Tuesday, 24 November 2015


The cinema industry, Hollywood, its degenerate crew, its crazed writers and performers, regularly fetishise brutality and depravity; much of its output, it is true, now appeals to an audience of the new perma-adolescents, grown-ups hooked on kids' fiction, Harry Potter and damned Hobbitry, but much of it is porno-violence; that those who sell advertising in this often unwholesome medium have declined to run an advert consisting of different people reading separate lines of the Lord's Prayer is darkly amusing. 

It is now forbidden to criticise, however belligerent and fascistic its actions,  the state of Israel;  for the longest time it was anti-social of the police and  contrary to good race relations to arrest nonces, this being inimical to the interests of the multi-culturalism industry, not to mention those of Jack Straw's and Dennis McShane's NewLabour scam,  and it is now an infamy beyond measure for a gentleman lawyer to make a saucy remark about a lady lawyer's vanity picture pouting on some website for the wretched  as so it is for a Nobel prize-winning scientist to joke harmlessly about the distraction of the fairer sex in a gentlemen's laboratory. 

 Prohibition of  arcane or dissenting opinion is partially the legacy of the Tony'n'Imelda years, the cynical opportunism of the civil rights lawyers, the attempted ninety-day citizen  internment and the carrying of ID  papers, these were the political mission of filth such as Snotty, Blunkett, Scmidt, Reid and the Milibands. It is a strategy of suppression which has been largely successful, as those whose liberties are at most  risk don't even know they still have them. Living, as they do, in a demi-monde governed  by the likes of the ape-faced mutant, Zuckerberg, the slave-owners of Apple and the parallel Stasi at Google, the New People believe fervently in the Doctrine of the Unacceptable, the nnacceptability of something being determined by, well, somebody else, and transmitted to them.
They are like zealots, these people, blind to life all around them, they jab and thumb and swipe  and pinch at their cyberbooks of common prayer, living the dream, their private lives become advertising platforms, the only marketplace in history where the consumers provide the product, themselves, copy-writing their exaggerated existences for all to prey upon.

And now the advertisers interdict between a vague, loose, national belief, a touchstone of a pseudo-faith and an overarching, impertinent, notionally acceptable and notionally widely-agreed censorship. In cinemas  which present  gratuitous, disturbing violence of almost every sort, an adverisement consisting largely of a recital of the Lord's Prayer has been denied a screening. So's not  to cause offence.  So's not to be Unacceptable

Along with the Sermon on the Mount, the Lord's Prayer has always struck  this Zen-Presbyterian-Marxist as one of the least controversial scriptures, neither proscriptive nor judgemental and largely deity-neutral, it is as much a universal supplication to ourselves, to our better sides as beneficiaries of Creation, as it is part of the normally  vengeful Armageddon of Abrahamism;  it is as much the Creation's as the Lord's Prayer, yet some coke-snorting pederast at GlobaCorp feels it might offend some of its enslaved and has banned it. 
How fucking dare they?

from the proper book of Common Prayer, 1662

Our Father, which art in heaven,
Hallowed be thy Name.
Thy Kingdom come.
Thy will be done in earth,
As it is in heaven.

 Give us this day our daily bread.
And forgive us our trespasses,
As we forgive them that trespass against us.
And lead us not into temptation,
But deliver us from evil.
For thine is the kingdom,
The power, and the glory,
For ever and ever.

The Whirlpool Nebula;
produced by Creation, photographed by NASA/Hubble.
Not at a cinema near you.

Saturday, 21 November 2015


Mastermind, eh, 
some young Franco-Arab barely out of his teens, a mastermind, worse than Ernst Stavro Blofeld  or Doctor No.  
The mastermind behind the atrocity, the slaughter, the massacre.  Dunno what kind of mastermindedness it takes to get out of a car and open fire with an automatic weapon, into a theatre crowd,  not very much, I shouldn't think; 
 even the Parachute Regiment can manage that, and  there's not too many masterminds in there,  quite the opposite: 
serially-divorced, psychopathic homo-erotocists for sure,
but no masterminds. 

Abdel or Ismail, or whichever one's in the frame, today, wanted Dead or Alive,  he simply must be a criminal mastermind because if he's not it means that  just  about anybody who's pissed-off  can do what he did and the spooks and snoopers and institutionalised thugs,  therefore, the unaccountable bullyboys, not to mention the fantastically incompetent political filthsters can actually do fuck all about it; takes an evil mastermind, after all, to defeat the scintillating intelligence of Frankie Hollande or Micky Fallon. Must do, mussenit, stands to reason. It's either that he's a mastermind or our leaders are as thick as pigshit.
What, me? 
But look. 

