vet to have his tail docked, Henrietta Harpy plans to make discrimination against men the law of the land. All in the name of equality you understand.
Some of my readers may find the logic of all this hard to grasp, but, you do not want to waste time faffing around over logic, after all this is New Labour, you know, that arrogant shower who no more understand logic than they have ever come to grips with the concept of doing an honest days work, never having done one themselves.
The upshot of all this is that employers faced with gender audits, gender diversity audits and God alone knows what else to ensure that employers are not giving British jobs to white Anglo Saxon Protestants, will up stakes to India, or anywhere run by sensible folk who do not regard possession of a full tackle as a criminal offence.
All this frenzied activity by the cerebrally atrophied morons who rule over us will lead to even more unemployment, and having buggered up the economy, thus forcing thousands on to the dole where the authorities will harass them unmercifully for being so feckless as to have allowed themselves to be sacked as a result of the Government’s economic incompetence. The purpose of all this of course is to keep down the official unemployment figures which their policies created in the first place, which will be of tremendous comfort to those equalised by Harriet.
I could write more on this subject, I could fill more volumes than there are in Britannica, but honestly folks, I really do not feel equal to the task.
Monday 15 June 2009
HAZEL BLEARS, LA GAZZA LADRA.
Dear darling Hazel Blears, New Labours sparkling little china doll. Bright of smile and full of shite, but then what else would one expect of this ornament of Gordon Brown’s administration? A diamond is Hazel, albeit one with more flaws than flash.
La Gazza Ladra, which, as you are aware of, or, in all probability you are not, is an Italian opera. You can’t describe yourself as being cultured unless you know a bit about wop composers. La Gazza Ladra, as you undoubtedly realise (All right, I’m taking the piss) is an opera by the incomparable Rossini. In English it reads as The Thieving Magpie, Getting it now dears? Christ, talk about flogging a dead horse on the way to the knackers yard.
Yes, it is easy enough to correlate The Thieving Magpie with Hazel Blears, one of the leading kleptocratic cows of this arrogant administration, although in her case, thieving midget would be a smidgeon closer to absolute accuracy.
If there is one image above all others which will define the Members of Parliament’s expenses scandal, or, the school for fiddles as we should really define the affair, it is that of the thieving midget waving a cheque at the television cameras. There she was, the egregious trollop, with a grin as red and as vivid as a monkeys bum, demonstrating the level of her contrition by taking her fingers out of the till long enough to stick two of them up in the direction of the tax payers.
The usual excuses were trotted out. It was a mistake, of course it was luv, it always is when one diddles the tax man, nobody in public life does it intentionally, or at least, that is what the Parliamentary Kleptocracy would have us believe. Unfortunately for baby Blears and her ilk, we the voters are not nearly as gormless as the politicos think we are, and those pantomimes of innocence just do not wash with us. The thieving sods are as guilty as sin and nothing will convince us otherwise.
What really sticks in my craw is the fact that the midget can wave a cheque at the camera thinking it solves everything, “There you are folks, all paid back. Now go out and vote for me” But let’s get one thing strait, Blears bless her vertically challenged soul, has not paid a penny back. Because of some arcane technicality, the revenue can not accept the money. It gets better does it not? So comforting for the people herded into bankruptcy by the pitiless tax authorities and left with not so much as a bath plug with which to bless themselves, but, that is the comforting reality of political life, one rule for us and no rules for them. Ain’t life grand.
In a few days time we go to the polls, and this will be one occasion when the people’s pilferers will not be so eager to smile for the men from the tele. This time round, the politicians of all parties will be well and truly hammered by an entire nation which is up in arms. The blood bath we shall witness on Thursday is nothing in comparison to the one which will occur at the next general election. The magpies have thieved to their hearts content, now, they are going to have their wings clipped.
La Gazza Ladra, which, as you are aware of, or, in all probability you are not, is an Italian opera. You can’t describe yourself as being cultured unless you know a bit about wop composers. La Gazza Ladra, as you undoubtedly realise (All right, I’m taking the piss) is an opera by the incomparable Rossini. In English it reads as The Thieving Magpie, Getting it now dears? Christ, talk about flogging a dead horse on the way to the knackers yard.
Yes, it is easy enough to correlate The Thieving Magpie with Hazel Blears, one of the leading kleptocratic cows of this arrogant administration, although in her case, thieving midget would be a smidgeon closer to absolute accuracy.
If there is one image above all others which will define the Members of Parliament’s expenses scandal, or, the school for fiddles as we should really define the affair, it is that of the thieving midget waving a cheque at the television cameras. There she was, the egregious trollop, with a grin as red and as vivid as a monkeys bum, demonstrating the level of her contrition by taking her fingers out of the till long enough to stick two of them up in the direction of the tax payers.
The usual excuses were trotted out. It was a mistake, of course it was luv, it always is when one diddles the tax man, nobody in public life does it intentionally, or at least, that is what the Parliamentary Kleptocracy would have us believe. Unfortunately for baby Blears and her ilk, we the voters are not nearly as gormless as the politicos think we are, and those pantomimes of innocence just do not wash with us. The thieving sods are as guilty as sin and nothing will convince us otherwise.
What really sticks in my craw is the fact that the midget can wave a cheque at the camera thinking it solves everything, “There you are folks, all paid back. Now go out and vote for me” But let’s get one thing strait, Blears bless her vertically challenged soul, has not paid a penny back. Because of some arcane technicality, the revenue can not accept the money. It gets better does it not? So comforting for the people herded into bankruptcy by the pitiless tax authorities and left with not so much as a bath plug with which to bless themselves, but, that is the comforting reality of political life, one rule for us and no rules for them. Ain’t life grand.
In a few days time we go to the polls, and this will be one occasion when the people’s pilferers will not be so eager to smile for the men from the tele. This time round, the politicians of all parties will be well and truly hammered by an entire nation which is up in arms. The blood bath we shall witness on Thursday is nothing in comparison to the one which will occur at the next general election. The magpies have thieved to their hearts content, now, they are going to have their wings clipped.
Monday 11 May 2009
HARRIET HARMAN, A MARS BAR AND THE ODD EXPENSE OR TWO.
