Sunday 18 March 2012





On Newsnight,  last night, an angry dog lover insisted that he had the absolute right to marry his partner, Rover.
Why should a filthy old pervert  like Archbishop Nonce  tell me who I can and can't marry?  Rover and I are perfectly happy, we live together as man and wife, just like any other man and wife, or husband and husband or wife and wife or whatever floats your boat and all we want is to have our union solemnised  in the way that uptight, straight people do.  You know, vicars and bells and confetti and  a disco afterwards. And then a fight.

 Shrieking gay activist, Rhona McDick, shrieked that it was absolutely intolerable the way that some people weren't gay.  I mean, she howled, where would the world, where would humanity be  if everybody was straight, Shut up! Shut up!  Listen to me, I demand that you listen to me. I'm a comedian.

Gorgeous, pouting Rhona McDick, alternative comedian, 
the alternative bit relates to her not being funny.
Like most of them.

Interviewed by the BBC's in-house grunting, hunchback transsexual,

 Krusty Wank, Professor Dame Germina Streuth,  wretched old bully and famous star of early 'sixties magazine,  Legs Wide Open, 

Life down under.
Streuth explores feminist issues
 back in the nineteen-sixties.

and today, aged 74

said Well, cobber, I'll fuck anybody, man, woman or child, and I have, long as they're a bit famous  or rich or somethin' but I must say I draw the line at fucking a  dog.  Unless  it was Art.  And I was really well paid. But no,  as a sociologist and a sex therapist and an author, broadcaster, journalist, pornstar and gardener,  I do believe we are staring into a bit of a cultural abyss, here, mates, or a fairy dell, if you like, all the old certainties not so certain anymore, the underpinnings being undermined,  the lunatics taking over the bleedin' asylum.  Society's all over the place, like a mad woman's breakfast.

 It's like that bloke, Ishmael, says,  there's all the difference in the world between procreation and loving, meaningful,  monogamous  and profound arse-banditry.  Doesn't matter how you dress it up, sport,  fishing from the other bank's fine but it ain't fucking natural.  I mean, Fair Dinkum, mates, but if God hadda meant for blokes to charver each other up the shitpipe, there wouldn't be no need for KY Jelly now, would there?  Know whaddamean?  Your Sheila, now, she comes equipped with her own internal lubetube.  And I know, cos  even at seventy-four I can't turn the bastard off, wet and stinking like a four-day old mackerel I am, down there, some days. But yer bloke's arsehole, it's not, how shall we say, naturally lubricated, in fact it's whachamightcall, if you was of a religious persuasion,  dry as a nun's nasty, and that means it's not designed to accommodate  another bloke's donger.  But that's poofters for you.   And anyway, they only wanna get hitched, a) so's they can get divorced in a big fucking drama and b) to draw fresh  attention to themselves because nobody any longer gives a rat's ass  about their filthy practices,  's a busted flush, now that it's virtually on the school curriculum. Proper queers don't wanna get married.  These gobby bastards are just like normal people, apart from  all the endless whining and sticking their fists profoundly and meaningfully up each others' arses, that is.  There isn't a Christopher Isherwood or a WH Auden amongst them.  I mean, who the fuck do they think they're kidding?   Do I look like Shirley fucking Bassey? And the reason that so many straights are supporting this shit is because they all want life to be just like some continual twenty-four/three-hundred-and-sixty-five orgy, and if they let the poofs pretend to be normal why then it'll be ok for them to go gangbanging the local teenagers right in front of their parents or dragging their wives around municipal carparks on the end of a leash with their tits hanging out.  This is what the liberal consensus is all about, mates. Ain't nothing to do with nice, and everything to do with ugly.  Nothing to do with Freedom, this is all about the tyranny of the phallus; mark my words. Wasn't it that evil old bastard, Crowley, who said that headline of  mr ishmael's ?  Do what thou wilt shall be the whole fo the law? Satanist, wasn't he? 

Members of the house of commons at their daily prayers.

He'd be well pleased with all this stuff. Cheers, Krusty, mine's a case of strong lager  and a packet of Bensons  

I'm the Urban Titman, baby.

Streuth poses with wacky, zany, irreverent and utterly pointless 'sixties icon, the late Mr Vivian Bonzo-Dog.

That was Krusty with Professor Streuth.
We are joined now in  the studio by Archbishop Beard of Canterbury.

Dr Rowan Atkinson, Archbishop of Canterbury.

You're jacking it in, then?