Lessbeclear about this. 
I'm French myself, same family as that ishmael bloke, on here, actually. 
And that's why we have to stand epaulette to epaulette with our French cousins.


Because, you know what, at the end of the day,  there's no real difference between roast beef and frogs legs,
 not that I, personally, would touch the filthy fucking things,
 never mind eat them, 
but, as I always say,
 better a green sauteed amphibian 
 than a fried sheep's eyeball. 
And lessbeclear, I know we've beaten the French rather a lot, there was  Sir Walter Raleigh's routing of the French Armada, for instance; the Relief of Mafeking, not to mention the Surge of Troy and, Oh, lots of other famous victories. 
But now is not the time for boasting and on behalf of the English people I have, today, sent condolences to Monsewer Frankie, of France, 

as he and his people stand firm  
against the evil genius of Mr Sheikh bin Goldfinger.

I am also doubling the number of licensed-to-kill operatives working for Ms Dame Judi Dench, I mean for Ms Tracey May, the Obedience Minister, who, or is it whom, fucked if I know, whom or who is, to be frank, 

 rather angry about things, 
not good, I might say, for a lady of her years, 
 enough to make her fall off her stilletoes, 
and she will be taking a jolly good look at all your Internet histories. 
Something I should probly do myself, rather good at history, me.

Where are they coming from?  
Where are whom coming from? 
The tererorists? 
Oh, the MI5 agents, the spies, the two thousand new spies? 
Well, we don't achelly just have them, not in the sense of just having ready-trained spies, sort of in a warehouse sort of thing.
But  I expect that Mr Ian Duncan Schmidt will find them.  
Yes, like the seven thousand new doctors. 
Yes, down the job centre.  
Yes, another ten thousand jobs created by this govament.
Yes, yes, minimum wage, nobody should work for less than that, unless they have no other choice, that is.  

What is it? 
What is what? 
Oh, the minimum wage? 
Well, I should think it varies, y'know, from person to person.
Otherwise it'd be jolly unfair.
  Somebody like me, it'd be, what, a hundred and fifty grand a year.  Yes, about a hundred pounds an hour, all found.
Something like that.  
I was away for mental arithmetic, not to worry, though, 
got the best triple-first degree that money can buy. 
Yes, that's right, like Mayor Boris, yes, and the Chancellor, well, lessbefair, 
not much studying you can do when you're off your face on cocaine and  class hatred, 
dressing up like Regency spivs,
taunting the poor people.

But yes, about a hundred pounds an hour.  
'Sjust not worth my while getting out of bed for less. 
Well, I say a hundred an hour but that's just for starters. 
I mean, just look at the founder of the modern Tory party,

who just happens to be my personal hero, 
he's as rich as Midas, or is it Croesus? 
That rich Italian.
 Donald Trump, anyway, as rich as Mr Trump.

Seven pounds an hour??? 
The minimum wage? 
No, never.  
Who would put up with that?
 I'd rather be on the dole. 

 there's no dole anymore?

Anyway, I think that recent events make clear the case, which I have long argued, for bombing civilians.  No, no, it IS quite wrong in Paris or London but it is entirely proper in Cyprus.  
Not Cyprus? 
Well, alright then, Syria. 
Because lessbeclear, as we have shown in Iraq and Afghaniwossaname and Lebanon....
Not Lebanon? 
Libya, then.  
It is  only by bombing  civilians and destroying their infrasubstance that we make progress in keeping ourselves safe at home, as the recent tragic events in Paris so clearly demonstrate.

Frere Frankie, frere Frankie, dormez vous, dormez vous? 

Now, the police.
Superb professionals doing a first rate job.
 But I can clearly hear people asking:
 how can PC Pleb possibly  cope with all this,
all this increased wossaname

The bullets, they go in 'ere somewhere, innit?
Yeah, 'sright, and you just shoot anybody you feel like.

now that we have cut his funding, quite proply, in my view, to half of what it was before all this whatever-it-is started? 
Well, it beats me. 
Fucked if I know. 
I mean, lessbeclear, I dunno how my own parish council's still working, never mind the fucking police and the fucking schools and the fucking hospitals. 
 But the Chancellor does and that's the main thing.