Faithful unto her kind, Harriet Harman appeared on breakfast television this morning to defend her fellow Ministers caught with their fingers in the till. It was inevitable that she should make her pitch on GMTV, a station which gives the impression of existing solely to disseminate Government propaganda, scarce a day goes by without Gordon Brown or one of his minions parading their finely honed mendacity on that channel, one has to wonder if it exists for any reason other than to blow the Governments trumpet.
Miss Harman smiled and simpered for the cameras, such an aura of innocence, one would suspect a Mars bar wouldn’t melt in her mitch, faithful to the cause is our harpy. This is of course the same Harriet who proclaims her loyalty to her leader while cajoling her political allies into knifing Brown in the back. Bless. The dame must think she is convincing, otherwise why would she appear on such a programme? The woman probably thinks it is mandatory for us to believe anything she chooses to tell us simply because she is the voice of authority and we are obliged to accept whatever it is she and her ilk choose to hand down to us. Silly, silly cow,
Our present crop of politicians are like the pre revolutionary nobles of France, but without the style, education or culture, they are sleepwalking to a revolution of their own making but are too stupid to realise what it is they are stoking up for themselves and for us, forget the bankers, the real damage to our society has been done by the political class as a whole and there are no exceptions to this indictment, no not even you Mr. Cameron, you post pubescent twerp.
I really do think a bit of a revolution would do the country a great deal of good, shut down all the day centres for black one legged lesbians. Sack the outreach workers and all the other parasites of New Labours client state leaching on the backs of the poor benighted tax payers. Finally, set a guillotine up outside John Lewises, and cut their fucking heads off.
Miss Harman smiled and simpered for the cameras, such an aura of innocence, one would suspect a Mars bar wouldn’t melt in her mitch, faithful to the cause is our harpy. This is of course the same Harriet who proclaims her loyalty to her leader while cajoling her political allies into knifing Brown in the back. Bless. The dame must think she is convincing, otherwise why would she appear on such a programme? The woman probably thinks it is mandatory for us to believe anything she chooses to tell us simply because she is the voice of authority and we are obliged to accept whatever it is she and her ilk choose to hand down to us. Silly, silly cow,
Our present crop of politicians are like the pre revolutionary nobles of France, but without the style, education or culture, they are sleepwalking to a revolution of their own making but are too stupid to realise what it is they are stoking up for themselves and for us, forget the bankers, the real damage to our society has been done by the political class as a whole and there are no exceptions to this indictment, no not even you Mr. Cameron, you post pubescent twerp.
I really do think a bit of a revolution would do the country a great deal of good, shut down all the day centres for black one legged lesbians. Sack the outreach workers and all the other parasites of New Labours client state leaching on the backs of the poor benighted tax payers. Finally, set a guillotine up outside John Lewises, and cut their fucking heads off.
Thursday 30 April 2009
BORIS JOHNSON, NON AGRICOLA EST.
Let no one doubt the mayor of London’s infinite capacity to add to the gaiety of the nation, and once more dear Boris has come up trumps with his latest announcement. Not only has he admitted that he may not run for a second term as our inglorious buffoon, but to cap absurdity with historical myopia, the man compares himself to Cincinnnatus, one of the great heroes of Republican Rome.
Due to circumstances, largely due to his own making, Cincinnnatus was forced to live in the country, a bit like the modern equivalent of being sent to Liverpool to apologise for telling the truth about the moaning, self pitying Scousers. There the similarity ends. Cincinnatus supported himself and his family in poverty, by farming a small plot of land. Now apart from the fact that Boris could not tell the difference between a bucketful of manure and a field of parsnips, he makes a mountain of dosh by being paid to write a load of self serving shite in the Daily Telegraph.
Now, it came to pass, (It always did in them days), that a crisis arose in Rome, and Cincinnatus was recalled by the Senate to save the state. By this time it is easy to see why Boris fancies himself as the Roman yeoman riding to the rescue, but I digress. Cincinnatus was made dictator, and off he went and defeated the Aequians, Rome was saved. Being the noble fellow he was, our hero then resigned his office and returned to the farm. Boris resign from office? Don’t make me laugh, he will have to be dragged screaming from the portals of power. The only thing Boris has in common with the ancient Roman is his barnet, the name Cincinnnatus refers to the man’s somewhat unruly mop.
Having established that our Boris is no Cincinnnatus, who in ancient Rome can we compare him to? How about the Gracchi, the brothers Tiberius and Giaus. The Gracchi are regarded as the founders of populism, in short a couple of rabble rousers who came up with the then novel wheeze to pinch from the rich to buy the votes of the poor, now that’s Boris for you. There is one fly in this particular jar of ointment, the nobles whose wealth was to be plundered to fund the ambitions of the Gracchi, turned on their tormentor and sliced him up like a salami in a dark corner of the Forum. Gordon Brown beware. No. We can’t have such an end for Boris, but who in the ancient world can we compare him to? Well dears you can rely on me to come up with the answer.
Boris can be equated with Odovacar, “Oo?” You may shriek, at least the less erudite amongst you will. Odovacar was a barbarian chieftain of Hunnish and Scimian ancestry, a bit of a fruit salad, like Boris, who, despite his posh accent is half wog himself. It was Odovacar who deposed the last Emperor of the West, Romulus Augustalus, a young lad who had scarce matured enough to spit in the eye of puberty, now, who does that remind you of? David and Goliath? Odovacar hustled Romulus into obscure retirement, the fate of most Tory leaders. Yes, Boris can best be compared to Odovacar.
One last question, is Boris chasing after destiny because he feels the tug of mad political ambition? Or, if the fellow running scared because he fears he my end up with more sugar in his tea than he considers palatable?
Due to circumstances, largely due to his own making, Cincinnnatus was forced to live in the country, a bit like the modern equivalent of being sent to Liverpool to apologise for telling the truth about the moaning, self pitying Scousers. There the similarity ends. Cincinnatus supported himself and his family in poverty, by farming a small plot of land. Now apart from the fact that Boris could not tell the difference between a bucketful of manure and a field of parsnips, he makes a mountain of dosh by being paid to write a load of self serving shite in the Daily Telegraph.
