HARK THE HERALD ROZZERS SING.

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE WORKING CLASS CAN KISS MY ARSE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

KISS ME QUICK SHIT FACE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ABIDE WITH ME.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ONCE MORE WITH FEELING.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CITIZEN KHAN.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SEND FOR THE THERAPIST FIDO.

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

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

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

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

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

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

A HARVEY WALLBANGER.

I am not about to start pontificating on the delights of alcohol, especially poncey cocktails, no, a bottle of rough red is more my style, not that any of this has anything to do with the subject I am about to address, one of immense import to the wellbeing of society and the way we regard ourselves, or to be more precise the way Hollywood tossers regard us, those right on politically correct commissars of socially acceptable behaviour. Our behaviour naturally, not theirs. What is this all about? Well lend me your ears for I come to crap on Tinseltown not to praise it, and not before time you may say, and if you don’t, then I will.

My tale concerns an individual who sails under the name of Harvey Weinstein, I had never heard of the fellow until recently but apparently he is a big cheese in Hollywood which goes a long way to explaining my ignorance. Our Harv has been accused of indulging in that revered ritual of film land, casting couch theatrics, a custom as old as celluloid, or to couch this in a more recognisable form, spread your legs for a chance of stardom, crude but so very true and Harvey is a master of that particular art.

This is not about wannabe stars sipping cocktails, more a case of sipping Harvey’s banger up against a wall, and very successful at it he was, the women must have been queuing the length of Sunset Boulevard for the privilege of having a grope in the stationary cupboard with the priapic director whose word could make or break the career of they who managed to rub him up the wrong way.

What is perplexing here is the storm of outrage from the cast of thesps, literally fighting to register their disgust for the antics of the beleaguered film director, as if they had been handed divine revelation on a plastic plate plastered with the legend “Trump must go” Heading up this tribe is that right on political puritan Meryl Streep who never misses a chance to excoriate the American President for his attitudes towards women and is mightily pleased with herself for the stance she takes, especially when she is up for an award. But why now? Why has she not started in on Bill Clinton.

Harvey’s antics have hardly been a secret in Hollywood, they all knew what was going, and said nothing, so they have no business getting all fired up at this stage of the game, not so much as the stable door tardily bolted, more a case of a stampede to pillory hapless Harv.

Make no mistake, the man has brought all this on himself. Undoubtedly he has been encouraged to think he can do whatever he wants, nobody bothered to explain to the clown that every action carries consequences, first of which is his missus has done a runner, probably to a divorce lawyer and a shed load of alimony, after all this is LaLa land where every problem can be solved by a settlement.

We have been here before, most prominently the case of Fatty Arbuckle who was run out of town after killing a girl. OK he did not throttle the poor lass, his enormous weight caused him to crush the girl during the course of copulation Come to think of it Harvey carries a bit of a corporation, not that he has inadvertently crushed anyone while screwing them, not that I know about anyway. What has happened before will happen again, the spirit of Fatty Arbuckle still wafts amongst the mansions of Hollywood.

THE FIGHTING DYKES OF MARBLE ARCH.

Marble Arch is one of the great edifices of London, sublime in its dignity, originally it was the main entrance to Buckingham Palace and you do not get more dignified than that, except when Fergie was resident in the joint, but that is for another time. Let us concentrate on recent events at the site, events which had no resemblance to dignity in any of its forms, in short there was a punch up. Nothing new there, nowadays punchups are as common as bollocks on the streets of our revered capital city. What was the novelty regarding this contretemps was it was not between drunken lads looking for a bit of argy bargy in order to soak up the hours of the night before sobering up, or football yobs taking it out on supporters of the other team. No, the protagonists here were members of the alternative gender, or whatever we are supposed to call the bloody women these days.

To understand the depths of what I am about to write it is necessary to enjoy an understanding of gender politics along with the linguistic arcana accompanying the science. Admittedly I am not in possession of such understanding, therefore why the hell should you? One should always beware of where you go and what you say when you get there, especially in politically correct London, the truth of this nugget of commonsense will soon become apparent. When you may ask? Can’t he just shut up and get on with it? All right, fret ye not dear readership, I am about to spill the beans on the battle of Marble Arch, or if you must be common, dildos at dawn.