Let me be quite clear, 
I haven't a fucking clue. 
About anything.
Never mind about these mad bastards who don't care if they live or die.
I didn't even think I'd still be prime minister.
So, to be fair, I think you should direct any further questions
to Mr Miliband.
Which one? 
Which Mr Miliband?
How many of the fuckers are there?

Yes, if he wasn't a mastermind, this bloke,  he wouldn't have been able to outwit these two intellectual giants 

or this one
Ich bin eine Musolman.
Send us, bitte, because ov ze Nazis, your poor, huddled phoney refugees, longing for ze soft targets to attack. Nein, Ich vill not be resigning, zey vas only Parisians, unt our granpappies put zem up against ze vall, muttifucker, by ze  sousands und sousands. It does not matter eine fuck, a few Frogs, more or less.

nor assemble a handful of blokes quite prepared to die for their beliefs - can't be more than  a few tens of millions of them hanging around. 
 And the weapons, I mean, it takes a true criminal genius to source a few Kalashnikovs 
in a continent awash with them, 
there's only seventy-five million of the fucking things floating around, unaccounted for,  after countless wars, occupations and what they call policing actions.
 The 7.62mm round, furthermore,  packs a fearful punch;  fire one into a crowd of people and  no amount of OxyCodon gonna take those pains away.
 Even thick, bog-trotting,  sadistic,  lobotomised Paddy arse-bandits can get hold of and operate  Kalashnikovs.

Provo mastermind at work.

and it takes virtually no training -  a single click on the safety for automatic fire, two for single-shot;  it's not like doing a Rubik's Cube, shooting an AK 47. 
Just point the bastard and squeeze the trigger.  
Christ, even a tribe of Stone Age Africans with  bones where they shouldn't have, even they can use an AK. 

But then there's the driving, the cars, the real mastermind stuff, that, and maybe stealing the cars in the first place, tough intellectual training required for that, albeit that fourteen-year olds seem able to do it instinctively, as easily as they busted into Talk-Talk, freaking everybody out.

I guess constructing a so-called suicide vest would challenge the skills of most, but as far as Ahmed is concerned it is no more difficult than changing a fuse and even if he and his mates were unfamiliar with the craft there will be tutorials on youtube,
 bound to be.

Yes, cars and  Kalashnikovs, not to mention recruiting people who can tell the time;  mastermind it is, then,
give this bloke five minutes with a box of Lego and he'll have a fucking sattelite, up there, bristling and buzzing with magic rays, targetting every major city in the world.

The term mastermind is used in order to deliberately deceive us, to make us see our world as a movie set, our venal and inept masters as Judi Dench, M, controlling  the tradecraft and heroism of wotsisname, that playactor prick, Craig, Daniel Craig, the cock-waving James Bond; to convert  everything into entertainment, to allow MediaMinster to practice its own dark alchemy, the transmutation of base, inconvenient Truth into precious, holy Falsehood.
We are being Dubyad, good guyed and bad guyed

Craig, himself, incidentally, is a good example of showbiz-aping-life-aping-showbiz.  He said, recently, that he had had it with Bond, he had poured all his considerable creativity into the character, he had virtually co-written the screenplays,  co-directed the films with Sam Mendes whom he simply just so  adored. And just so admired. And respected.  

But Craig was now fed-up with Bond, hated him, in fact, and if he did it again it would only be for the money, just like non-luvvies do, in their miserable lives, go to work, just  for money.  
Fancy, going to work for money
And I thought that Sir Sean Wifebeater was a cunt.
These crazybastard pilots, crossed in love, or  drugged-up, why can't they crash their fucking planes into the BAFTAs or the fucking Oscars, rid the world of these simpering, hissing vermin.

But we digress, into the sewers of showbusiness. 
Part of the Paris divertissement has been the Mourning-by-Hashtag.  I dunno quite what a hashtag is, myself, something to do with what they call social media, but I guess it's like a cyber bunch of garage flowers, a device by which the morons join in  showy, public grieving for people they have never met.  In some of its mawkish forms it is described, on a previous thread, as a Sellotaph, a pop-up place of mourning, where imbeciles tape Teddy Bears and bunches of flowers, and worst of all, poxy little billets dout, scrawled messages to the dead. 


