PLEASE CRY FOR ME MIDDLE ENGLAND.

Oh, the pity and the pathos of it all, the heart wrenching bathos, Gordon Brown wants our sympathy, not only that, the mendacious two faced thieving son of a bitch wants us to vote for him, and the tool he uses to prise our votes from the mamaries of common sense is the sight of him bawling on the box over the death of his daughter. Who could refuse to vote for him after such a performance? Well I could for a start, I might not be thick but by God I am heartless, and the sight of bum face emoting on the tele did nothing to alter my disposition, not that I was inclined to be changed in the first place.

Of course lots of folk are weeping buckets already, it’s a wonder entire suburbs have not been submerged in the anguished tears of the middle classes, not that they are mourning Gordon’s pain, far from it, they are howling in grief over the fact that the fat Scotch tosser destroyed their pensions with a vindictive levy, financially raped the hard working bourgeoisie with surreptitious taxation, then went on to wreck the economy, all the while pretending that he was prudent, a fiction the gullible ranks of the press corps were ready eager and willing to go along with, despite abundant evidence to the contrary, but then that is journalism for you, never let the truth get in the way of your proprietors prejudices. And, to top it all the bastard let Harriet Harman loose on the nation, that alone would make most people bawl until Christmas 2020.

The strategy was that we would feel so sorry for the desolated soul, that we would rush out and vote for him at the earliest oportunity, well that was what the Downing Street spin doctors calculated, which only goes to prove that such creatures, anaesthetised to the realities of life beyond the perimeter of the M25, are nothing more than the faeces of the political hierarchy. So there was old bum face, he sat there in front of us trying desperately to squeeze a tear out on our behalf with an intensity which suggested he was sitting on the lavatory while trying to overcome the effects of constipation. If that charade was not tasteless enough, there was dear Sarah sitting in the audience with a camera full on her, joining in the waterworks like a re-run of the dam busters. We know Sarah loves her misogynous spouse, at least that is what she has told us, although why she should think that was necessary, or that we were interested to know in the first place is beyond my comprehension. If there is one consolation to be gleaned from this tawdry saga it is that even less people are likely to vote for bum face than ever before.

As was the bubonic plague in days of yore, this disease is catching, scarcely had Brown ceased weeping for votes than Alistair Campbell, the colostomy bag of New Labour takes up the lachrymose baton to bleat and weep over the fact that folk do not like him, fancy, at his age one would think he would be used to the fact. How thick does this hectoring thug suppose we are? This is the not so wilting violet who pushed government scientist David Kelly into committing suicide. Campbell was Tony Blair’s Tyrell, the man Blair licensed to commit the sins he did not have the guts to undertake himself, Campbell was and remains a psychotic bully with a mouth resembling a blocked lavatory, and we are supposed to feel sympathy for this lout? Give me strength.

But we are not finished yet folks, oh no, alas, there is more to come, Dinkie Davie, the Romulus Augustalus of the Conservative Party, determined not to be left off the band wagon, bags a camera to tell us of his anguish at the loss of his son, well I am sure he was devastated at the passing of his little boy, we all have bereavements in our lives. Not so long ago I lost my pet hamster, did I go on the tele to bawl for Britain and beg the public to go out and buy my books? No, but that was just be cause no one would have me, but that is not the issue, I stiffened my upper lip, put the remains of the hamster in the recycle bin and got on with my life, as one does.

Could I be the only one to feel the whole tribe of politicians and their hangers on are due their comeuppance? I genuinely feel that come the next election the nomenclatura of the British establishment will be given a pasting by the electorate, and Nigel Farage and Nick Griffen will form the next government, then Brown and co really will have something to cry about, and so will the rest of us. Plus ca change, plus ca la meme chose.

ARE THEY TAKING THE SWISS?