This concerns an outfit which staggers under the moniker of Action for trans Health, ATH if you insist on acronyms. The trans bit gives it all away. This is a bunch of lesbians who got into a brawl with another bunch of the Sapphic tendency and started punching seven bells out of each other. Hardly ladylike but there you are, not that one could describe a gaggle of butch dykes as ladies, in fact if you were so intemperate enough to do so you would probably get a knee in the balls. This is what happened. A dame by the name of Tara Filk-Wood, taking umbrage at the stance taken by Maria Maclachlan, gave the said Maria a smack in the gob. What caused the ruckus was a dispute over the vexed question of gender identity, a subject recently unknown but now elevated to the status of national imperative, not that anyone inhabiting the real World has either knowledge nor interest in the subject, after all if you were born with a dick then you were stuck with it for the rest of your natural, ipso facto you were a man. Therein lays the rub so to speak.

These days there is a branch of medicine devoted to cock cropping, a few hours under the knife and all gone, you are now a woman, but it seems that some women do not accept that irrefutable fact. Another group has entered the fray, TERFS, what in God’s name are these you may ask, well I do not know and can not be bothered to find out, suffice it to know that this lot were the other team in the fracas.

There is now a Parliamentary committee investigating the subject, what else would one expect? This is important, the country might be going to buggery and back on a Sunday afternoon, but we must get our priorities right, there are also economic aspect to all this. What would the tourists think when they come here? Expecting to see the glories of Londinium and what they get is a gang of Dykes knocking the bejesus out of each other. After this I would not be surprised if the EU insisted we Brexit and do not waste any time in going, and all because a few hairy arsed lesbos say a dude without a dick can not be a woman. I ask you.

BEWARE THE IDES OF MAY.

Cometh the hour, cometh the man. Unfortunately, for we in this benighted nation of ours there is no man to succour us in our perilous times, there are men at the pinnacle of what could comically be described as our democracy, but in actual fact they are nothing more than a bunch of bloody old women, not that such a term would be considered acceptable in modern society where the function of men is to be charged with rape by drunken tarts who change their minds over the culpability of the male after having had a damn good screw. So, we are left with Teresa May, who could hardly be compared to Julius Caesar not that she has ever heard of the fellow, after all the dame is in receipt of a modern education, which if nothing else guarantees that one can face the world confident of knowing nothing whatsoever about the place. A perfect qualification for a politician.

Mrs. May is Prime Minister of England, a position in life she acquired by offending nobody other than the electorate, who, we all know to our cost, count for nothing in the real world of politics, which is why it is safe to hold elections every now and again, as the results if unpalatable to the ruling elite can always be ignored safe in the knowledge that the buggers will not know the difference. The same situation prevailed in ancient Rome, the mob was kept quiet with a plentiful supply of bread and circuses, whereas now we give them the dole coupled with endless episodes of brain destroying soap operas, nothing changes does it? They play, we pay.

Daisy May is now lady of all she surveys, as the daughter of a clergyman the woman probably feels that Jesus wants her for a sunbeam, perhaps the old boy does but he is probably the only one of that persuasion, I do not think the Conservative party is singing too many hosannas in her praise other than they who wish to scupper the brexit process, which is why they voted her in as leader in the first place. To have done otherwise would have given the voters the impression that their opinions counted, and god knows where that might have led to. It is all well and good talking about democracy but putting the concept into practice is another kettle of fish altogether, a thing not to be tolerated in a freedom loving society.

Our glorious Prime Minister has just returned from Florence, home of the spiritual godfather of politics, Machiavelli, an apt choice as the purpose of the shindig was the interment of brexit, which will be vigorously denied despite all the evidence to the contrary. Mrs. May undoubtedly sees herself as the modern Boadicea, but we all know what happened to that old broad, only with only a modern education to fall back on, the mistress of the shoe shops remains in blissful ignorance of the fate awaiting her.

It is said that all political careers end in tears, they do not, they end with a stab in the back, as will assuredly be the fate of mother T. Who will yield the knife? For Caesar the coup de grace came from Brutus, the big B of his time, consumed by resentment and ambition. If you are of an historical disposition would put your money on Boris doing the dirty deed. But, mark my words, Brutus stuck the knife in, but he did not last too long afterwards. Enjoy your domination of the Forum Teresa, it ain’t going to last, and you will be replaced by another charlatan, ‘twas ever so.

FEMINISM IS ALL BALLS.