I don't think there is a hash-opportunity to collectively grieve for the people of Nigeria, six fucking thousand of whom have been terror-killed this year by Boko Wotsit. Y'see, there's terror, which happens to people like us, and prompts nauseating self-righteousness,  and then there's just background noise, collateralised mayhem and murder, which happens to those Not-Us; Palestinians and Africans, usually, Arabs of all sorts. 

 Hashworld doesn't give a fuck about them, it is quite a selective sort of   party-mourning, in which each man's death diminshes me, as long as he's wearing the right clothes, using the right slavePhone, y'know, making informed consumer choices;  I'll hashtag him or her, but those people, in the jungle, well, they're just so, well,  UnMournable, really. I mean, don't get me wrong, I adore this Liberty, Fraternity and, what's the other one, yeah, Equalness, but like you just can't apply it to everyone. Not without just so completely devaluing it.

Ah, ma cherie, 
'ow about we go an' 'ave a good Facebooking, eh?

Ever the optimist, I thought that the doings in Paris might prompt some reflection, on the nature of foreign affairs, what happened there, after all, happens in other places, much, much worse, every day of the week.
But no.
 We are under siege from al-SMERSH, from al-SPECTRE;  from criminal masterminds;  from sinister, apocalyptic, suicidal  visionaries.
The people, with their hashtagging, are actually having a party of sorts and, I suspect, slavering after the next event, maybe it's the new legal high, coming together in cyber-solidarity with well, woddever, as long is it involves death.

And almost every voice we hear from the commentariat now tells  us,  in terms of such sweet reason, that to preserve our way of life we must now abandon it; to defeat the terrorist we must let him win.

Most of France, seventy-odd years ago, bent over for Hermann, some in Vichy alliance, many in collaboration, a few, les braves,  resisted, knowing that what they did could prompt their torture and death, and that of their friends and loved ones, too. In many ways, these were suicide bombers, prepared to die for their cause.

France, saved from herself by the Brits and the Yanks and the Reds, now emboldened by current military superiority, shits all over  weaker countries, some former colonies, some just on the list of tortureables.  Are they really surprised that some, at least, like the Maquis,  choose to resist, and on the very streets of their tormentors?

Funny, how affluence and a big stick make Nazis of us all. 


Moi, je must bomb quelque personne, parce que de mon re-election, n'est ce pas.  Oui, civilienne, ou soldats, il y a de non difference, Je suis a guerre totale.


It is believed by people who understand such things, that of the places now being Frog-bombed4Freedom only ten or so per cent of the occupants are ISIL fighters, the remainder, the locals, are aslready under their savage cosh. Now they are to be punished, for the French news programmes.
Another massacre of the innocents, Vive la France. 

Laissez-moi vous divertir.

Thursday, 19 November 2015


I have a couple of hand-held circular saws but they usually remain  in their cases; if I can't bring the timber to the table saws I will use a hand saw or one of those multi-tools; circular saws have always given me the heebie-jeebies and if sometimes I have no option but to use one I inhale deeply from my personal flask of Infinite Paranoiac Possibilities, make a terrified supplicant's offering to the Accursed Universe and proceed, using every safeguard known to man.

 These things can kick and jerk and although they have a deadman's-thumb safety cut-out they could nevertheless, in an instant, rip through the flesh of your thigh, embedding in the bone, blinding you with your own body tissue and blood.

A lifetime  ago, when hotels taught their employees skills other than saying Enjoy! I learned what they called larder skills and to this day, although I never do, I can bone-out an uncooked chicken or duck or turkey or leg of lamb in seconds, I can bone-out a sirloin or a rump leaving virtually no flesh on the glistening bone and I can skin and fillet the ugliest bastard fish in the sea, leaving just a cartoon skeleton of tail, backbone, ribs and head; that I can still do these jobs more skilfully than all the tellycooks put-together is just another signpost on Ruin's Highway. It is just a matter of having  a good, sharp knife, a mental image of the creature's skeleton and lots of practice. And of concentrating, instead of playing to the camera.

If it fell to me, therefore, to dismember a human body I would have a head start on most murderers. Although I would have less appetite for butchering a human than I do, these days, for butchering any other creature, I could swiftly and neatly remove legs at the knee and hip, arms at the elbow and shoulder and the head at the fifth or sixth cervical vertebrae, blackbinbag the whole lot up  and dump it somewhere an early-morning dog-walker would find it and notify, skymadeupnewsandfilth, Crimewatch and  the police.

