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.

Keith Vaz fiddles while his balls burn.

Everyone knew that Keith Vaz has an unquenchable lust for publicity, not so many realised he has an equally passionate liking for rent boys, preferably in pairs, but unlike at Tesco’s I doubt he gets two for the price of one, or any discount as a frequent user.
The first question is what was he playing at although one can guess what it was he was playing with, the man is definitely getting above his station. Vaz born in Yemen came to our shores at an early age, and yet here he is carrying on as if he were a Bullingdon Club Tory toff, the man is a Labour MP for gawd’s sake, if anything he should have been screwing the cleaning lady who could then have sold her story to the Sunday newspapers. Satisfaction all round. A life on the bum is OK in certain social circles, but those realms are far above what Vaz could legitimately aspire to. Had he fiddled around at the back of the bus shelter, there may have been leeway for social redemption, but no, he had to perform his version of the buggers opera a flat he happened to have going spare, who did the pretentious sod think he was? Tony Blair? Who at least had the good taste to have a rumble with Murdoch’s missus, but as she is a woman Vaz would have undoubtedly found something missing.
As a former chairman of a committee investigating vice, out hero has garnered invaluable insight into areas others are not party to, but was it necessary to plumb such depths? Work experience is one thing, but blowing a rent boys trumpet is surely a toot too far.

Hey diddle diddle, Keith Vaz had a fiddle,
With two rent boys who trousered the cash,
He buggerd them rough,
Until all had enough,
Then went down with the clap and a rash

A TOUCH OF CLASS.

There is no denying it, try as one may, but social background defines a Brit, ‘twas ever so and forever will, especially in politics where class is a sure-fire compass to the direction of advancement, but things are not so strait forward as may be supposed. In some of the more elevated circles of the profession it does not pay to be posh, oh Lordy no.
Let’s take the Tories. David Cameron and his cronies busted a collective gut in pretending to be common, nobody actually swallowed that nonsense, but at least they tried, despite having posh wives, posh houses and inherited wealth, unfortunately that did not prevent them getting the bums rush after the recent referendum. The new intake to the realms of government are a different kettle of fish altogether, down market would be one way of putting it, council house crap would be another, not a genuine doff amongst the lot of them, makes one ashamed to be British.
However, we can always rely on the good old Labour party to maintain standards, which is why Owen Smith will not be elected their new leader, the fatuous Welsh git is as common as a fart in a cow shed, so, let us look a little closer at the peoples party and see what they have loaded on to the offering plate.
I could do worse than to start with Michael Meacher, who took vociferous objection to being labelled middle class despite falling off his perch leaving behind five million quid to his heirs and successors, one could buy an entire council estate with that sort of dosh, but we must not pick nits no matter how much they leave behind.
Now let’s get to the star players. Harriet Harman, related to an Earl no less, naturally she tries to play this down and everyone pretends to go along with the pantomime, but our Hattie is the full Monty, which is why Diane Abbot can not stand the sanctimonious bitch.
Last we come to the star of the show, the next leader of the Labour Party and Prime Minister of England, Jeremy Corbyn, who has the word posh branded on his bum, after all, he was born in a manor house and went to prep school, the clincher? He has a brother called Piers, working class boys do not have brothers called Piers, Sid or Bert yes, but Piers? Never. The man is a shoo in to lead the party of social equality.
So. There you have it folks, Jeremy will give us the ruling class we all cherish and which them common bloody Tories have so casually thrown away. Come the next election Vote Labour and bugger the working class.