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?
Monday, 23 May 2011
Tuesday, 29 March 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, 17 March 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday, 17 February 2010
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.
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.
Monday, 8 February 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, 2 February 2010
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.
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.
Friday, 29 January 2010
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