Cuckoo. No, I am not talking about clocks, the subject up for dissection is the Swiss, they are not just cuckoo, the entire nation is up the creek, on top of the Alps, and off it’s bleeding trolley. The Swiss, God assoil them for their lack of wits are a generic testimony of what democracy can do to a country if taken seriously by it that countries ruling class. The Swiss have referenda on anything and everything, I would not be surprised to find out that they had held a referendum on the criminalisation of picking ones nose in the street, come to think of it they probably have. The trouble with democracy is that if taken to it’s logical boundaries the voters will think that their opinions matter and that those said opinions must be deferred to by the rulers. This is all absurd, as everyone who is capable of thinking and breaking wind at the same time, knows that the most successful democracies are those where they who have won the election, stick two fingers up to the voters and tell them to get stuffed until the next time their votes are required. And provided that all political parties in the system obey the rules, it works magnificently, just look at Britain if you wish to see an example of this system in eternal operation.
Now with the Swiss it is an entirely different proposition, the moist ridiculous proposals routinely get passed into law, principally because eighty five percent of any population is certifiably thick and will fall for any daft notion without even thinking of the consequences, not that they are capable of so doing in the first place. Naturally I do not expect you trusting souls to take my words at face value. Evidence you cry. Coming up folks, along with a piece of Toblerone my dears.
Let us start with the exercising of ones bodily functions, a normal enough activity in most societies, not in Switzerland, at least not after the hour of 10PM. Allow me to clarify this, it’s not to say that you are forbidden enjoy the relief of a jimmy riddle after the stated time, but if you are a male, you can not stand up and spray after the magic hour. But how would anyone know that you were transgressing? I can only assume that the national Swiss pastime is standing at the partition walls of their apartments with a stethoscope listening in on the neighbours to make sure they are not having a piss out of hours. I suppose it would not be too bad if one lived on the Swiss borders, imagine the scene, three minutes past ten on a dark and moonless evening, within spitting distance of the witching hour.
“Hans, Where the ‘ell do you think you are going at this time of night you long streak of piss?”
“Not to worry Gretel my petal, I’m just nipping over to Germany for a slash”. Where our hero stands amongst the cabbages and peas.
But the absurdities of Swiss life do not end there my darling readers, they have scarcely begun. Take plants, according to the burghers of Zurich or wherever, plants have feelings, and, ipso facto, if they have feelings they have rights, I kid you not, in the Alpine paradise you can be done for picking a bunch of daffs, snatching a daffodil from it’s nurturing sod is cruel, and you must not be cruel to plants, it’s not nice, not nice at all. But there are greater ramifications here, imagine the scene, there you are strolling down the street in Geneva enjoying a bag of chips when the local plod pounces, lo and behold, you are arrested for committing GBH on spuds, and if you had a bit of fish to go with it, well, that just complicates the issue as fish have rights too.
It is not only fish that is in question here, not only do animals have rights, they are entitled to legal representation, so if fido takes a chunk out of the post man’s arse then the mutt can claim a lawyer to represent him. And don’t even think of getting a budgie, you have to have at least two, as one bird, all on his lonesome is a crime as he might get lonely. You have to laugh at all this nonsense, but in Switzerland that is probably against the law as well as practically everything else.
So as I said, this is where democracy gets you. Tell folks they can have what they want and invariably end up with what they deserve. But for all it’s imperfections, I would put up with the Swiss system if it led to the expulsion from public life of bum faced Brown, even if it meant I could not take a leak after ten at night.

KEEPING ABREAST OF THE NATION.