Now, it came to pass, (It always did in them days), that a crisis arose in Rome, and Cincinnatus was recalled by the Senate to save the state. By this time it is easy to see why Boris fancies himself as the Roman yeoman riding to the rescue, but I digress. Cincinnatus was made dictator, and off he went and defeated the Aequians, Rome was saved. Being the noble fellow he was, our hero then resigned his office and returned to the farm. Boris resign from office? Don’t make me laugh, he will have to be dragged screaming from the portals of power. The only thing Boris has in common with the ancient Roman is his barnet, the name Cincinnnatus refers to the man’s somewhat unruly mop.
Having established that our Boris is no Cincinnnatus, who in ancient Rome can we compare him to? How about the Gracchi, the brothers Tiberius and Giaus. The Gracchi are regarded as the founders of populism, in short a couple of rabble rousers who came up with the then novel wheeze to pinch from the rich to buy the votes of the poor, now that’s Boris for you. There is one fly in this particular jar of ointment, the nobles whose wealth was to be plundered to fund the ambitions of the Gracchi, turned on their tormentor and sliced him up like a salami in a dark corner of the Forum. Gordon Brown beware. No. We can’t have such an end for Boris, but who in the ancient world can we compare him to? Well dears you can rely on me to come up with the answer.
Boris can be equated with Odovacar, “Oo?” You may shriek, at least the less erudite amongst you will. Odovacar was a barbarian chieftain of Hunnish and Scimian ancestry, a bit of a fruit salad, like Boris, who, despite his posh accent is half wog himself. It was Odovacar who deposed the last Emperor of the West, Romulus Augustalus, a young lad who had scarce matured enough to spit in the eye of puberty, now, who does that remind you of? David and Goliath? Odovacar hustled Romulus into obscure retirement, the fate of most Tory leaders. Yes, Boris can best be compared to Odovacar.
One last question, is Boris chasing after destiny because he feels the tug of mad political ambition? Or, if the fellow running scared because he fears he my end up with more sugar in his tea than he considers palatable?
Wednesday 15 April 2009
NUFF SAID, TRUTH IS DEAD.
The truth is dead? Of course it is, as a concept it popped it’s clogs years ago, and in politics it never even existed. When I say truth in politics does not exist, I err slightly. The politicos do occasionally tell it as it is, usually in the week following an election, when they admit they fed us a cartload of porkies to obtain our vote and now they have no intention of keeping their promises. At this point, one or two of you may be wondering where this ids leading, apart from the establishment of a new religion of the bleeding obvious.
Truth to New labour is what bubonic plague was to the Middle Ages, a lethal visitation upon society, and that same plague is about to administer an enema to our ruling commissars. It all started with Derek Draper, a labour groupie who, in his heyday, was known under the soubriquet Dolly. Now why a red blooded macho male would be labelled Dolly, is beyond my ken, perhaps someone out there could put a finger on the reason.
Dolly and his pal, who was Gordon Brown’s hatchet man, Dildo Mcpoison, or whatever it is he is called, decided to smear the opposition with a shower of fabricated and scabrous fables. Strange as it may seem, two can play at that game, so, stand up Nu labour and take it on the chin like a person.
Let’s start with Gordon Brown, who never does anything wrong and is too busy saving the World to tell fibs. As everyone has suspected for years, our Gordy is a woofter. There is nothing he likes better than a nob noshing session down Old Compton Street. But, the more gullible amongst you may say, what about that lovely wife of his? Really darlings, that arrangement would not be the first lavender liaison in the history of Westminster.
While we are on the subject of left footers, there’s Dandy Mandy, the peoples poof. Well, I’ve got news for you, he ain’t. Talk about bare arsed cheek, the buggers as straight as they come.
Then there is Jacqui Smith. I’ll bet money you did not know she’s been in and out of the Cleveland Street clap clinic so many times, the woman is in line to get a gold watch for regular attendance. Unable to spread her expense claims any further, she decided to spread her legs to make up the shortfall. No wonder her hubby is reduced to beating the meat up in Brum. Hazel Blears, the malignant midget of modern politics, opened up a brothel over a chip shop in Whitechapel Road. Jacqui was one of Hazels first “Girls” It was at Hazel’s that she caught her first dose of crabs.
Tessa Jowel has a lucrative sideline in arranging dodgy mortgages for illegal immigrants, of course, she would deny this until she was blue in the face, but with her old man doing time for perjury, the family relationship with veracity does not inspire confidence. Lastly, there is David Milliband, the Baby Jane Hudson of British Politics. Word is he’s fencing diamonds for grace Mugabe and using the proceeds to procure to purchase elocution lessons for his brother, who’s diction is routinely slaughtered in his attempts to sound working class. Why do these posh Marxists think we are so easy to fool?
Time to call it a day. As you will all realise, the contents of this blog are made up, and meant to be taken in good part, but, on the other hand?
Truth to New labour is what bubonic plague was to the Middle Ages, a lethal visitation upon society, and that same plague is about to administer an enema to our ruling commissars. It all started with Derek Draper, a labour groupie who, in his heyday, was known under the soubriquet Dolly. Now why a red blooded macho male would be labelled Dolly, is beyond my ken, perhaps someone out there could put a finger on the reason.
Dolly and his pal, who was Gordon Brown’s hatchet man, Dildo Mcpoison, or whatever it is he is called, decided to smear the opposition with a shower of fabricated and scabrous fables. Strange as it may seem, two can play at that game, so, stand up Nu labour and take it on the chin like a person.
Let’s start with Gordon Brown, who never does anything wrong and is too busy saving the World to tell fibs. As everyone has suspected for years, our Gordy is a woofter. There is nothing he likes better than a nob noshing session down Old Compton Street. But, the more gullible amongst you may say, what about that lovely wife of his? Really darlings, that arrangement would not be the first lavender liaison in the history of Westminster.
While we are on the subject of left footers, there’s Dandy Mandy, the peoples poof. Well, I’ve got news for you, he ain’t. Talk about bare arsed cheek, the buggers as straight as they come.
Then there is Jacqui Smith. I’ll bet money you did not know she’s been in and out of the Cleveland Street clap clinic so many times, the woman is in line to get a gold watch for regular attendance. Unable to spread her expense claims any further, she decided to spread her legs to make up the shortfall. No wonder her hubby is reduced to beating the meat up in Brum. Hazel Blears, the malignant midget of modern politics, opened up a brothel over a chip shop in Whitechapel Road. Jacqui was one of Hazels first “Girls” It was at Hazel’s that she caught her first dose of crabs.
