S. P.Q. R.

SPQR, an abbreviation chiselled onto Roman monuments from North Africa to Scotland. The letters stand for Senatus Populusque Romanus, which translates as The Senate and the People of Rome, and the two went hand in hand, the Senator with his immense agricultural estates and the lowest citizen on the corn dole, the one could not exist without the other.
The first principle of the Senate was leadership, especially in times of war. When the Senate declared war in the name of the Roman people, the members were obliged to play their part in the ensuing conflict. Unlike our present enlightened times, in war the Senators served with the troops, and not in the back row or behind the lines either. Command of an army, and the commanders were always Senators, meant standing in the front line of battle facing the enemy, when the Senate chose one of their number to lead a campaign, the job was no sinecure. Many of the Senatorial class, up to and including and including Consuls, lost their lives in battle, particularly in the Punic Wars.
Contrast the above with the antics of our tawdry political class, who blithely send British troops into conflicts not of our making to shed their blood in the furtherance of American commerce. Would our television studio warriors do this if their lives were put at risk by such actions? Of course not, which is just as well when you contemplate the mess they would make of things if given a military command.
The Romans arranged their political structures much better than we have managed. To put one’s Roman foot on the initial rung of the Cursus Honorum, the road to high office, it was first necessary to serve for eight years in the army. This was the sine qua non to political advancement. The Roman public official had experience of life, which is more than can be said of our modern tribunes, who seem to be chosen for office according to their closeness to puberty rather than for any experience they may have garnered in their short lives.
The Roman Senate did not pass laws, they merely proposed laws, to come into effect, those edicts had to be voted on by various committees, who in turn were voted into office by the citizenry, each of whom had the right to vote.
In twenty first century Britain, every subject of the Crown has the right to vote, but once in Parliament, our representatives are under no obligation to pay any heed to they who sent them there. So different from the system pertaining in ancient Rome, and they call this progress, no wonder history is no longer taught in schools any more.

LET’S MAKE GORDON BROWN A WANKER.

What is he talking about, I can hear you say. Gordon Brown is, was and always will be a wanker, talk about taking coals to Newcastle, you might as well take Gordon to charm school for all the good it would do or difference it would make. Let me break off from my narrative to illustrate a point. This rant was inspired by a piece I read in the Sunday Times, not that I often read the rag, I just buy it to impress the neighbours and fool them into thinking I am an intellectual, but yesterday I gave it a brief glance, and lo and behold, pay dirt. Now, at this point it is important to remember that journalists writing for posh papers, and the Sunday Times is posh, despite being owned by Rupert Murdoch, do not tell porkies unless they are absolutely certain they will not be found out.
The article was about two towns one in Austria, and the other in Germany, well it was not so much about the towns as their names. The town in Germany is called Wank. As soon as I read that I thought of dear Gordon, face like a slapped arse and lying through his teeth while planning to extradite British citizens for offending the Yanks. The town should adopt Gordon, he could then officially be called the First Wanker, think of the election slogans, placards bearing the legend, “Wank For Brown”. It would be a hard life but our Gordon could Survive and thrive in such an atmosphere. Imagine a night in the Wankers Arms, all standing around the Wurlitzer, necking pints of jiz and belting out the town anthem, “Gordon had a wank, Gordon had a wank, ee eye adio, Gordon had a wank” Brings tears to my eyes it does.
Now to the next town mentioned in the article, this one is in Austria, now you may be offended by this, but frankly my dears I do not give a f…, yes, got it in one you clever wankers, the place is called Fuck. Harriet Harman came to mind, I have always felt the sanctimonious man hating bitch should go to fuck, and, bugger me blind on a Thursday, there it is, slap bang in Hitler’s own country, waiting for her with open legs. Harriet would be a promotional gold mine for them. They could have a lovely line in tasteless hats bearing pictures of Hattie, along with the legend “Fuck Me Quick” Just think what that would do for the local economy and they could have a local fair called Fuckers of the World Unite, it would knock spots off The Salzburg Festival, who would want Mozart when you could have Harriet and a good fuck.
But now, little sadness creeps into our jollifications, there is no place in this narrative for Peter Mandelson, you remember him, how could you forget the prick, Lord Mandelson of Cleethorpes, Wigan Pier, Bombay and Tonypandy. Please believe me when I tell you that I have scoured the atlas, with unbearable intensity, but nowhere, nowhere at all can I find a town called poof.