Well, the Lord moves in mysterious ways, Jeremy, but I'm fucked if I know what He's up to this time.  I mean, clearly, there are challenges in this modern world. And clearly they face anyone doing God's work. But fuck me, Jesus,  I have had ten fucking years of warfare between on the one hand an army of angry, hissing gay vicars and vicaresses who just wanna be able   to bumfuck and carpetmunch  each other all around the high altar and on the other  hand the Anglican cannibal bishops out in BongoBongo land who wanna burn gay clergy at the fucking stake. Or boil them up in the Headman's cauldron.  I mean, Jeremy, what the fuck would you do?  The Anglican church in the States is just a branch of Stonewall and now I'm expected to turn a blind eye to poofmarriage, here, in Britain,  just as though the word of God was a fucking rap single, capable of endless re-mixing, or a fucking LibDem manifesto promise. For six days God laboured and on the Seventh he changed His fucking mind.  All these bumbandits, all wanting to be normalised by Holy Sacrament, it's like God saying,  Oh, no, My children, all that Ten Commandments shit, I didn't actually mean that, what I meant was Thou SHALT steal, thou shalt murder, thou shalt bear false witness, and thou most definitely shall covet thy neighbor's ass.  I meant what I said yesterday but today I am wrestling with an unholy mess given unto me by the heathen bastard Brown, woe unto him, but quiet thanks, too, for he maketh even the abominable seem just and necessary, as long as he be spunneth as the Anti-Christ.

Now hold on. Are you saying, Archbishop, that this is all Gordon Snot's fault?

Well, he's one of them, isn't he? Woulda married a man if he could.

The last unelected prime minister,
Gordon Snot.

I am very busy, here in Fifeshire,
playing with myself.
It is the sol-you-shun. And the right thing for the country.

So, Archbishop, are you saying you haven't the stomach for the fight?

It's not a question of stomach;  it's just that what with the Internet and skymadeupnewsandfilth and now the brownhatters demanding to be married, well, It's Sodom and fucking Gomorrah we're talking about here. Clearly, Jeremy, the last ten years have been trying  for the  worldwide Anglican community.  So much so that I betcha my celestial homecoming that our brother in Christ, Pope Nazi, the Nonce-Protector-General, is creaming himself over there in the Vatican,  rubbing his shriveled old nonceballs in glee.

Arbeit macht frei.

Zey vill not be married in mein church, ze dirty fuckers. Not in eine hunderd tousand  ov years.  God's army ov men in black haff all learned to sublimate ze nancyboy side ov zemselves into ze proper abuse of der kinder and haff no need to play hussband und frau mit one another, like zat  Steven fucking Fry und his bumboy partner, mit whom he iss living in mortal fucking sin. 

Popular TeeVee personality  and heterophobe
Stephen Fag, of Direct Line.
Before he turned into an elephant.

 Und any bastard say different und I just snap my finger und Whoosh! is excommunicated bastard  und going straight into Hell, along mit all ze childen vot makes ze false allegations against mein Holy Up-Ze-Arse Stormtroopers.  Same sex marriage? Ze very idea, is fucking abomination.

And so it is.




The Michelin Guide to restaurants has been around since 1920. Before that, it was a genial motorists’ guide for les Frogs - routes and maps, the locations of garages and breakdown services, handy maintenance tips, like the old AA handbook used to be.....