No. I am not talking current affairs here, I am not banging on about bum faced Brown and his entourage of political pimps all poxed to the eyeballs with political correctness. I am not here to discourse on the ills of the nation, while keeping my readership abreast of the doings of the great and the dodgy. No sir, this is all about tits. You know, tits, Knockers, bristols, them bouncy things you’d bump into if you were to attempt to shake hands at a distance with Dolly Parton.
As usual I am digressing, an activity at which I am inordinately good, but, in the interests of clarity I shall take myself in hand and get down to the nitty gritty as they do not say in the posh parlours of Islington. This is all about breast feeding in public, or to be more specific the demands made by the hairy arsed lesbians of the feminist tendency who tend to feel that giving suck in public to their in vitro fertilised bastards makes an enormous contribution to gelding the males of the nation. The fact that this hoped for imposition on the nations women is not in the best of taste would never occur to these harpies.
I don’t think the women of Britain would be in favour of this ritual exhibitionism, after all there is a time and a place for everything, breast feeding is perfectly natural, but then so is evacuating ones bowels, but society, not to mention the law, would take a dim view of anyone who took it upon himself to have a dump in the middle of Oxford Street on a Saturday morning, so why should it be acceptable for certain women to whip out their tits on a whim at any public venue of their choosing?
Now do not be fooled into thinking that the women of this benighted land of ours are desperate to display their dugs in every street corner Starbucks, far from it, most females would be horrified at the prospect of such lurid exhibitionism, what would the neighbours say were they to be spotted titivating the punters at Tesco? Might just as well do a fan dance on the steps of the town hall. All this hullabaloo is an enthusiasm of the metropolitan sisterhood, who have crafted a complete absence of good taste into an imagined virtue. But these women are representative of nothing more significant than their own narrow obsessions with turning the glories of womanhood into a slatternly mass of females with bawling brats hanging off sagging tits and talking claptrap in posh accents.
As a man, at least, I was the last time I looked, I can not but look askance at these latest posturings of the Harriet Harman tendency, and the only advice I wish to give them is to follow the example of the little Dutch boy, and to go away and stick a finger in a dyke.

KISS ME GOODNIGHT SERGEANT MAJOR.

However much you think you have heard it all before and that the absurdities which bedevil our lives have reached saturation point, something comes along to highlight the distressing reality that there is plenty more in the pipeline and that the exercising of common sense is a foreign country as far as our lords and masters are concerned. The latest lunacy to leap fully formed, like Athena from the brow of New Labour, concerns discipline in the army. No longer will drill sergeants be allowed to bellow with traditional insensitivity at new recruits.
That’s right, no more “Stand up straight you ‘orrible little man” From now on personal feelings and sensitivity must take precedence in the training of our military, and the defining ethos is to be the soft word that turneth away wrath, and at the same time turn the troops into a bunch of wimps who could not knock the skin off a rice pudding with a silk handbag. Just the sort of training necessary to fight the Taliban. The brass, or, to be more precise, they who boss the brass, have in their wisdom decided that the army must reflect the gentler society in which we now live. That they against whom we send our troops are unlikely to sign up to such fragile notions is neither here nor there, indeed sending our deliberately emasculated troops to be slaughtered only goes to prove the moral superiority of our leaders who think they are so much better than the lesser breeds, not of course that they have either the guts nor the honesty to admit to such feelings, that would be racist God dammit.
There is not much left of our way of life which Labours polytechnic trots have not molested, which is why they are mounting this assault on the military, who they despise, but are, at the same time ready to dispatch to their deaths so the likes of Blair and Brown can mince along the red carpet at international jamborees, pretending to themselves they are more important than they actually are, while exposing themselves to the contempt of they who actually possess power, remember bum faced Brown’s meeting with the American President in a kitchen? If such posturing is not worth a few gallons of British blood then I do not know what is.
One could say that all this will end in tears, not exactly, it will end with the Argentineans in the Falklands and the flag of Spain flying over the rock of Gibraltar, by that time the clowns of Gordon will have moved on to their gold plated pensions while the rest of us work until we drop. Am I a cynical son of a bitch? Well, what else could I be and remain sane in this arse about face world of ours.

A LOAD OF OLD COCK.

Stranger things happen at sea, but not many are stranger than this I wager. A man was recently reported to have entered Southampton General hospital with his genitals stuck in a pipe, no, you have not misread me, the bleeding perve had got his dick up the spout. It was not reported how the offending member arrived at it’s eventual resting place, pity, that would have made a queer tale well worth the hearing. I suppose we will never know the reason why all this came about, but while it is a known fact that pipes frequently come fitted with a stop cock, to be stuffed with a Hampshire todger seems a tad unreasonable to me.