Of course one should not say such things as this, indisputably it would be considered as being derogatory towards women, the fact that most men would agree with this statement counts for nothing in the arse about face world of political correctness which as we all know is the Nicene creed of modern life, and God help any who are so intellectually incontinent as to question this unassailable fact. Well, I am incontinent therefore I am about to sally forth in defence of the male of the species, most of whom have no balls, as those useful tools have been swiped by the harpies of the metropolitan dykehood.

Where do we start on this inexhaustible subject of which nobody of any sense had ever heard of until recently? A good place to kick off is Miriam Gonzalez, who is she? You may ask, anything to do with Mrs Pankhurst? nothing so exalted, the lady referred to is none other than the missus of Nick Clegg, a clapped out British politico who was given the bums rush by the electorate at the last election. This dippy bird is a lawyer, well what else would you expect? When she is not helping shady characters to evade their just deserts, she is running around looking for excuses to be outraged over, usually some perceived slight to feminine supremacy.

Mrs Clegg always gets a splash in the papers when throwing a wobbly over the iniquities of male attitudes, in the argot of the age the woman is a celebrity, but why does she enjoy all this attention? What has she done to earn such deference? The answer to that is sweet fuck all. This harridan glides to the attention of the nation on the coat tails of her old man who she castrated before the poor sap had even shuffled down the isle, if there is one thing guaranteed to send our Miriam screaming up the wall it is to be addressed as Mrs Clegg. That’s feminism for you lad, Hypocrisy in a D cup.

The lady is not alone on the rostrum populated by professional offence takers on behalf of womankind, head and shoulders above all others is the doyenne of dick destroyers, Germaine Greer herself, perpetually fulminating against the insufferable domination of men, although I seriously doubt that any man has dominated this crusading academic, or at least having tried to do so, walked away from the confrontation fully intact and in working order. Once wore hypocrisy rears its ugly head, if it were not for men, who would have heard of Germaine Greer? Oh she needs us, believe you me, if the woman had a shred of gratitude she would offer grateful thanks to the male sex for the limitless publicity their presence on the planet has afforded her no,t forgetting the shed loads of money she has made from being perpetually outraged.

One more, then I will promise to disappear into the ether and hold my peace, at least until the next time I feel the urge to sound off about the preposterous mores of contemporary life. My final vignette concerns a lady by the name of Bel Mooney, never heard of the dame? Not to worry, very few have, so, I offer one or two biographical details. Ms Mooney is an agony aunt for the Daily Mail, dispensing crap tarted up as advice to those poor souls witless enough to write to her. The lady in question, and believe me she is a Lady, television royalty no less, once married to a Dimbleby, you don’t get much royaller than that in this day and age. Unfortunately dear Bel has about as much experience of everyday life as did a French aristocrat of the anciene regime, which is why she is divorced and now wedded to fashionable causes.

Many years ago they were building a motorway near Bath, as is obligatory in such circumstances the event attracted the mandatory compliment of weeperes, wailers and assorted tree huggers. Naturally Bel was there handing out moral support by the bucketload. One of the protesters asked a favour of Mrs. Dimbleby, the answer he received was priceless. Unwilling to accede to the request, Mrs. D. fearless feminist that she was fell back on this priceless bon mot “I’ll have to ask my husband” That dear readers says it all., which proves that behind every unflinching feminist there is a strong man. As I Said at the beginning, feminism is all balls, and where the hell would they be without ours?

TECHNOLOGY? DON’T GET ME STARTED.

We live in an age which worships all things technical, while being assured it is our saviour and future, a fact embraced by all who can not think for themselves but rely on a machine to do their thinking for them which probably the vast majority of the human race, but then do not despair as there are those who think Elvis is alive and well. Working as a fish and tater hawker on Whitechapel Road. If you believe that you will believe anything, which unfortunately applies to most of the human race for whom gullibility, as an incurable condition, has replaced bubonic plague.

Enough of this frivolity. Let’s get down to the nitty gritty of this piece before I sober up and write something sensible, worth reading and polite to my readership, so, on with the motley. I can’t stand technology, it is the bane of my life, all these computers and pass words and god alone what else, indeed it is getting to the stage where one can not get on a bus without a pass word. Admittedly I have trouble with all things technological, without doubt I have trouble switching the light on and off, nor can I stand telephones, intrusive bloody contraptions at the best of times which only ring when one is asleep or enjoying a good crap after a prolonged state of constipation. Well I have started so I will finish.