Tessa Jowel has a lucrative sideline in arranging dodgy mortgages for illegal immigrants, of course, she would deny this until she was blue in the face, but with her old man doing time for perjury, the family relationship with veracity does not inspire confidence. Lastly, there is David Milliband, the Baby Jane Hudson of British Politics. Word is he’s fencing diamonds for grace Mugabe and using the proceeds to procure to purchase elocution lessons for his brother, who’s diction is routinely slaughtered in his attempts to sound working class. Why do these posh Marxists think we are so easy to fool?
Time to call it a day. As you will all realise, the contents of this blog are made up, and meant to be taken in good part, but, on the other hand?
Monday 16 March 2009
DON’T PUT THE PAPER ON YER BUM MRS. WORTHINGTON.
Pace, dear Noel. For those of my readership who are neither artistic nor literate, probably about eighty five percent of you, the title of this piece is paraphrased from the song by Noel Coward where he warns against ambitious maters putting their daughters on the stage. Now if you are offended by what I have so far written, then all I can say is that you shouldn’t be reading this blogg in the first place, try St. Paul’s letter to the Galatians.
But, I digress, I am almost as good as digressing as I am at insulting folk, however I will now get down to the substance of this rant. Recently there appeared in the gullible press, the results of some research in the good old US of A, where else for God’s sake? The substance of this earth shattering intelligence was a survey which had been conducted on lavatory paper, no dears, I am not arsing about here, I kid you not. The research states that the love affair the yanks have with their rolls of posh bog paper, is a direct threat to the planet. This is something to do with the chemicals used in the stuff and their effect on climate change, naturally.
While the writers of this academic diarrhoea warned of the hole we are heading for if we persist in this pampering of our nether regions, they offered no solution to the problem, so I will plug the gap so to speak. In certain regions of the world they use water to refresh the parts which paper should not reach, but, this has it’s draw backs. Apart from the inherent hazards of shoving a hose pipe up one’s fundamental orifice, the is the question of the pressure, too high and it could blow your false teeth clean out of your mouth, too little and it would be trickling down your leg. I suppose one could always wear Wellingtons when embarking on a tour of the toot.
That ever practical race of men, the Romans used a sponge on the end of a stick to wash away the evidence of the ancient equivalent of ten pints and a vindaloo. The public lavs in old Rome were just that, public, the Romans enjoying nothing more than a communal crap with the neighbours, and all the sticks were kept in a jar in the middle of the room. Indeed a sponge on a stick was part of the legionnaire’s kit, which probably gave rise to the old saying to get the wrong end of the stick, or sticky fingers.
The resolution of this conundrum is obvious, ban lavatory paper. Unfortunately, people being what they are, would try to ignore such a ban, and a brisk trade in bootleg bog paper would soon spring up, but don’t worry dear ones, I saw that one coming, and I know what to about it. In the old days, on the morning after the wedding, the bed sheet would be hung out of the window, and if it was stained, that was proof positive that the brides reputation wasn’t, ipso facto, to prove that the populace was complying with the ban on papering one’s posterior, everyone would be required to hang their shitty knickers out of the window. I do not know if this would halt the change in the climate, but the quality of the skid marks on the undies would certainly overtake the weather as a topic of conversation.
But, I digress, I am almost as good as digressing as I am at insulting folk, however I will now get down to the substance of this rant. Recently there appeared in the gullible press, the results of some research in the good old US of A, where else for God’s sake? The substance of this earth shattering intelligence was a survey which had been conducted on lavatory paper, no dears, I am not arsing about here, I kid you not. The research states that the love affair the yanks have with their rolls of posh bog paper, is a direct threat to the planet. This is something to do with the chemicals used in the stuff and their effect on climate change, naturally.
While the writers of this academic diarrhoea warned of the hole we are heading for if we persist in this pampering of our nether regions, they offered no solution to the problem, so I will plug the gap so to speak. In certain regions of the world they use water to refresh the parts which paper should not reach, but, this has it’s draw backs. Apart from the inherent hazards of shoving a hose pipe up one’s fundamental orifice, the is the question of the pressure, too high and it could blow your false teeth clean out of your mouth, too little and it would be trickling down your leg. I suppose one could always wear Wellingtons when embarking on a tour of the toot.
That ever practical race of men, the Romans used a sponge on the end of a stick to wash away the evidence of the ancient equivalent of ten pints and a vindaloo. The public lavs in old Rome were just that, public, the Romans enjoying nothing more than a communal crap with the neighbours, and all the sticks were kept in a jar in the middle of the room. Indeed a sponge on a stick was part of the legionnaire’s kit, which probably gave rise to the old saying to get the wrong end of the stick, or sticky fingers.
The resolution of this conundrum is obvious, ban lavatory paper. Unfortunately, people being what they are, would try to ignore such a ban, and a brisk trade in bootleg bog paper would soon spring up, but don’t worry dear ones, I saw that one coming, and I know what to about it. In the old days, on the morning after the wedding, the bed sheet would be hung out of the window, and if it was stained, that was proof positive that the brides reputation wasn’t, ipso facto, to prove that the populace was complying with the ban on papering one’s posterior, everyone would be required to hang their shitty knickers out of the window. I do not know if this would halt the change in the climate, but the quality of the skid marks on the undies would certainly overtake the weather as a topic of conversation.
Tuesday 10 February 2009
BY GOLLY, IT’S ONLY A DOLLY
So Carol Thatcher thinks some dago tennis player looks like a gollywog, so what? That is nothing compared to some of the things I have been called in my time, in all parts of the planet from Siberia to the Caribbean, and none of it has ever done me any harm or caused more than momentary irritation. But I am now irritated, cock quivering mad if the truth be told.
Two luminaries of the BBC have taken it on themselves to be outraged, and no-one doe’s outrage quite like BBC types taking offence on behalf of others. Of the two outragees, one is amongst the most famous names on the tele, which is probably why I can not remember what it is, there is no-one more forgettable than some self satisfied celebrity, after all, they are each and every one of them dead as mutton from the neck up. The other celeb is Jo Brand. I have heard of Miss Brand, I have also heard her effing and blinding on the box. Miss Brand is described as a comedienne, why this should be so God alone knows, the woman has the physique of Nellie the Elephant, is pug ugly and is so unfunny she should hire herself out for funeral dirges, her talent is as small as the gussets in her knickers are large, and that’s only if the old trollop wears any. These were the self-righteous carcasses who took umbrage at Carol’s remarks, frankly, I would rather be called a Nizrani than have my corner fought for me by this unlovely duo.
