POOF THE MAGIC CAMERON.

When I was a lad, in days more innocent than those we inhabit today, practically everyone had a trannie, it was a plastic box which squawked pop music, in short a miniature wireless, which is what we called a radio in the days before Americanese was adopted by the Marxists of the urban inteligensia in order to disguise their posh origins and expensive educations with jargon and accents which would shrivel the balls in embarrassment of your average fine upstanding English man. At this point I should point out that this elegantly crafted bile has absolutely nothing to do with transistors, wirelesses or radios, and there is no way of putting this in a politically correct turn of phrase, not that I would in the first place you understand. Now, I am giving you this straight, the government is obsessed with ‘omos and I am not referring to the washing powder, I would not be surprised if the bent bastards did not start the Cabinet meeting with a gang bang instead of a prayer for heavenly guidance, which considering the cock up they manage to make of most things is not an activity they pursue with any perceptible vigour. Our current Government is obsessed with homophobia, to get ahead in this brave new world you have to be able to prove that you go out polishing knobs on a Saturday night on a regular basis. While the British Government can try to bully the native population into believing that buggery is the natural order of events, Joe Soap on the Clapham omnibus might take a little more convincing, not that anyone in North London gives a toss what he thinks, the working classes are for patronising not listening to. After the recent budget we realise that the Government is prone to getting itself into a hole, but there is no need to make a religion out of the activity? What is it about shirt lifting that so excites them? Is there something here that the rest of us are missing? Not content to badger those on the home front on the joys of turd burgling, the queens of Downing Street are turning their guns on the recipients of foreign aide, principally those nations of this Earth who chose to trade in the stability of British rule for life under a home grown kleptocracy. More that one of these ramshackle nations have been told that a continuance of aide is dependent on a more vigorous promotion of arse banditry. So much for international relations. The number one obsession in fairy land at the moment is gay marriage, especially in church, although why the insistence on the right to be spliced in the parish gospel hall looms so large in the utopian visions of the intelligentsia is beyond my ken. And as we all know, marriage was designed for the procreation of children so how could two blokes getting it together manage that? Talk about being up shit creek without a paddle. Technicalities apart, who would be the bride and who the groom and what would happen if both parties turned up at the altar in white frocks? neither willing to give way and ending up knocking seven bells out of each other, I pity the poor vicar. It is only time before Cameron decides on a physical monument to this queer policy. The North has it’s Angel of the North, I suppose it could be re-named the Nancy of Newcastle, but that would cause a bit of a kafuffle amongst the Geordies, better to have such an edifice down south. Alexandria had its Pharos, Dover could have it’s Phallus. Picture it, a gigantic bronze representation of a dick at the entrance to the harbour, they could call it the colossus of cock. There would have to be a suitable inscription, something along the lines of “Give me your poofs and illegal immigrants, yearning for a council house and the dole, we will cherish them, even if they wish to blow us to kingdom come”. It is a queer old world, that’s for sure and nothing is what it seems, Cameron is not a Conservative and I have heard a rumour that not only did he vote for Brown at the last election , but that Sam is actually a trannie. Not many people know that.

U.N. HAPPY.

Now let’s get one thing out of the way before I start, a rant is like a dose of diarrhoea, it comes upon one suddenly and once it starts there is no stopping it, overall it is a gut busting blow out which gives much relief to the sufferer, even if it does not clear the air so to speak. Having got that off my chest, lets get down to the nitty gritty.

The U.N. in it’s wisdom, which is not saying very much, as sagacity and the international body have but an imperfect appreciation of each other, has compiled an index of happiness which ranks the nations of the World according to the jollility of their inhabitants. Number six on the list are the Swiss, well that in itself is hilarious, the only time that lot are happy is when they are grassing up their neighbours for farting late at night. Before the Swiss in the league tables are the Scandinavians, it gets better does it not? After all, the Swedes have the highest suicide rate in the World, just imagine your average Swede looking the bathroom mirror first thing of a morning “Oh! I am so happy, I won’t have a shave, I’ll go and top myself instead”, happy? They must be friggin delirious, well the U.N thinks they are

Now where does this leave us poor Brits? Easy, back of the bus stop with no chance of a ride. Take my circumstances for example, and as you will see, the U.N. certainly did not consult me on the question of happiness, although compared with the Swedes I reckon I must be pretty chipper. I live in Whitechapel, the Riviera of the East End of London, a more sorry dump you would not have seen this side of the Pearly Gates, I share my garret with another, he has fur, four legs and loves cheese and if the bastard does not find another gaff pretty damn soon then I am going to present him with a rent book.