SEND FOR THE BOLLOCKING SHEARS NORMAN.

The last trump has been sounded for the men of this nation. Look to your tackle lads, Harriet Harman is after the country’s nuts. Anyone sporting a pair is under threat from the insidious Harman, or, as I prefer to call her, Henrietta Harpy. The damn woman is hell bent on taking the bollocking shears to the male population, God alone knows what she will do with her testicular dividend, probably start a collection, although it would not be as classy as the Wallace. Harriet could perhaps take them home, and decorate the walls of her halls with balls of the men who won’t vote for her, at least they would be an item she could not charge up to the tax payer.

The fons et origo of all this bile is our Harriet’s equalities bill, for that label alone, the dame should be done under the trades descriptions act, it is nothing to do with level playing fields. Harriet is not interested in equality, Harriet is not at all interested in equal opportunities for all, she would not tolerate such liberal nonsense for a moment. The queen of hypocrisy is leading the charge against the race of men on behalf of the militant harridans of the feminist tendency, in return for their support for her leadership ambitions. You know the ones I am referring to, those unsavoury old broads who refuse to shave under their arms and have not worn bras for so long their tits are dragging in the mud. Such is the self delusion of these Guardian toting tricoteuses that they think any man who looks at them has rape in his soul. Oh Sappho, what absurdities are worshipped in thy name.

On behalf of these sad creatures who think no male should be allowed to roam the streets unless he has been to the vet to have his tail docked, Henrietta Harpy plans to make discrimination against men the law of the land. All in the name of equality you understand.

Some of my readers may find the logic of all this hard to grasp, but, you do not want to waste time faffing around over logic, after all this is New Labour, you know, that arrogant shower who no more understand logic than they have ever come to grips with the concept of doing an honest days work, never having done one themselves.

The upshot of all this is that employers faced with gender audits, gender diversity audits and God alone knows what else to ensure that employers are not giving British jobs to white Anglo Saxon Protestants, will up stakes to India, or anywhere run by sensible folk who do not regard possession of a full tackle as a criminal offence.

All this frenzied activity by the cerebrally atrophied morons who rule over us will lead to even more unemployment, and having buggered up the economy, thus forcing thousands on to the dole where the authorities will harass them unmercifully for being so feckless as to have allowed themselves to be sacked as a result of the Government’s economic incompetence. The purpose of all this of course is to keep down the official unemployment figures which their policies created in the first place, which will be of tremendous comfort to those equalised by Harriet.

I could write more on this subject, I could fill more volumes than there are in Britannica, but honestly folks, I really do not feel equal to the task.

HAZEL BLEARS, LA GAZZA LADRA.

Dear darling Hazel Blears, New Labours sparkling little china doll. Bright of smile and full of shite, but then what else would one expect of this ornament of Gordon Brown’s administration? A diamond is Hazel, albeit one with more flaws than flash.
La Gazza Ladra, which, as you are aware of, or, in all probability you are not, is an Italian opera. You can’t describe yourself as being cultured unless you know a bit about wop composers. La Gazza Ladra, as you undoubtedly realise (All right, I’m taking the piss) is an opera by the incomparable Rossini. In English it reads as The Thieving Magpie, Getting it now dears? Christ, talk about flogging a dead horse on the way to the knackers yard.
Yes, it is easy enough to correlate The Thieving Magpie with Hazel Blears, one of the leading kleptocratic cows of this arrogant administration, although in her case, thieving midget would be a smidgeon closer to absolute accuracy.
If there is one image above all others which will define the Members of Parliament’s expenses scandal, or, the school for fiddles as we should really define the affair, it is that of the thieving midget waving a cheque at the television cameras. There she was, the egregious trollop, with a grin as red and as vivid as a monkeys bum, demonstrating the level of her contrition by taking her fingers out of the till long enough to stick two of them up in the direction of the tax payers.
The usual excuses were trotted out. It was a mistake, of course it was luv, it always is when one diddles the tax man, nobody in public life does it intentionally, or at least, that is what the Parliamentary Kleptocracy would have us believe. Unfortunately for baby Blears and her ilk, we the voters are not nearly as gormless as the politicos think we are, and those pantomimes of innocence just do not wash with us. The thieving sods are as guilty as sin and nothing will convince us otherwise.
What really sticks in my craw is the fact that the midget can wave a cheque at the camera thinking it solves everything, “There you are folks, all paid back. Now go out and vote for me” But let’s get one thing strait, Blears bless her vertically challenged soul, has not paid a penny back. Because of some arcane technicality, the revenue can not accept the money. It gets better does it not? So comforting for the people herded into bankruptcy by the pitiless tax authorities and left with not so much as a bath plug with which to bless themselves, but, that is the comforting reality of political life, one rule for us and no rules for them. Ain’t life grand.
In a few days time we go to the polls, and this will be one occasion when the people’s pilferers will not be so eager to smile for the men from the tele. This time round, the politicians of all parties will be well and truly hammered by an entire nation which is up in arms. The blood bath we shall witness on Thursday is nothing in comparison to the one which will occur at the next general election. The magpies have thieved to their hearts content, now, they are going to have their wings clipped.