First and most obvious is those automata in supermarkets which squawk instructions at you while your are trying to figure out if your credit card is maxed out and you left the gas cooker on. They are irritating but this is just the start, things have got worse and worse, and getting a damn side worser. Is it only me who gets the impression that contact between humans is becoming an indictable offence. Phone up a supplier of a commercial product and what do you get? A bloody robot that’s what, and they are touchy sods them robots, you’d think they were human the way some of them carry on. One outfit I contacted put me though to a robot which could not understand what I was saying. Now I am a patient sort of old cove, but finally I lost my rag and started efffing and blinding at the bloody thing, what happened? Did I receive satisfaction? Did I hell, I was cut off. I ask you, cut off for cussing at a fucking robot, the indignity of it all. I think I have lived too long.

There is hardly an institution not infected by this insidious virus, bring back the Luddites, start wrecking these perverse machines which are destroying the ability of people to think and react for themselves, not that the fools could do so under the most propitious of circumstances, but at least we could enjoy the satisfaction of telling them what we think of them, or to bugger off and get an education.

Where will it all end I ask myself? The way things are going it is only a matter of time before you go to the doctors, only to be confronted by a machine and told to stick your cock in the hole and cough.

A SWIFT PAT ON THE ARSE.

All ages have their individual peculiarities, and the principal peculiarity of the age in which we dwell is that it is impossible to be a man in the traditional sense of the word, try and be a man as ones male predecessors understood the term and you are on the way to trouble if not incarceration, or at the very least a million dollar law suit as has happened to a hitherto unknown by the name of David Mueller, who found himself in court for goosing Taylor Swift.

Now most men will try it on with a member of the opposite sex, but a smack in the chops is usually sufficient to cool their ardour, although if they get frisky with another man they are regarded as admirably progressive and transgender champions, nolo contendere as they say in legal circles. The nub of the storey is that boy Dave gave Taylor a pat on the arse, to which the lady took great exception, why she should do so is beyond comprehension as if you dress as a tart and act as one, then your average bloke will get the right understanding of your moral boundaries and make a play for a piece of the action, or a chunk of arse if you insist on being common, which I rather suspect a lot of you are.

Let us now take a close look at miss Swift, or at least her track record in these matters, by the way the lady is a singer, well that is how she describes herself although in my book, standing on a stage while squawking and flashing your fanny at the audience does not qualify on for the lead role in Tosca, Callas the dame ain’t. If Taylor has any talent at all it is in the art of self promotion, in that field she leads the pack, specialising in the art of hooking a prominent male. There are no shortage of male celebs willing to partner the lady in this particular tango, where intern for a feel and a fuck they get their names in the papers and the chance to boast to their mates that they have ended up in the ranks of the A list of heterosexual athletes and are not as bent as corkscrews.

These activities are timed to co-inside with the next highlight of her career, a tactic which never fails, except for the victim who invariably fades from notice as soon as he is dumped. All this can not continue indefinitely, hence the current hoo ha. Rumour has it that our heroin has another magnum opus on the launch pad thus the need for a fresh publicity angle, this is where Mr. Mueller comes in. The fellow is being sued for millions, naturally, this is America after all. Considering the political climate the outcome was foretold, a swift victory for Taylor, who magnanimously accepted damages of one dollar, along side millions in free publicity, but it does not end there, oh no.

Taylor is going to donate to charities aiding abused women, no mention of which charities or how much, and I suspect those donations will fade into obscurity to await the next campaign for attention. What about David Meuller? He is already on the cutting room floor, forgotten, financially wiped out by the lawyers fees and without a job, be that as a warning to any other blokes who are tempted by the allures of Derriere Doris, it ain’t worth it boys. And if any of thee are offended by what I have writ, then serve you right for reading it in the first place.

WANT DEMOCRACY? THEN DON’T LET THE BUGGERS VOTE.

Now this is a serious proposition, none of the customary piss taking or sticking two fingers up at the establishment, no siree, for once I will be restrained and decorous, this subject is far too serious to be treated with disrespectful levity. Having got that out of the way we can get on with slinging the shit, nothing lasts forever, not even respect, which of course has its place in the firmament of public discourse, but, one can have enough of restraint and I have now had my ration for the week.

The Almighty, God bless him, went out of fashion some considerable time in the past, but fads like fashions come and go, and religion abhors a vacuum, there is always one around the corner waiting to take its place at the head of the queue, in this day and age it is democracy, after all one can have too much of a good thing, as they who voted against Brexit would fervently agree with. The seething masses have no understanding of the finer things of life, or what is good for them, it is a complete waste of time tying to educate the gormless buggers, it is up to us to do the right thing and if they do not like it, then ignore them, after all it is for their own good, ask any self-righteous social worker is you have any doubts on that point.