Murder and subsequent  dismemberment are by no means uncommon but it is hard to ascribe it to anyone who is not deranged, dwelling outside all commonly accepted boundaries of conduct and taste. I understand that cadaver dissection  is now relatively rare even among medical students, virtual presentations now being preferred, yet the taste for it lingers, still, amongst some; maybe some killers just kill for the opportunity of literally butchering their victims. I dunno.

Ask me to perform the same task with a circular saw and I would just hand myself in to the cops, and yet that is what this chap did, 

Nathan Mathhews killed and dismembered his step-sister, 

Becky Watts, 16,
killed her  and then dismembered  her with a Black and Decker. 

Leaving aside the fountains of gale-force-ten blood and flesh  and  bone which would strike him, the saw teeth would be locking-up on thighs,  kneecaps and shoulders because this guy could barely read and write, much less wield a high-speed power tool with the necessary surgical precision, and his workplace must've
looked like  what the Mediaevals called a Shambles, a right bloody Shambles.

Maybe it was this imagined gruesome aesthetic which moved the court so, for, passing sentence, 

Mr Justice Never In All My Days On The Bench 
said that never in all his days on the bench had he tried a case so heinously wicked, sadistic, cruel, vile and lots of other reproachful words and he would be failing in his duty to the public if he didn't pass the maximum sentence possible, 
and then some. 

He then sentenced matey as the man now in the dock, as the man be would be after ten years' time, as the man he would be after twenty years' time, as the man he would be after thirty years time, and as if that wasn't long enough for the convicted man to remember  and reflect upon what a cunt he was, the judge gave him another three years, just as an aide memoire, so to speak. After having passed a minimum term to be served of thirty-three years, Mr Justice Slag 

a veteran of the Hutton Inquiry.
left the bench with tears in his eyes.

There is no question that this was a dreadful murder - although  aren't they all dreadful, there's no nice murders, are there -   but  the manner of the disposal of the body seems to me only of passing, morbid interest, best, in the interests of mental health,  forgotten  about, not a subject on which the Court should dwell. 

Matthews said that  the killing was something which went horribly wrong - he had only meant to teach his victim a lesson, for having disrespected  a party to the step-menage, his own Dad, I think,  and it is true that these step-relationships can quite naturally, though jealousy and hormonal storms,  become poisonous and  potentially destructive  -   the Crown, however,  argued that he was a sexual pervert, drawn to petite young girls and their  chastisement, or at least to the video-taped respresentation of such, which is not quite the same thing;

Matthews, was,  it  claimed, motivated by lust and depravity, rather than by step-filial resentment.

  It is a complex tragedy all too common, seems to happen almost weekly: 
somebody snatches a  teenager and kills her, 
savaging both her family and his own and becoming, himself, a migrant burden, an unwelcome guest, shuffling handcuffed from prison to loonybin, an occasionally resurrected tabloid beast,  regurgitated and chewed over on slow news days;

Carrion at work.

his incarcerated life, however harsh and comfortless, too comfortable by half; he becomes the main course in a regular, national banquet of hate, thrown by Virtue's handmaidens, people like Rebekah Brooks and the walking shitheap that is Kelvin McKenzie;

Yeah, cut their goolies off and kick 'em to death;
it's what Britain needs, public executions, Phwoar!
And teenage tits, younger the better, but legal, mind, always legal. Thirty seconds after they turn sixteen, they're fair game.

   worst of all, he remains forever defined - and which of us could bear this? - by the worst thing he ever did.  No matter what agonies of remorse he suffers, no matter how he longs for warmth he will be forever in the cold, he has been sentenced to perpetual, lonely Despair
In his thirst for vicarious Vengeance, Judge Dread does service to none, but flays all those around him - the bereaved family, made unique by his words, will now never recover; the offender's family, well, nobody ever spares a thought for their sorrow; the offender is damned, denied the possibility of remorse, repentance and rehabilitation, denied the opportunity of making apology.  The only beneficiaries of His Honour's hysterical adjudication are skymadeupnewsandfilth and their viewers and readers.
This is tabloid justice. It is a savagely squalid response to a savagely squalid  crime, committed within God knows what sort of grubby, modern, toxic domestic arrangements.

In his way, Judge Wotsisname, coarse, unmeasured, vulgar and self-indulgent,  is as lame a jurist as Frankie Hollande is a statesman, 
Je suis le little red rooster,
too lazy to crow for day.

now that shit has happened Frankie will do things, rant and rave, close borders, bomb other innocent civilians, in other lands. That will make everything alright again.

