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?