Deciding on the future of ones country is a serious business, not to be left in the hands of those idle sods who’s sole ambition in life is to lay in bed watching soap operas and only getting up for a crap, harsh I know, but all respectable left wing intellectuals who know what is best for everyone, and nothing concerning the generalities of life will agree, not that they would admit to such agreement, public honesty is not encouraged amongst the upper echelons, neither is picking ones nose or farting when the leader of the Labour Party is making a speech, but democracy is far to important to be entrusted to the hands of the demos, who undoubtedly think Donald Trump is respectable and Nigel Farage should be Prime Minister, which says all you need to know about them, which is altogether too much.

Nobody wants a dictatorship, heaven forefend we should end up with such a system. There are definite limits to what is acceptable in a democracy, as any self respecting media poof will tell you, the working classes are for talking about, not talking to, and definitely not for listening to,that road leads to trump and Brexit, and we none of us want that, at least none who can read, write and do sums.

So let us have done with all this squawking about representative democracy. Democracy was constituted to represent us, the liberal elite and none other. So sit back in your IKEA chairs, slurp a gallon or two of Chardonnay and to hell with the shite from the council estates.

N0 CRAPPERS FOR CRIPPLES.

Yes, I know we should not mock the afflicted, but there are times when it is nigh on impossible to resist temptation, especially when one has come within an inch of being mown down by some self righteous prick on a mobility scooter bowling down the pavement at a speed more suited to Silverstone. Now you may well think that I hold a certain animus against the more disadvantaged of my fellow citizens, and if you do then you would be bang on the bacon, I am, there is nothing more irritating than they who grizzle and moan over the iniquities of life and expect, ney demand, that others not suffering any physical imposition should be discommoded in order to underline their martyrdom. I am referring specifically to the disabled, which is not the done thing to do, but frankly my dears I do not give a damn.

All this is part and parcel of the modern doctrine of what you want you can have and to dispute this irrationality is to invite the punishment of being tarred, feathered and run out of town. The physically disabled are sacrosanct and must not be criticised, but someone must at some stage point out to these people that if you are a cripple there are certain things in life beyond your reach, amongst them, climbing the north face of the Eiger, running the London marathon while your prosthetic is at the pawn brokers, and indulging in the more athletic poses of the karma Sutra, and the sooner disabled folk accept these proscriptions on life the happier they will be, although I suspect that having a good moan is one of the chief joys of their existence.

The most recent rumpus concerns the inadequate provision of lavatories on the trains. Two people popped up on the television to regale the viewers with tales of how due to lack of lavatorial facilities on the train they were reduced to wetting themselves and are now demanding legislation. Naturally, after all we can not deny a physically impaired person lavatorial facilities, that would be against their human rights. But I ask you, what about your ordinary passenger? Forced to sit next to some cripple pissing himself with gay abandon, surely they are entitled to a bit of legislation, how about a law that all cripples must be registered and forbidden to venture out in public without incontinence pads.

However such is the lunacy of the Western World that such legislation is virtually guaranteed, but why stop at cripples I ask you? There’s that LGBTXYZ mob, then there is the blind. We’ll end up with so many specialised lavatories on the trains there will be no room for the passengers, who if taken short will have to drop their drawers and take a dump on the side of the road, after which the Transport Police will arrest then for indecent exposure.

SWING LOW SWEET CHARIOT.

I do not want to disappoint but this screed has nothing to do with the Bible despite the title. It is not about fiery chariots descending from on high to shower the wisdom of the World onto the shoulders of Elisha. The chariot in question is the modern equivalent of the horse drawn contraption, an aeroplane, and while it was not the Angel Gabriel who descended to Earth preparatory to sounding the last trump, it was one of the passengers who trumped it up, not on a brass instrument but through his fundamental orifice, in plain and unambiguous language, he farted. Now we have all at some times in our passage through this vale of social faux pas, dropped a clanger, and then blamed it on the dog, unfortunately on this occasion there was no canine present to shoulder the embarrassment, so they evacuated the ‘plane.