Now that the poor child is failed, murdered and butchered, 
I will do such things......

No, mate, you won't, 
all you'll do is make things worse. 
That's what you people do,
make bad things worse.

If, after Chris Grayling and Michaels Spit, we still have a Lord Chief Justice, he should  kick this guy's arse.
Judges aren't supposed to cry when they're passing sentence, they are supposed to be above all that, detached, that's why they're judges, they are there to judge, not fucking blubber like big girls, not identify with the victim's relatives, gang-up with them against the perp.  Maybe he should be on the Jeremy Kyle Show, as a guest presenter.  I know this offence was a bit extreme but only post-mortem, there are far more cruel murders than that of  poor Becky Watts, God bless her, and the reason Judges are appointed is that  they are able to act dispassionately in the interests of justice, deterrence, public protection and rehabilitation of the offender before them, they are not there to sob their silk socks off.  They are not supposed to be in showbusiness. And even if they are, this is still no way to go on.  
I remember the only time I have ever heard young father, Lady Sir Elton John, say a few sensible words: 
talking about his performance of the dreadful Candle In The Wind at Diana's showy funeral, he said, My God, how I wanted to cry, I just so-o-o-o wanted to cry, all the way through that, I wanted to cry; I just adored Diana, we were soulmates, but I was there to sing the song, not to cry, so I sang the song, that was my job. Or words very much to that effect.  The repulsive, screeching, pampered prima donna has more about him than this wretched judge.

In the pantheon of murder Nathan Matthews is small beer,  I have met worse. Judge Fenton Atkinson, sentencing Ian Brady and Myra Hindley, after hearing truly, truly, blood-curdling,  horrifying-beyond-belief evidence of serial, sadistic, prolonged child murder, never shed a tear.   Justice Charles Mantell, similarly, must have felt his blood run cold, trying Rosemary West for serial, sadistic murders committed by her late husband, Fred, and herself;  sentencing her to life-without he displayed the Right Judge Stuff, stern but dignified.

And imagine, Nuremberg, where the judges were trying some of the worst crimes in history, proper determined murderers, torturing and murdering millions of people, imagine them, reaching for their hankies as they sentenced those bastards to death, or life imprisonment, Oh, you nasty, wicked Nazi criminal, in all my days of sitting on war crimes tribunals I have never heard of such things, I am so upset, I must go and have a big weep, in my chambers. No, dash it, I'll do it here, on the bench.  And we are going to fetch that nice Mr Pierrepoint over from England, to hang you by the neck until you are dead, you horrible man, boo-hoo-hoo. 

Publicly identifying with the victim's parents,  because he has daughters, too; speaking of his personal distress and crying on the bench,  Justice Dinglemans, QC, is a disgrace and he should be sacked. 
He'll probably be offered his own show, 
on Cruelty TeeVee.

Monday, 16 November 2015


Mr Sid Farage, chief executive of Poundland, the no-frills, bargain basement, recycled political slogans company, was said today to be deeply and profoundly shiocked and saddened by the death of the company's founder and its most iconic, well, icon

As well as bringing cheap, affordable politics to the working man, he was a great patriot, probably the greatest living Englishman,  

after myself, that is. 

The greatest dead living Englishman, is what I meant to say.  
Him, not me, I'm still very much alive and kicking and drawing my expenses.

No, no, I learned everything I know about rabble-rousing from Sir Alf and I and my party owe him a debt we can never repay,
 rather like the defecit. 
Although, to be honest,  when I am prime minister, I shall make sure that the chancellor isn't a helpless and hopeless,  braying, public school junky off his head at the despatch batch,  on cocaine and fuck knows what else.  
Nothing wrong with public schools, mind, went to one m'self, 'swhere I learned my man of the people routine.  
But no, lemme be Frank with you, as the one ABCDLGBT pervert said to the other.  Alf Garnett was our spiritual founder and although many have decried him as an ironist, lampooning, to satirical purpose,  the views and beliefs of ordinary Englishmen, let me assure them that, on the contrary, SirAlf was a dedicated armchair warrior, a fine patriotic  racist Englishmen and a misogynist through and through. Like our great company, Poundland, he was one of a dying breed and we shall not look on his like again.  Not until the next UKIP conference.

The Frogs? 
What about the Frogs?
 Oh, yes, the slaughter amongst our Euro-cousins.