HARRIET HARMAN, A MARS BAR AND THE ODD EXPENSE OR TWO.

Faithful unto her kind, Harriet Harman appeared on breakfast television this morning to defend her fellow Ministers caught with their fingers in the till. It was inevitable that she should make her pitch on GMTV, a station which gives the impression of existing solely to disseminate Government propaganda, scarce a day goes by without Gordon Brown or one of his minions parading their finely honed mendacity on that channel, one has to wonder if it exists for any reason other than to blow the Governments trumpet.

Miss Harman smiled and simpered for the cameras, such an aura of innocence, one would suspect a Mars bar wouldn’t melt in her mitch, faithful to the cause is our harpy. This is of course the same Harriet who proclaims her loyalty to her leader while cajoling her political allies into knifing Brown in the back. Bless. The dame must think she is convincing, otherwise why would she appear on such a programme? The woman probably thinks it is mandatory for us to believe anything she chooses to tell us simply because she is the voice of authority and we are obliged to accept whatever it is she and her ilk choose to hand down to us. Silly, silly cow,

Our present crop of politicians are like the pre revolutionary nobles of France, but without the style, education or culture, they are sleepwalking to a revolution of their own making but are too stupid to realise what it is they are stoking up for themselves and for us, forget the bankers, the real damage to our society has been done by the political class as a whole and there are no exceptions to this indictment, no not even you Mr. Cameron, you post pubescent twerp.

I really do think a bit of a revolution would do the country a great deal of good, shut down all the day centres for black one legged lesbians. Sack the outreach workers and all the other parasites of New Labours client state leaching on the backs of the poor benighted tax payers. Finally, set a guillotine up outside John Lewises, and cut their fucking heads off.

BORIS JOHNSON, NON AGRICOLA EST.

Let no one doubt the mayor of London’s infinite capacity to add to the gaiety of the nation, and once more dear Boris has come up trumps with his latest announcement. Not only has he admitted that he may not run for a second term as our inglorious buffoon, but to cap absurdity with historical myopia, the man compares himself to Cincinnnatus, one of the great heroes of Republican Rome.
  Due to circumstances, largely due to his own making, Cincinnnatus was forced to live in the country, a bit like the modern equivalent of being sent to Liverpool to apologise for telling the truth about the moaning, self pitying Scousers. There the similarity ends. Cincinnatus supported himself and his family in poverty, by farming a small plot of land. Now apart from the fact that Boris could not tell the difference between a bucketful of manure and a field of parsnips, he makes a mountain of dosh by being paid to write a load of self serving shite in the Daily Telegraph.
  Now, it came to pass, (It always did in them days), that a crisis arose in Rome, and Cincinnatus was recalled by the Senate to save the state. By this time it is easy to see why Boris fancies himself as the Roman yeoman riding to the rescue, but I digress. Cincinnatus was made dictator, and off he went and defeated the Aequians, Rome was saved. Being the noble fellow he was, our hero then resigned his office and returned to the farm. Boris resign from office? Don’t make me laugh, he will have to be dragged screaming from the portals of power. The only thing Boris has in common with the ancient Roman is his barnet, the name Cincinnnatus refers to the man’s somewhat unruly mop.
  Having established that our Boris is no Cincinnnatus, who in ancient Rome can we compare him to? How about the Gracchi, the brothers Tiberius and Giaus. The Gracchi are regarded as the founders of populism, in short a couple of rabble rousers who came up with the then novel wheeze to pinch from the rich to buy the votes of the poor, now that’s Boris for you. There is one fly in this particular jar of ointment, the nobles whose wealth was to be plundered to fund the ambitions of the Gracchi, turned on their tormentor and sliced him up like a salami in a dark corner of the Forum. Gordon Brown beware. No. We can’t have such an end for Boris, but who in the ancient world can we compare him to? Well dears you can rely on me to come up with the answer.
  Boris can be equated with Odovacar, “Oo?” You may shriek, at least the less erudite amongst you will. Odovacar was a barbarian chieftain of Hunnish and Scimian ancestry, a bit of a fruit salad, like Boris, who, despite his posh accent is half wog himself. It was Odovacar who deposed the last Emperor of the West, Romulus Augustalus, a young lad who had scarce matured enough to spit in the eye of puberty, now, who does that remind you of? David and Goliath? Odovacar hustled Romulus into obscure retirement, the fate of most Tory leaders. Yes, Boris can best be compared to Odovacar. 
  One last question, is Boris chasing after destiny because he feels the tug of mad political ambition? Or, if the fellow running scared because he fears he my end up with more sugar in his tea than he considers palatable? 