I kid you not dear readers, one fart and the airline schedules were blown to the winds. The craft landed at Raleigh-Durham airport, the smell was so bad that the passengers were evacuated; one rip snorting raspberry and they had to get the delicate flowers off. According to reports they were suffering nausea and headaches. Did the oxygen masks drop down? Was there panic and screaming? Or, more probably were they phoning their lawyers preparatory to suing the carrier, after all this is America where a fart is as good an excuse for a multi million dollar law suite as you are likely to get this side of a public urinal.

This must have been the Hiroshima and Nagasaki of anal emissions to cause an entire ‘plane to be emptied, I can not imagine such a happening even if an entire team of rugby players had blasted forth after a night spent necking ten pints of Guinness topped off with a plateful of vindaloo.

Despite the pandemonium, nothing has been said about the delinquent sod with the rebellious sphincter, did they force feed him a dose of syrup of figs to clean him out? Or contact Gwyneth Paltrow for advice on his diet? Or just told him to stuff a cork up his arse and suggested in words of Anglo-Saxon simplicity not to add to the effects of climate change? We will probably never know, but remember, this is America where talking shite is a social obligation,. So we should not be surprise that they fart better than the rest of us.

ALL COCK AND CLIMATE CHANGE.

I presume some of my readers assume they have heard it all, that is also what I thought until recently but one can always rely on the loons of academe to upset the apple cart and ruffle our assumptions, and a few other things along the way, and I certainly had mine well and truly ruffled by two American academics, James Lindsay and Peter Boghossian. I do not know which oyster these pearls of learning issued from, suffice it to say I was shocked rigid for the pair are claiming that climate change is caused by the penis. Are they serious or merely trying to keep their intellectual ends up or was this a faux pas at the printers, or most probably the mother of all cock ups?

It all started with a paper they wrote titled “The conceptual penis as a social construct” Christ, and there was me thinking it was just a dick, or am I just pissing in the wind here? According to messers B and L penises are responsible for climate change, apparently this load of old bollocks addresses the issue of hypermasculinity through a multidimensional and non linear process, something to ponder next time you whip it out for a sly jimmy riddle at the back of the Odeon. Get the jargon, this pair are incapable of calling a spade a bloody shovel when everyone knows it is a soil transitioning implement.

All this was published in reputable academic journals and widely praised, as it should be for the article ticked all the right boxes and was couched in the language of the left. Naturally, if this bilge had been couched in plain English it would not have seen the light of day, the intelligentsia despise nothing more rabidly than the patois of the demos, for as we all know the working classes are for talking about , not for talking to, therefore there is no point whatsoever in making oneself understood by them, do that and they will start thinking they count for something, which all right thinking folk instinctively know to be preposterous. This research, and I use the term selectively, has been enthusiastically received in our universities, a fact which underlines the quality of teaching in those institutions and goes a long way to explain why they are churning out graduates who, to put it charitably are as thick as pig shit.

Now panic ye not, James and Peter were indulging in a hallowed literary tradition, like the Hitler diaries it was a hoax, but I fear for their futures as academic panjandrums do not take kindly to being exposed as the frauds they undoubtedly are. So, the penis is not the cause of climate change, breath easy lads, your dicks are safe, it was all a piss take.

LABOUR’S SCYLLA AND CHARYBDIS.

It is said that those who the gods wish to destroy they first make mad, if on the off chance the local booby hatch is overbooked they send the poor saps off to join the Labour party, the eternal home of deluded intellectual toffs who’s main recreation is pretending to be working class.

To be caught between Scylla and Charybdis is to be faced with two equally unpleasant alternatives, what is vulgarly known as between a rock and a hard place and considering my template for the two monsters of Greek mythology, I have chosen well, none other than Shami Chakrabarti and Diane Abbott, better known as Baroness Bollocks and Lard Arse, two man hating harridans, who’s hypocrisy is the yardstick by which all others are measured, and found wanting in comparison.

Let us take a closer look at our two charmers, not that either of them possess a grain of the substance. First there is Lard Arse. This particular specimen went to Cambridge, her entry to this seat of advanced learning must have been due to positive discrimination as all evidence points to the woman being as thick as pig shit, she read history but seems to have forgotten most of the subject, although I suspect the lady did not learn much of it in the first place. Our Di is now shadow Home Secretary despite being unable to tell one end of an abacus from the other, she boasts that Cambridge made her, well, it also made Burgess and Mclean, a bright pair who’s loyalty to Britain could be considered somewhat suspect, as can Diane’s.