Well, they should look on the bright side, shouldn't they;
 I mean it wasn't as bad as Agincourt, was it?

Sunday, 15 November 2015

EVENSONG, ACOUSTIC HEAVY METAL. Rodrigo y Gabriela on Later with Jools Holland


They're all there, again, emoting for us, Emily, Gabriel, Tim; this is BAFTA Stuff, and twice in one year,

The day Gaza came to Paris, the day we predicted, a few weeks ago. One at least of Merkel's infinitely welcome refugees 

has expressed his gratitude to Europe and I wonder if anyone will have the nerve to demand  her resignation, stupid cow.

The Parisian interviewees, shocked and horrified, some of them bereaved, I wonder if le MediaPalaisBourbon will permit them to pause for a moment and reflect that they have experienced a couple of days of what Iraq, Afghanistan and Gaza have suffered for years; more likely, drums will be beaten, sabres rattled and tubs thumped;

Voulez-vous regardez mon cock, cherie, 
c'est tres socialiste?

 Le Petit Frankie, useless, cock-waving git, will blusterez-vous, in the manner of de Gaulle shouting from the London sidelines, while braver men resisted the Hermans, at frighful cost. He really is a cowardly little piece de merde, Frankie, even by the standards of French Presidents.

But gob as he may - as they all may, Cameron the nitwit,

Aujourd'hui, nous sommes toutes les Bosches,
I mean les Frogs.

in a state  of permanent COMAtude, cloistered with shameless money-grubbing morons like Fallon and Dopey Hammond will issue mission statements  of fawts'n'prayers, of Resolution, of Solidarity and of invincible Justice Inevitable; 

 Obama, the PuppetKing in the Land of Swindle and Fraud,

My fellow motherfuckers, as long as I'm Motherfucker-in-Chief, we just gonna keep on killing folks, until we have peace and justice. We done it with the redskins, we done it with the niggers, we can do it with the ragheads, too, bet yo' sweet whIte ass.

 will mouth his tedious litany of Patriotism and Freedom under God, while continuing to torture and murder His subjects, at will, anywhere in the world, and the grubby hausfrau, Merkel, 
will spout any old shit which might keep her in office, having fucked Europe and Germany both - gob as he may, le petit Frankie, the Frogs are far too sophisticated to be Dubyad, and he'll be out on his scabby derriere  quicker than you can say Marie le Pen.

Here, though, all they will do is transfer the blame for  all this shit, for their unparallelled incompetence to we, the cowed citizen-suspects, and Old Mother May, 
resembling more and more one of the Three Witches, 
will insist upon having my underpants as well as my belt and jacket as I make my lawful way through my local airport, travelling within my own country, as armies of fit young head-chopping Jihadists swan into Europe, unchecked.

I often think that I know how stupid are the likes of Jack Straw

The slag, Straw, lying his arse off for Coh-lin Powell, who has at least recanted.
Even people in Labour are now calling Jack Torture a vile git, wonder what took them so long.

 and Tony Blair, Michael Howard and David Cameron: they are as stupid as those who vote for them, just more guileful, more dishonest, perverse, degenerate  and amoral.  

But even so, it takes a stupefying lack of intelligence to imagine that there would be no consequences to the invasion and occupation of Iraq;  did they really think that a billion or so co-religionists - many of whom simply do not fear death -  would roll-over beneath the New World Order of the American Centuryists, 

filth like Bush and Cheney and Rumsfeld and their lickspittle spear carriers in the NewLabourScam?

If I focus my imagination, the sudden, frightful events in Paris make my hair stand on end, the sights and the sounds and the smells of blood and shit, the shots, the screams and the sirens.  I don't need Emily Newsnight - or any of those filthy hacks - to pornographise  them for me, all earnest and compassionate and analytical, cheeky fucking bastards, but they do not distress me any more  than the sights in Gaza or Bagdhad or the truly terrifying thought of being in Obama's Gitmo, better to be blown to pieces than suffer Uncle Sam's extra-constitutional torture.

In the media aftermath of  the mysterious Twin Towers' collapse, I heard just one New York kid, maybe twenty years old, voice the unvoiceable: What have we done,  that people feel the need to do this to us?  
It was a genuine enquiry, not a whining complaint.

Unless rather more people start asking what it is that we have done, since the early 1900s, and continue to do today, then this train will only stop at the nuking of Mecca. 
And then only temporarily. 

Brought to you by the Blair Peace Foundation.