What sticks in my craw more than anything in this matter is the intolerance of those who seek to impose their views on others. Only the other day, Jeremy Clarkson was forced to apologise for calling Gordon Brown fat, Scottish, and stupid, no arguments there, but still Jeremy had to say sorry. It has come to a pretty pass when stating the bleeding obvious has become a hanging offence.
Who are these nebulous beings who decree what the rest of us can say and not say? Who gave them this power? I have never voted for anyone to curb my freedom of speech, nor to my certain knowledge has anyone else. So, from whence came this overwhelming power to crush descent? Who awarded it? Questions questions questions, and answeres are there none. All these PC plods should have Voltaire’s dictum drummed into them ‘I disagree entirely with what you say but I will fight to the death for your right to say it’ naturally they have no knowledge of either Voltaire or his dictum, such a level of education could be construed as elitist.
It is only a matter of time before these Torquemadas of political correctness take things to their ultimate conclusion and they who commit heresy will not just be fired from their jobs but burnt at the stake in Spitalfields. I will sign off on the subject of dear Gordon, the last Scots idiot to make such a balls up of ruling England had his head chopped off.
Two luminaries of the BBC have taken it on themselves to be outraged, and no-one doe’s outrage quite like BBC types taking offence on behalf of others. Of the two outragees, one is amongst the most famous names on the tele, which is probably why I can not remember what it is, there is no-one more forgettable than some self satisfied celebrity, after all, they are each and every one of them dead as mutton from the neck up. The other celeb is Jo Brand. I have heard of Miss Brand, I have also heard her effing and blinding on the box. Miss Brand is described as a comedienne, why this should be so God alone knows, the woman has the physique of Nellie the Elephant, is pug ugly and is so unfunny she should hire herself out for funeral dirges, her talent is as small as the gussets in her knickers are large, and that’s only if the old trollop wears any. These were the self-righteous carcasses who took umbrage at Carol’s remarks, frankly, I would rather be called a Nizrani than have my corner fought for me by this unlovely duo.
What sticks in my craw more than anything in this matter is the intolerance of those who seek to impose their views on others. Only the other day, Jeremy Clarkson was forced to apologise for calling Gordon Brown fat, Scottish, and stupid, no arguments there, but still Jeremy had to say sorry. It has come to a pretty pass when stating the bleeding obvious has become a hanging offence.
Who are these nebulous beings who decree what the rest of us can say and not say? Who gave them this power? I have never voted for anyone to curb my freedom of speech, nor to my certain knowledge has anyone else. So, from whence came this overwhelming power to crush descent? Who awarded it? Questions questions questions, and answeres are there none. All these PC plods should have Voltaire’s dictum drummed into them ‘I disagree entirely with what you say but I will fight to the death for your right to say it’ naturally they have no knowledge of either Voltaire or his dictum, such a level of education could be construed as elitist.
It is only a matter of time before these Torquemadas of political correctness take things to their ultimate conclusion and they who commit heresy will not just be fired from their jobs but burnt at the stake in Spitalfields. I will sign off on the subject of dear Gordon, the last Scots idiot to make such a balls up of ruling England had his head chopped off.
Sunday 1 February 2009
THIS COULD GIVE YOU THE RUNS
You wouldn’t Adam and Eve it, talk about the Almighty regarding life as a dump in the ante room to the hereafter, which regarding the fact that this tale takes place in Zimbabwe isn’t so bad a simile. Doubtless you have all heard the saying “Taking the piss”, well, what I have to tell you takes the concept a whole load further. A friend of mine has just returned from Zimbabwe, you know, that place in Africa where some geezer called Mugabe, has single handedly stuffed the economy, and blamed the Roman Empire for the resultant chaos. One can just imagine the old fraud fumbling about in the bathroom, trying to locate the whereabouts of his glass eye while muttering to himself “That Julius Caesar, it’s ‘is fault. It’s ‘im wot done it”. While the old fool is doddering about the family homestead, which he half inched from it’s previous owner, his missus, ‘Amazing Face’ is waltzing around the World knocking seven bells out of reporters in posh hotels. After that little diatribe, you will know the place I am referring to. But, I digress, I do apologise, even though I do not mean it.
This will come as no surprise to the more marginally astute amongst my readership, but my friend, while on holiday, was subject to the normal biological processes, id est, what goes in as digestion must eventually come out as excretion. To cut a long story short, my friend was taken short, it happens to all of us from time to time. Fred, as we’ll call him to save his blushes, feeling the imperative of nature, toddled off to the municipal eartha for a Tom Tit.
It was not the shock of having to go which so unsettled Fred, after all, such an eventuality is to be expected during the course of life, even in Zimbabwe, where constipation is regarded as a measure of the availability of grub in the local supermarkets. It was the cost of the exercise which moved him, 200,000,000,000,. That was not a mistake, no typos here folks, it was two hundred billion Zimbabwe Dollars for a crap. Poor Fred, the experience moved him like nothing else in his life, it fair gave him the shits.
This will come as no surprise to the more marginally astute amongst my readership, but my friend, while on holiday, was subject to the normal biological processes, id est, what goes in as digestion must eventually come out as excretion. To cut a long story short, my friend was taken short, it happens to all of us from time to time. Fred, as we’ll call him to save his blushes, feeling the imperative of nature, toddled off to the municipal eartha for a Tom Tit.
It was not the shock of having to go which so unsettled Fred, after all, such an eventuality is to be expected during the course of life, even in Zimbabwe, where constipation is regarded as a measure of the availability of grub in the local supermarkets. It was the cost of the exercise which moved him, 200,000,000,000,. That was not a mistake, no typos here folks, it was two hundred billion Zimbabwe Dollars for a crap. Poor Fred, the experience moved him like nothing else in his life, it fair gave him the shits.
Wednesday 21 January 2009
LAUGH. IT’S THE CREDIT CRUNCH
On reading the above statement, the majority of you, especially those who have been sacked, or about to be sacked not to mention those being turfed into the street by banks eager to repossess their homes, will probably come to the conclusion that the SOB has finally lost his marbles and should be sectioned, better still, tarred and feathered before being run out of town. But, bare with me, there is a logic behind my inflammatory statement. Not my logic you understand, but that of a certain female journalist.