Now we come to shameless Shami, the Sherpa of social climbing, and has she scaled the heights, but first a thumbnail sketch of the lady’s attributes, and I promise I will try not to be ungallant. She has a face which resembles an arse which has been over injected with botox, expressionless except for the gap in the middle (Never could keep a promise too good to repeat) The newly minted peer used to be leader of an outfit called Liberty for which we should all be grateful as we had not any experience of such a concept before Shami’s lot jumped off the banana boat and taught us the meaning of freedom. Shami thinks grammar schools are socially divisive which is probably why they would not admit her sprog to Eton, forcing the hypocrite to send the lad to the down market Dulwich College, cheaper but lacking the social cachet of Slough Grammar. While this is all socially divisive, Shami will not worry herself unduly as she is on record as being stuck horrified by the prospect of sharing a room with Essex men. Very uncouth are Essex men, no class and they all go to state comprehensives.

Scylla had twelve faces, but then so has Shami and her pal Diane. The mythical monsters were man eaters, I do not know about Baroness Bollox, but Lard Arse certainly falls into that category as Jeremy Corbyn could certainly testify. Those who the gods wish to destroy they cause to live in a democracy.

ALL COCK AND CLIMATE CHANGE.
(coming soon)

THIS IS NOT A LEG PULL.

What are they putting in the tea at our centres of academic excellence these days? Well, it can not be bromide, especially at Nottingham Trent University. I do not know if this is a proper institution of learning or one of those gimcrack outfits which in our egalitarian age litter every street corner and exist only to propagate the pretensions of the terminally thick, which is why they are so popular with the youth of today who couldn’t pour piss out of a boot even if the instructions were printed on the heel, particularly as they can not read in the first place. Have I offended you dear ones? Well I bloodywell hope so as the experience will do you good, even if you go blind as a consequence.
Enough of this whimsy and let us get down to the nuts of this issue. A psychologist at the said University has recommended that employers institute masturbation breaks, I presume they would be for the male staff as most would conclude that the majority of bosses are wankers in the first place and not in need of extra stimulation. Of course the logistics might be a tad complicated, does a bell ring at set times and all rush off to a designated area? Or would they sneak off for a quick tug of lust behind the bike shed? Or deciding to let it all hang out and stand in a circle in the middle of the office trying to see who would be first off the mark which might not be a particularly wise move as Doris the tea lady could walk in on them and either have a heart attack or, even worse, help herself to what was on offer which would undoubtedly dampen their spirits.
What has our civilisation come to? It makes my spirits droop to think of it all, and the waste of all that money spent on obtaining an education which only teaches one how to have a wank, an occupation not normally in need of instruction. But, enough of this levity, we are in the throes on an election, with great decisions to be made, therefore we must all pull together.

HILLARY, THE DYKE FALLS OFF HER BIKE.

Pride comes before a fall and Mrs. Clinton has enough of the stuff to fill her hubby’s pants and still leave enough room to accommodate his dick, and with his track record in said department that is surely saying something. Although what the woman has to be proud of is something of an enigma. Mrs C is an avowed feminist, coasting to her personal nirvana by means of her husbands coat tails. Nothing like a knob to pole vault to success.

Our heroine is running for the Presidency of the USA on a cloud of mendacity of such intensity one would suspect she has received lessons from our own Tony Blair, no slouch himself when it comes to spinning porkies. The race for the White House is not for the feint hearted, it is the political equivalent of the Tour de France, the final lap is the most gruelling and Hillary has come off her bike in a spectacular fashion. She who has lived a lie is now dying of one, garrotted by the truth so to speak, Donald Trump, no slouch when it comes to spouting a big whopper, cannot believe his luck.

Now, time to get sown to the kernel of this problem, Hillary and her unwillingness to call a spade a bleeding shovel, to wit, she did not send any e-mails despite initiating six hundred and fifty of the little blighters, which suggests that with such a level of correspondence she could not have spared the time to have a crap let alone give Bill a blow job, not that he would have availed himself of the offer. All this was effected via a private server, which begs the question what did she have to hide? What did she have to convey that could not be entrusted to the official apparatus? Hillary avows she did not do anything wrong, is this her Monica moment?

Hillary has been blowing hot and cold on Donald’s attitude to women, a stance somewhat perplexing considering the time she has been hitched to Bill without tonguing so much as a whisper of disapproval, a state of affaires which does leave a marginally nasty taste in the mouth. So, to the dénouement of this piece, Hillary looking forlornly through the gates of the White House, the only cunt on Capital Hill which Bill has not drilled.