Last week I went off to vote, nothing wrong with that you might say, right, except that I got the date correct but the month was a bit out of kilter and as the polling station doubled up for a school, and I was poking around looking for a voting booth I was nearly arrested for paedophilia, the fact that I happened to be wearing a dirty old raincoat did not help matters.

On my way back from the West End the other day, the journey had the added attraction of a cabaret. A fellow passenger who bore all the traits of what I call a Monica, every bitch I have ever known has been a Monica, that is they all have big mouths, bigger arses and faces pebble dashed with zits, this example of the genre had the added attraction of a bald patch the size of a dinner plate, either that or her roots were seriously in need of attention. The dame started shooting her mouth off the instant she stepped on the bus and managed to antagonise every other passenger before completing her journey, after which we all had a jolly good time slagging the old bitch off. Now that was happiness, it would have been complete if the old hag had fallen over and broken her neck.

I got back to the residence to find the lodger had finally popped his clogs, to save on funeral cost, I dropped him down the bog, well, he was only a mouse after all, then I decided it was time for a leak. Unfortunately, my pissing on the poor four legged mite revived him, with the result that he leaped out of the crapper and bit me on the dick. Now if you think running around the joint with a rodent hanging onto your foreskins adds anything to the happiness of the nation then all I can say is that you had better run away and join the rest of the dopes at the U.N., where you can assist in the proclaiming of Syria as a haven of peace and tranquillity.

THE PIES PIPER OF OLD LONDON TOWN.

There is nothing more hilarious than a bunch of politicos, drenched in taxpayers cash and trying to be working class, nobody in public life will admit to being posh, which is why Ed Milliband’s adenoidal tones are such a Godsend as it is impossible to discern what is beneath them, his old man could have been a lavatory attendant at Camden bogs for all we know, but in this case we do know better, his father was one of those relentless hypocrites who came to this country to preach the destruction of capitalism while making a mint in the process, cosseted and protected by the society he despised, no wonder his sons are such a pair of wankers.

Class is never far beneath the surface of our national life, indeed, without it we would have no life, such is the obsession we have for the social standing of our neighbours, thus the outrage of the Pasty tax. Pasties, you see, are cheap nosh for common sods, not the sort of grub your political aristocrat would normally stumble upon on his way to the Fat Duck for a plate of slugs in slime. No wonder Georgie Porgy, oily and fly, taxed the pasties and made us cry, he did not think it mattered and he certainly did not think that we mattered. Well, there is no fool like a government fool.

The obsessions of the political class are a wonder to behold and before you could say jellied eels, the hierarchy of Parliament was in a stampede to be the first to be seen on camera necking a pasty in a working class establishment. First over the threshold was Red Ed, the posh prick from North London, plus entourage of course, like Louis theXIV he will not go from so much as one room to another unless there is someone in attendance to hold the pot should they need to take a piss, not that it happens very often as they are too busy taking it out of us to indulge in a leek themselves. Clock the look on Milliband’s face, the poor sap could not tall the difference between a pork pie and a pig’s trotter let alone a Cornish pasty.

And now we come to dick head Dave, doyenne of the Parliamentry spives, chomping on a sausage roll, by the look on his face his staff had evidently not told him what it was he was eating, to top it all there was SamCam riding a bike, just when the cameras happened to be pointing her way, fancy that now. Dear God, do they think we are all simple? Now that is one question we do know the answer to.

This ends where it begins, with Georgie, to sell his pasty tax to the working classes he is going to slap a tax on chilled Champagne, what next? Making the eating of caviar an indictable offence, don’t laugh, not with this lot in charge. Where will it all end? There will probably be a riot in Sunderland Co-Op over the last tin of baked beans with the one who bags the can being crowned working class twit of the year.