The above mentioned lady, writing in one of the posher Sunday papers, was waxing lyrical on her liberation from the bonds of fashion by the advent of the credit crunch. The entire article was an illumination of the most blinding brilliance, of how remote our metropolitan elite are from the rest of us.
Miss Marrin, for that is her name, started by rejoicing that with hard times cavorting down Oxford Street like a whore with her knickers in the pawn shop, she no longer had to go shopping. Now call me thick if you must, but I was unaware that prior to the banking crisis, people were being frog marched into Selfridges at the working end of a shot gun and forced to blow their brass on things they do not need or want but think they should have in order to impress the neighbours. This is the nub of Miss Marrin’s dilemma, she felt she had to spend relentlessly so as not to fall behind the Joneses in the social steeple chase which is life in fashionable London.
Miss Marrin was also ecstatic over the fact that financial constraints meant that she no longer had to change the wall paper every five minutes in an effort to be abreast of every new fad drifting through the virtual reality that is Notting Hill. Poor lamb, my heart bleeds for her, well, it would if I had one, but then bleeding hearts and I have never really got on together, not that I would get on at all with Miss Marrinn who receives large amounts of money for writing the sort of shite which ruins the Sunday mornings of ordinary folk.
Now I fully recognise that what the accused actually wrote was very much a tongue in cheek journalistic piece, and should not be taken too seriously, or should it? Miss Marrin is all too representative of the metropolitan elite who live in a world ring fenced by arrogance from the real world we the unenlightened majority inhabit, and as such is a danger to the rest of us. When governments talk of public opinion, it is the opinion of the intellectual nomenclatura it is referring to, these isolated beings who fret over whether the pattern on the wall paper is out of date, it is they who decide what the rest of us think, or to be more precise have arrogated to themselves this right.
What is to be done to right this situation? Short of a bit of revolution nothing, the Tabithas and Jontys of Islington have the Nation by the short and curlies and display no inclination to let go any day soon. I suppose I could take a lone stand and strike a blow against the tyranny of the smug, but what the hell, who would listen to me? I’ll content myself with toddling of to Harvey Nicks for some sushi.
The above mentioned lady, writing in one of the posher Sunday papers, was waxing lyrical on her liberation from the bonds of fashion by the advent of the credit crunch. The entire article was an illumination of the most blinding brilliance, of how remote our metropolitan elite are from the rest of us.
Miss Marrin, for that is her name, started by rejoicing that with hard times cavorting down Oxford Street like a whore with her knickers in the pawn shop, she no longer had to go shopping. Now call me thick if you must, but I was unaware that prior to the banking crisis, people were being frog marched into Selfridges at the working end of a shot gun and forced to blow their brass on things they do not need or want but think they should have in order to impress the neighbours. This is the nub of Miss Marrin’s dilemma, she felt she had to spend relentlessly so as not to fall behind the Joneses in the social steeple chase which is life in fashionable London.
Miss Marrin was also ecstatic over the fact that financial constraints meant that she no longer had to change the wall paper every five minutes in an effort to be abreast of every new fad drifting through the virtual reality that is Notting Hill. Poor lamb, my heart bleeds for her, well, it would if I had one, but then bleeding hearts and I have never really got on together, not that I would get on at all with Miss Marrinn who receives large amounts of money for writing the sort of shite which ruins the Sunday mornings of ordinary folk.
Now I fully recognise that what the accused actually wrote was very much a tongue in cheek journalistic piece, and should not be taken too seriously, or should it? Miss Marrin is all too representative of the metropolitan elite who live in a world ring fenced by arrogance from the real world we the unenlightened majority inhabit, and as such is a danger to the rest of us. When governments talk of public opinion, it is the opinion of the intellectual nomenclatura it is referring to, these isolated beings who fret over whether the pattern on the wall paper is out of date, it is they who decide what the rest of us think, or to be more precise have arrogated to themselves this right.
What is to be done to right this situation? Short of a bit of revolution nothing, the Tabithas and Jontys of Islington have the Nation by the short and curlies and display no inclination to let go any day soon. I suppose I could take a lone stand and strike a blow against the tyranny of the smug, but what the hell, who would listen to me? I’ll content myself with toddling of to Harvey Nicks for some sushi.
Friday 16 January 2009
NON ILLEGITIMUS CARBORUNDUM
You can forget that for a start, and if you can understand the title then your are too posh for this page and should bugger off to Selfridges and buy some sushi for your tea. Our dearly beloved rulers of choice, God forgive us our sin of voting for them in the first place, have outlawed the hunting of the fox, but have, perversely declared open season on the Middle Classes. Watch it Acacia Avenue, Harriet is after your blood. She needs it to prove to the lower orders that she is not posh, or, at least that she has stopped being posh after a life spent at the silver trough, which is ceasely replenished at the expense of the long suffering taxpayer.
Miss Harman, or ‘Arman as we should now say (The aspirate is far too elitist to be used, innit?) has declared war on the middle class, they must be prevented at all costs from realising their potential and rising in the professions. The lower orders must be given the top jobs, irrespective of whether or not they are competent to undertake them. Ability is no longer to count for anything, if you want to be a doctor, you will need to prove that you can fart and pick your nose while eating a plate of blanc mange, and if you can spell medicine then you are definitely out of the running.
All this will play well in the salons of Islington, whose denizens are never happy unless they have something to feel guilty about, but what will be the effect of this mass cull of ability? The professions will be stuffed with people who cannot spell or do sums but could not be bothered to take the dishes out of the sink before pissing in it. This will be the new definition of class, take it from me, if you are too posh to enjoy a good crap and tell the neighbours all about it, you will not make the grade in ‘Arriet’s utopia.
What Our rulers do not realise is that the Middle Class is the engine which powers the nation, they obey the rules, do not complain and pay the tax, which provides the cash for ‘arriet and her pals to tip down the pan as soon as they get their incompetent paws on it. Come the election this government will get it’s comeuppance, that lot in the middle of society are ready to take their revenge. I can’t wait.
