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.

YASMIN ALIBHAI-BROWN.

Yasmin Alibhai-Brown, you know, the bitch on the broomstick of British journalism, she who must not be argued with lest one be accused of racism, not that such a charge would worry me. Buggerall-Brown has made a career of biting the hand which feeds it and expects to be cheered to the rafters for doing so, the ungrateful cow is as smug as a well turned arse on a gay pride march.
The hectoring old besom came to this country just before the expulsion of the Asians from Uganda, and seeing which way the wind was blowing, promptly married a British passport, as one does, and from that day to this has never forgiven us for being so accommodating, neither have I come to that.
Buggerall-Brown has been described as being the stupidest woman in Britain, sharing the accolade with Diane Abbot, another harridan who blew in from God knows where to lambaste us for our tolerance, together they make up the Dolly Sisters of the race relations farrago, that pair ought to open a bawdy house in Brick Lane, offering halal sex to the brotherhood, getting ahead with Islam so to speak.
Brown’s trademark is anti racism, but this is a heavily qualified term because the woman never lets slip an opportunity to sneer at the poor old native Brits and their traditions, but then in the world of Buggerall-Brown and her mates, the only racists are a whiter shade of pale, the woman will not be satisfied until our Muslim friends have bred themselves into the majority and are leading us off to the gas ovens.
Like all of her kind, darling Yasmin is very good at dishing it out but when it comes to taking it, well that is a different proposition alltogether, offend old Buggerall-Brown and you are more than likely to find plod feeling your collar, as Gareth Compton found out to his cost. Gareth, tongue in cheek suggested Buggerall-Brown should be stoned. What’s wrong with that? Some people just do not have a sense of humour, personally if such an event should come to pass I would be first in the queue with me bag of brick and a jam doughnut to fortify myself, but, I digress. Gareth was arrested, at night of course, after all this is politically correct Britain and Stalinist principles must be adhered to. The outcome was predictable, Gareth was suspended from the Conservative Party, always ready willing and eager to throw one of it’s members to the race relations wolves. Brown was in her element, striding through the airwaves, Nemesis with a tampax, not that she would need one at her age, demanding vengeance, and retribution for the remarks of the hapless councillor.
Now before you good folks say that miracles do not happen, I have news for you. Despite all expectations to the contrary, the CPS dismissed the case, thus depriving Buggerall-Brown the chance of a racist rant from the witness box, and Gareth Compton was free to continue with his life, up to a point. It should come as no surprise that Councillor Compton has now stood down as a representative of the people, and his chances of a political career are as substantial as the survival of a snow ball in hell. Well, what would you expect?
As for Buggerall-Brown she continues on her merry way, unchallenged by common sense or a consideration of her hosts. I rather think she should be stoned, or at least given a one way ticket back to where she came from.

THE ISLAMIC REPUBLIC OF TOWER HAMLETS.

The election has gone, the votes have been fiddled and the dead have been returned to their graves, that is until the next election, when, stiff with boredom they will once more be resurrected, thereby to enrich the democratic process. In the meantime things have returned to normal in Tower Hamlets where the Third World comes to enjoy the unparalled benefits system, and sue the natives for racism when they are short of the price of a World cruise.
Here in the Borough life in all it’s rich diversity can be sampled, provided of course that you are not expecting to find any white Anglo Saxon protestants, there are limits to the tolerance that can be expected from an illegal immigrant, so the authorities make sure there are not too many of the native species on display at any one time.
The Sheiks and Sultans of Whitechapel have not as yet got around to introducing Sharia law, much to the chagrin of the Archbishop of Canterbury who thinks the best way to save his church is to slit its throat rather as if it were a lamb being slaughtered according to Halal rites. But, fret ye not, like Dominique Strauss-Kahn, Sharia will come, and there will be beheadings in Altub Ali Park on Friday mornings, which the metropolitan intelligentsia, anxious as ever to avoid giving offence would undoubtedly describe as a little local culture. You could say stone the crows to all of this, but stone the queers would be nearer the mark as gays will not be tolerated, and they will certainly not be awarded seventy two rent boys when they get to paradise.
This bodes well for Cornish hoteliers. These folk as we all know are banned from banning gays from their premises, they can now emigrate to Brick Lane and pitch their tents slap bang in the middle of Sharia land. In that neck of the woods they can set up shop, stick a notice in the window announcing ‘No poofs in the parlour’, and that’s it. No one would dare to sue them. Of course they would have to change their names to Patel or some such, but to paraphrase the French King Henri IV ‘A buggery free Brick lane is worth a Patel’.
In all honesty I should issue a warning here, the local mutawah is diligently enforcing it’s intolerance in direct proportion to it’s medieval ignorance and threatening to cut the throat of any bint not bubble wrapped to the eyeballs in a burkah. Hardly enlightened behaviour this, telling women how they can dress, but hell, they probably got their ideas from the French, and one must not forget that they are ethnic minorities and should be allowed a certain amount of rope, enough to hang the rest of us, egged on by the commission for racial equality, a body which sees it’s remit as an obligation to bite the hand that feeds it.
The new mayor has taken to his elevated position like a duck to water, swanning around the streets of Whitechapel in a motorcade with outriders. Strewth it is only a matter of time before the old poseur is carried about on a sedan chair like the Popes used to be. There is nothing like a whiff of power to turn a fool into a complete idiot.
Meanwhile life follows its merry course and public money goes down the pan so fast it does not even touch the side, there is an outfit on Whitechapel road called the Jagonari Centre where they teach such essentials to British life as how to ride a bike in a burkah. The local caterers dole out salmonella burgers safe in the knowledge that they will not be shut down (The Patel factor again). This in all its glory is multicultural England, and what in the name of god did we do to deserve it?