What did the hospital officials do? Why, what anyone would do in such circumstances, they called the fire brigade, of course they are not called that in these politically correct times, but why split hairs in the face of so monumental a cock up. Anyway, seven members of the brigade turned up at Hampshire General to minister to this joker wandering around A&E with his dick in a pipe, was he holding it up? No-one said, but it was reported that the appendage in question had become aroused, making it impossible to be removed. At this point in the proceedings I should imagine the poor fellow was in need of a stiff drink. But seven firemen to manhandle the situation? Was this guy really the yardstick against which all others are measured?

After the administering of an anaesthetic The Brigade got to work with a grinder, a wholly appropriate tool all things considered. It took thirty minutes to free Willy, but it was in a bruised and swollen state. Ah, bless. The man’s identity was not disclosed, hardly surprising as by this time I should imagine he was feeling a complete prick as opposed to acting as if he was cock of the walk.

The moral of this tale? There isn’t one apart from the old adage ‘Don’t let your dingle dangle in a pipe’, even if you possess the biggest hot dog in Hampshire.

TO BREAK A BUTTERFLY UPON THE WHEAL.

This is not so much as breaking a butterfly on the wheal as Agamemnon sacrificing Iphigenia to a vengeful god. In this case it is not an innocent virgin being thrown to the wolves, rather than a wretched and inadequate pratt being slung to the wolves. I am talking about Gary McKinnon, and the overwhelming likelihood of his being extradited to America for offences committed on the sovereign territory of the United Kingdom.
McKinnon is a self obsessed fool who does not really deserve any sympathy, but that is no excuse to extradite him into the embrace of a savage penal system. We in this country give house room to rampant Islamic savages who wish us nothing but ill and are actively plotting to harm this land of ours. Some of these individuals are wanted in America, but our inglorious masters refuse to extradite these haters of the Western world on account that to do so would breach their human rights, what of the rights of Mr. McKinnon to the protection of his country, a protection so lavishly awarded to those who were not even born here.
Would France, Germany or Italy be so eager to surrender one of their own? They would not even consider doing so, and I seriously doubt that the Americans would ask such a thing, suspecting the answere they would get.
Gary made a fool of the Americans and they want revenge, quite understandable, and they are to be commended for standing up for their national interests, but is it absolutely essential to the furtherance of Anglo-British relations that we, or to be more precise, they who rule over us, to roll over and play dead whenever Washington whistles? I think not.
Of all the distasteful issues on offer here, the most poisonous is the action of those at the top of the political tree. There is Allan Johnson, the betrayer in chief, who repeatedly says he has no power to stop extradition proceedings, only one comment here, lying son of a bitch, nothing else necessary. Let us not forget Sarah Brown, so fragrant, the Mary Archer of New Labour, who met with Gary’s mother and afterwards stood in front of the cameras oozing empathy for the plight of the frantic woman, knowing full well nothing would be done, she should stick to telling us how wonderful her husband is, which is all the damn woman is any good for. And there is Gordon Brown, old bum face himself, who could, even now, stop this fiasco in it’s tracks, and chooses not to, but then why would he? Remember this is the man who gladly pours the blood of British soldiers down the drains of Afghanistan in a vain attempt to secure an invitation to the White House.
Lastly, do not forget those spineless Labour MPs who signalled their support of Gary, then when it came to a vote in the Commons, abandoned him on the orders of what laughingly passes for a government in this country. There is only one way in which to deal with these pusillanimous political time servers, and that is at the ballot box. In a few short months there will have to be an election, and when that time comes, then every MP who betrayed Gary, and by so doing also betrayed this country, should be turfed out of office and back into the obscurity which they should never have parted company. During the election campaign these individuals deserve to be heckled and hounded all the way to the polling station.
They who have with such glee thrown the hapless Gary McKinnon to the American wolf are not butterflies, but, by God, they deserve to be broken on the wheal.

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.