The Middle Class are ever resourceful, they will not take this threat to the future of their offspring lying down. Instead of shelling out on private tuition in academic subjects for their children, they will be trawling the sink estates of the nation hiring yobs to teach their children to be as common as udders in a cow shed, and ‘Arriet and her pals will still be out on their ears come the next election.
Miss Harman, or ‘Arman as we should now say (The aspirate is far too elitist to be used, innit?) has declared war on the middle class, they must be prevented at all costs from realising their potential and rising in the professions. The lower orders must be given the top jobs, irrespective of whether or not they are competent to undertake them. Ability is no longer to count for anything, if you want to be a doctor, you will need to prove that you can fart and pick your nose while eating a plate of blanc mange, and if you can spell medicine then you are definitely out of the running.
All this will play well in the salons of Islington, whose denizens are never happy unless they have something to feel guilty about, but what will be the effect of this mass cull of ability? The professions will be stuffed with people who cannot spell or do sums but could not be bothered to take the dishes out of the sink before pissing in it. This will be the new definition of class, take it from me, if you are too posh to enjoy a good crap and tell the neighbours all about it, you will not make the grade in ‘Arriet’s utopia.
What Our rulers do not realise is that the Middle Class is the engine which powers the nation, they obey the rules, do not complain and pay the tax, which provides the cash for ‘arriet and her pals to tip down the pan as soon as they get their incompetent paws on it. Come the election this government will get it’s comeuppance, that lot in the middle of society are ready to take their revenge. I can’t wait.
The Middle Class are ever resourceful, they will not take this threat to the future of their offspring lying down. Instead of shelling out on private tuition in academic subjects for their children, they will be trawling the sink estates of the nation hiring yobs to teach their children to be as common as udders in a cow shed, and ‘Arriet and her pals will still be out on their ears come the next election.
Wednesday 14 January 2009
THE BITCH AND THE BASTARD
I have always suspected the quality of the loyalty of New Labour’s hierarchy to this nation and this weekend my suspicions on this point were confirmed by an article written by a former assistant high commissioner to Ghana. The gentleman recounted an incident at an official dinner given by the government of Ghana for Clare Short, who at the time was Overseas Aid Secretary, whose official remit was to distribute money extricated under duress from British taxpayers, to overseas despots, to enable them to squander specie on luxuries they would not otherwise have been able to afford.
Miss Short took great joy in squandering our money, it gave her the balls which nature had cruelly denied her, it also gave her a platform for her views, for under normal circumstances nobody of any sense would have taken the slightest notice of the woman. At the afore mentioned banquet, her hosts made some flattering remarks about the British Empire and its achievements. At this the egregious Miss Shortarse started foaming at the mouth and delivered a vituperative diatribe on the subject of the Empire. It obviously did not cross her mind that she was representing the British state, and to denigrate her country under such circumstances was disloyal as well as being insulting to those who paid her wages.
Clare Short is all too typical of our current ruling class, crude, ignorant and desperate for publicity, like all of her kind there is virtually nothing she will not do for a few minutes on the tele. I vividly remember a few years ago her announcement that she had been re-united with her illegitimate son who she had given away for adoption the she stood, in Victoria Gardens, adjacent to the Houses of Parliament with the hapless young man in tow, beaming at the cameras. In television terms, the Bitch and Her Bastard was not up there in entertainment value with Gone With The Wind, but it did illustrate the lengths she was prepared to go for a few minutes of publicity. We should I suppose be grateful that she did not do an Edwina Curry and destroy the egg industry in her quest for camera time, but then I do not think Miss Short has Edwina’s imagination.
Clare Short’s day has now passed, but unfortunately there are all too many ready willing and able to step into her shoes. O Tempore O Mores.
Miss Short took great joy in squandering our money, it gave her the balls which nature had cruelly denied her, it also gave her a platform for her views, for under normal circumstances nobody of any sense would have taken the slightest notice of the woman. At the afore mentioned banquet, her hosts made some flattering remarks about the British Empire and its achievements. At this the egregious Miss Shortarse started foaming at the mouth and delivered a vituperative diatribe on the subject of the Empire. It obviously did not cross her mind that she was representing the British state, and to denigrate her country under such circumstances was disloyal as well as being insulting to those who paid her wages.
Clare Short is all too typical of our current ruling class, crude, ignorant and desperate for publicity, like all of her kind there is virtually nothing she will not do for a few minutes on the tele. I vividly remember a few years ago her announcement that she had been re-united with her illegitimate son who she had given away for adoption the she stood, in Victoria Gardens, adjacent to the Houses of Parliament with the hapless young man in tow, beaming at the cameras. In television terms, the Bitch and Her Bastard was not up there in entertainment value with Gone With The Wind, but it did illustrate the lengths she was prepared to go for a few minutes of publicity. We should I suppose be grateful that she did not do an Edwina Curry and destroy the egg industry in her quest for camera time, but then I do not think Miss Short has Edwina’s imagination.
Clare Short’s day has now passed, but unfortunately there are all too many ready willing and able to step into her shoes. O Tempore O Mores.
Monday 5 January 2009
GOD ROT YE MERRY GENTLEMEN
Did you have a good Christmas? If one more person asks me that question, I swear to God I’ll smack the bastard, the bastard that is, not God. By the time the big day arrived, I was ready to go thirteen rounds with fate.
I know it was supposed to be the season of goodwill, but there is only so much false bonhomie a body can take, and as they started selling Christmas decorations on Oxford Street back in August, I was thoroughly sick of the festive season by the first of October. Who wouldn’t be.
It wasn’t only decorations which were being flogged to death well ahead of schedule. Mince pies, Christmas cake and puddings, all were available by late October with best before dates for the first week in November, which meant they had to be eaten there and then, by the twenty fifth of December, I could not have eaten another mince pie without the risk of throwing up.
Don’t worry my dears, things get worse. Remember, this is me we are talking about, not Santa, and I have no elves as helpers, if I had then I would throttle the little perishers as an affirmation of my attitude to Christmas past, present and future. Now we all know Yuletide can be expensive, not if you are broke it isn’t, and I was as broke as broke can be and still remain breathing. My bank kept on sending payments made into my account back to their place of origin, not once, not twice, but three bloody times. Not content with stuffing up the World’s economy, they thought they’d have a go at mine while they were at it. Charmant. Tres charmant.