GOING TITS UP DOWN AT THE NICK.

By God you need a sense of humour in this day and age although you’d be arrested if you were so indelicate to laugh at the wrong things, the sort of jokes pub comics had them in stitches with in days afore, when you could enjoy a fag and clout the missus without being banged up for the rest of your natural. I think that at this point I should confess that I am not politically correct, save a lot of explanations further down the line that will.

Now this is all about humour, laugh? You’ll have diarrhoea ‘till doomsday by the time you’ve got through this lot. Down on the Jurassic coast, often referred to as Dorset, the panjandrums of authority, starting with the police have finally lost their marbles, that’s assuming they had any in the first place, and they certainly didn’t have any balls to substitute for them. A woman police officer visited Purbeck School in Wareham to talk about a playground spat, a task vital to the security of our nation.

When she was out of the room, the right on P.C was referred to by some of the boys as P.C Nipples. Thirteen year old lads taking notice of a pair of Bristols, whatever next, at that age they should long since have been taught the superiority of homosexuality, and a proper appreciation of a nice pair of nuts. Anyway, the upshot of these remarks was that someone, probably the teacher, undoubtedly constipated with political correctness, immediately rushed off to inform the officer of what had been said about her. The PC, obviously as daft and as humourless as the teacher, set in motion the modern equivalent of an excommunication, a full bell book and candle job.

A “restorative justice conference” was called into being. Apart from the five boys and their parents round the table, there were three uniformed officers and, now get this folks, a plain clothes community safety manager, all that was missing was Jasmine Buggerall-Brown sitting in on the pow-wow and insisting the children should be charged with racism.

But there are a few questions that need to be asked, P.C nipples? Take it from me, thirteen year old lads know the difference between nipples and knockers. What was the dame wearing to illicitate such a comment? Why did such a production have to be mounted? Have they called time on common sense in that neck of the woods? And if the actions of the police are representative of a front line service then the sooner we get those cuts the better.

As the Bard so memorably said “Much ado about nothing.” Hours of time wasted, thousands of pounds down the drain, and all for the want of an old fashioned clip around the ear.

WHAT A CUNNING STUNT.

Television, especially the news programmes, could not survive the week without a plethora of surveys and studies. Making few programmes which are worth watching, the T.V. companies fall back on broadcasting the latest research of various bodies. These polemics are designed for two things only, to frighten the crap out of your archetypal couch potato, and to pressure the powers that be into handing over money to continue the said research, in most cases this amounts to nothing more than a re-hash of the gospel of the bleeding obvious.

The latest in this genre to hit a television screen near you is from a clutch of medicos and suchlike who claim that magnets can relieve menstrual pain, the mind fair boggles at the implications contained therein. I mean to say, we have all heard of a magnetic personality, but a magnetic pussy! Well, the generality of mankind know the attractions of a cunning stunt, but would it still need the additional pull of a magnet to draw attention to it.

Lets go down on the nitty gritty here, as far as I can remember, a magnet is an object shaped something like a horse shoe, naturally the size varies (It is the magnet to which I refer) but I should imagine it would have to be of reasonable size to be effective, and if that is so what about the possible embarrassments which could materialise at the most inopportune moments. Say for instance you are a model and supposed to glide elegantly down the cat walk, well you could hardly do that with a magnet stuck up your mitch, not to mention the bitchy comments that would arise from the fashion tricoteuses, such as for example.

“Second month she’s missed Anna”.

“I had noticed Sapho. You can’t walk like that with your magnet in”.

“And there was me thinking she was one of us. The bitch”.

The permutations on the theme are endless, imagine what could happen on an aircraft. The magnets could effect the instrumentation, passengers would have to be demagnetised before boarding, and British officialdom is not noted for it’s delicacy of expression except when dealing with poofs and illegal immigrants who are not portrayed in television series.

“Roll up, roll up, get yer magnets pulled ‘ere, and that means you missus, you can’t fool me, I can tell a full un.”

“Of course the odd one will get through, desperate to avoid the humiliation of the magnet check. Picture this, auntie Lil sitting in cattle class, looking forward to two weeks in Benidorm and already half cut on duty free Bailey’s. Old Lil is coming up to the change but not quite there, so she still needs her magnet, when suddenly the Captain comes on the intercom.

“What James Blunt back there is wearing her magnet?” Oh, the humiliation of it all. Where would one put one’s face, let alone anything else?

“No leave well alone, technology has it’s place but not up the rosebuds of the nation, I know we live in disturbing times but is it really necessary to make such a cunt of things.