NUFF SAID, TRUTH IS DEAD.

The truth is dead? Of course it is, as a concept it popped it’s clogs years ago, and in politics it never even existed. When I say truth in politics does not exist, I err slightly. The politicos do occasionally tell it as it is, usually in the week following an election, when they admit they fed us a cartload of porkies to obtain our vote and now they have no intention of keeping their promises. At this point, one or two of you may be wondering where this ids leading, apart from the establishment of a new religion of the bleeding obvious.
Truth to New labour is what bubonic plague was to the Middle Ages, a lethal visitation upon society, and that same plague is about to administer an enema to our ruling commissars. It all started with Derek Draper, a labour groupie who, in his heyday, was known under the soubriquet Dolly. Now why a red blooded macho male would be labelled Dolly, is beyond my ken, perhaps someone out there could put a finger on the reason.
Dolly and his pal, who was Gordon Brown’s hatchet man, Dildo Mcpoison, or whatever it is he is called, decided to smear the opposition with a shower of fabricated and scabrous fables. Strange as it may seem, two can play at that game, so, stand up Nu labour and take it on the chin like a person.
Let’s start with Gordon Brown, who never does anything wrong and is too busy saving the World to tell fibs. As everyone has suspected for years, our Gordy is a woofter. There is nothing he likes better than a nob noshing session down Old Compton Street. But, the more gullible amongst you may say, what about that lovely wife of his? Really darlings, that arrangement would not be the first lavender liaison in the history of Westminster.
While we are on the subject of left footers, there’s Dandy Mandy, the peoples poof. Well, I’ve got news for you, he ain’t. Talk about bare arsed cheek, the buggers as straight as they come.
Then there is Jacqui Smith. I’ll bet money you did not know she’s been in and out of the Cleveland Street clap clinic so many times, the woman is in line to get a gold watch for regular attendance. Unable to spread her expense claims any further, she decided to spread her legs to make up the shortfall. No wonder her hubby is reduced to beating the meat up in Brum. Hazel Blears, the malignant midget of modern politics, opened up a brothel over a chip shop in Whitechapel Road. Jacqui was one of Hazels first “Girls” It was at Hazel’s that she caught her first dose of crabs.
Tessa Jowel has a lucrative sideline in arranging dodgy mortgages for illegal immigrants, of course, she would deny this until she was blue in the face, but with her old man doing time for perjury, the family relationship with veracity does not inspire confidence. Lastly, there is David Milliband, the Baby Jane Hudson of British Politics. Word is he’s fencing diamonds for grace Mugabe and using the proceeds to procure to purchase elocution lessons for his brother, who’s diction is routinely slaughtered in his attempts to sound working class. Why do these posh Marxists think we are so easy to fool?
Time to call it a day. As you will all realise, the contents of this blog are made up, and meant to be taken in good part, but, on the other hand?