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.