Despite being sick of traditional festive fayre, I felt bit incumbent on me to get in some cake for the big day, not having much in the way of spondulicks, I was forced to settle for a slab of the cheapest muck I could lay my hands on. Muck is the operative word here. I do not know if it was the cake itself, the icing or the marzipan, but whatever it was, it gave me the squirts, I hadn’t farted so much since I went on the cabbage diet.
Now do not, I beg of you, despair, there is more to come, oh yes indeedie. Christmas Eve I flicked the lights on and the fuse blew, I spent the entire festival with a frigging candle as my only illumination. I can hear you now, how Dickensian, how romantic, huh! You try having a crap while holding a candle. Dear God, I take my hat of to Scrooge, the old sod had it right the first time. HUMBUG.
Christmas, don’t get me started, I have lived with it since August. I was so relieved on the twenty seventh of December, when finally it was all over, and the shops started selling Easter eggs.
I know it was supposed to be the season of goodwill, but there is only so much false bonhomie a body can take, and as they started selling Christmas decorations on Oxford Street back in August, I was thoroughly sick of the festive season by the first of October. Who wouldn’t be.
It wasn’t only decorations which were being flogged to death well ahead of schedule. Mince pies, Christmas cake and puddings, all were available by late October with best before dates for the first week in November, which meant they had to be eaten there and then, by the twenty fifth of December, I could not have eaten another mince pie without the risk of throwing up.
Don’t worry my dears, things get worse. Remember, this is me we are talking about, not Santa, and I have no elves as helpers, if I had then I would throttle the little perishers as an affirmation of my attitude to Christmas past, present and future. Now we all know Yuletide can be expensive, not if you are broke it isn’t, and I was as broke as broke can be and still remain breathing. My bank kept on sending payments made into my account back to their place of origin, not once, not twice, but three bloody times. Not content with stuffing up the World’s economy, they thought they’d have a go at mine while they were at it. Charmant. Tres charmant.
Despite being sick of traditional festive fayre, I felt bit incumbent on me to get in some cake for the big day, not having much in the way of spondulicks, I was forced to settle for a slab of the cheapest muck I could lay my hands on. Muck is the operative word here. I do not know if it was the cake itself, the icing or the marzipan, but whatever it was, it gave me the squirts, I hadn’t farted so much since I went on the cabbage diet.
Now do not, I beg of you, despair, there is more to come, oh yes indeedie. Christmas Eve I flicked the lights on and the fuse blew, I spent the entire festival with a frigging candle as my only illumination. I can hear you now, how Dickensian, how romantic, huh! You try having a crap while holding a candle. Dear God, I take my hat of to Scrooge, the old sod had it right the first time. HUMBUG.
Christmas, don’t get me started, I have lived with it since August. I was so relieved on the twenty seventh of December, when finally it was all over, and the shops started selling Easter eggs.
DO THEY REALLY NEED A BIG DICK AT THE MET?
It’s a good question, and one which needs answering, especially after the antics of assistant commissioner Cressida Dick, who has turned making a cock up into an industrial science.
It was Miss Dick you may recall, who masterminded the case against Paul Burrell, an effort which cost the taxpayer a great deal of money, while making even more of it for Mr. Burrell, who, without the attendant publicity would have sunk back into the obscurity which so sorely missed his companionship.
Miss Dick’s next virtuoso performance was the Menedes affaire. What was deplorable here was not the shooting of that unfortunate, in the climate of the times, with the nation expecting another terrorist attack, such an incident was virtually inevitable. The blunder here, was in the puerile attempt to draw a veil over the events at Stockwell tube station. Miss Dick should have told the baying mob to shut up, as they who were baying for police blood, would have been squawking even louder if someone had blown up another train because the police were too timid to act. One has to ask if Miss Dick is the right tool to have in the fight against crime.
Now we come to the affaire of Damian Green, the MP who was arrested for offending our divine Caesar, Gordianus Salvator Mundi. Who was it who was caressing the gonads of this little affaire? You guessed it good people, there she was, our Cressida, right in the thick of it. It takes a lot to put Miss Dick off her stroke, I can tell you, and on this one her hands were well and truly on the pump.
After such stunning example of incompetence, one has to ask why Miss Dick is still in her job, indeed it is puzzling as to how the lady achieved her current eminence, the suspicion here is that Miss Dick was promoted because she was a woman, a token, chosen to illustrate that all in then Scotland Yard ball park was not as feminist clowns such as Harriet Harman would have the gullible believe, an organisation tooled up against the promotion of females.
Equal opportunities as a policy is all very well, but not at the expense of efficiency, especially where the exercise of justice is the paramount requirement. Found wanting on the job, Miss Dick should take herself in hand and resign.
It was Miss Dick you may recall, who masterminded the case against Paul Burrell, an effort which cost the taxpayer a great deal of money, while making even more of it for Mr. Burrell, who, without the attendant publicity would have sunk back into the obscurity which so sorely missed his companionship.
Miss Dick’s next virtuoso performance was the Menedes affaire. What was deplorable here was not the shooting of that unfortunate, in the climate of the times, with the nation expecting another terrorist attack, such an incident was virtually inevitable. The blunder here, was in the puerile attempt to draw a veil over the events at Stockwell tube station. Miss Dick should have told the baying mob to shut up, as they who were baying for police blood, would have been squawking even louder if someone had blown up another train because the police were too timid to act. One has to ask if Miss Dick is the right tool to have in the fight against crime.
Now we come to the affaire of Damian Green, the MP who was arrested for offending our divine Caesar, Gordianus Salvator Mundi. Who was it who was caressing the gonads of this little affaire? You guessed it good people, there she was, our Cressida, right in the thick of it. It takes a lot to put Miss Dick off her stroke, I can tell you, and on this one her hands were well and truly on the pump.
After such stunning example of incompetence, one has to ask why Miss Dick is still in her job, indeed it is puzzling as to how the lady achieved her current eminence, the suspicion here is that Miss Dick was promoted because she was a woman, a token, chosen to illustrate that all in then Scotland Yard ball park was not as feminist clowns such as Harriet Harman would have the gullible believe, an organisation tooled up against the promotion of females.
Equal opportunities as a policy is all very well, but not at the expense of efficiency, especially where the exercise of justice is the paramount requirement. Found wanting on the job, Miss Dick should take herself in hand and resign.
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