When I worked in a five-star hotel you made stock, in a big higher-than-a-man, free-standing, double-skinned, steam-heated stockpot; huge, it was. Monday mornings you’d throw in a sack of halved onions, browned on the range-top, a sack of carrots, a box of celery, a big tray of eggs, a big tin of tomato puree and the burnt bones of a couple of cows. And anything else beefy or lamby or chickeny that you had hanging around. Waste not, want not, when all else fails throw it in the stockpot and wring out whatever good-ness lies in this old bone.
After a day or so, via the tap at the bottom, you could fill a jug or a pan with the most potent and beautifully clear stock imagin-able. Some of it would go in the walk-in fridge to set as consommé gelée, some of it would make soups, some of it would make a basic brown sauce to sit in a bain marie and form the basis of all sub-sequent brown sauces, bolognese, chasseur, Rossini and so on; some of it would be added to thickened roasting-pan juices for gravy.
The stockpot was never turned off, we just kept it topped up with water and fed it more beef bones as they appeared; wherever, these days, we use a stock cube, we, then, drew off a pint of beef stock from the stockpot. Sunday nights the kitchen porter would climb up a side-ladder and into the stockpot - the liquor all having been drawn off and the steam shut off - and empty the mother with a shovel.
There was a pair, actually, of these monsterpots and the other one was for a vegetable stock - celery, leeks, carrots, onions, turnips, parsley and all the trimmings from the legumier’s table - stalks, leaves, pods, skins. This was ready in an hour or so and was used mainly for vegetable soups. Sometimes the secondary stock pot would be brought to the boil with nothing but water and a dozen or two prime brown lobsters flung-in, to scream and turn pink. Fish stock was made more or less to order, skins and bones, onion and bayleaf, a dash of white wine. The idea of using a stock cube never entered anyone’s head.
And then Harold Wilson’s govament, friend to the working class, brought in the Selective Employment Tax, which taxed employment in service industries and hotel and catering staff numbers were slashed - not, as we now so stupidly say, decimated, hoping that we mean nearly wiped out but actually meaning cut by only ten per cent - and kitchen brigades were more than halved, dining room staff, too, were sent down the road, muttering.
Before SET commis chefs and commis waiters would spend the first part of their (split) shifts fine-chopping parlsey into green dust, or with wickedly sharp knives slicing toast through the centre and toasting the exposed surfaces to make that wafer-thin, curly Melba toast which adorned every table, and in curling pounds and pounds of butter into neat, corrugated, little rolls which would sit in gleaming, stainless steel buckets of iced water before being placed on the dining tables. In the kitchen proper, on the fish table, determined and competitive young improvers would carve boxes of lemons into fantastical shapes to adorn grilled salmons and halibuts, cucumbers would be cleverly scored lengthwise with a neat little canal knife, tomatoes cut in alternating short diagonals around their centre; all, then, as now, was adornment. In the larder, wielding saws and cleavers and boning knives, chefs would bone and roll and shape legs and crowns of lamb, fillet chicken breasts for a score of chicken dishes, skin and prepare Dover Soles for poaching or grilling or deep-frying; saw and chop and slice beef sirloins into T-bone and fillet and entrecote steaks; in various side-pantries and in the Still-room - so-called because Stills manufactured the gleaming stainless steel boilers and steamers
and espresso machines which fed the silver tea and coffee pots - waiters would daily finely chop capers and hard-boiled eggs and call on the kitchen staff for mayonnaise with which to combine eggy-bitterness into Tartare Sauce; Sauce Marie Rose was made daily for the newly popular Prawn Cocktail - or Crevettes Marie Rose, as it was known then. Cutlery and crockery and glass were all hand burnished and the hotel housekeepers had starched and ironed the linen table cloths and napkins. The grand hotel was like the country house, labour was plentiful, cheap and by today’s standards very highly skilled. Overnight, Wilson’s taxation policy changed all that.
Overnight, standards fell through the floor, the hotel trade, like so much else, was ruined, the Grand Central became Heartbreak Hotel, the proper people simply weren’t there to do the jobs properly, so they stopped being done properly; this heralded the arrival and the colonisation of cuisine by multi-national food-bandits like Knorr. It’s wrong to call them food-bandits, really, because in my opinion they don’t make food, they package chem-icals; Knorr food products all seem to consist of salt, emulsifiers, monosodium glutomate and the dehydrated sweepings-up from the slaughterhouse floor; their soups, stocks, sauces and flavourings are shit. But hotel managers had to do what they had to do, the stockpots were turned off because there wasn’t the power to man them and powders took their place, neat little wrapped butter portions replaced the hand-curled dishfuls; frozen and dried vegetables replaced those bought daily by the head chef himself in the Belfast market just around the corner, frozen fish poured in from Youngs and other maritime vandals, Duck à l'Orange from boil-in-the-fucking-bag manufacturers, Alveston Kitchens of, I think, Stratford upon Avon; you simply drop our product, still in its plastic bag, into boiling water for fifteen minutes and Voila! shite à la mode.

After the SET blitz I worked in a seaside hotel in Ballycastle under a once-famous European master chef, Henri de Tour; he was past his best, in his late sixties and like every senior chef I ever knew he was a pisshead. One of my tasks was to slip out up the road to an offy and buy him his daily half-bottle of vodka, the management having instructed the bar staff not to serve him. Anyway, my abiding memory of Henri is wonderful. He was a small man and he wore this great big chef’s hat, starched to stand upright on his head, about eighteen inches high, I think he glued it on, for it never fell off, despite his uncertain deportment, and I can picture him now, stood over a large dustbin and with deft strokes of his filleting knife slicing open dozens of bags of the then-novel Surprise! Freeze-Dried Green Beans and philosophically - for he knew he would be dismissed - watching them cascade drily into the bin. They were part of a management-ordered consignment of labour-free foods which also included Maggi and Knorr dried soups and stocks; Henri wouldn’t use them and nor, ever after, have I. The soups and the stocks were, with equal solemnity, consigned to the bin and soon Henri - and I - were gone.
Belfast’s Grand Central Hotel declined and became a barracks for those troops set wastefully against Marty Kneecaps and his Torturing Freedom Fighters, the site is now a shopping experience of some sort, although hard-faced, goon taxi drivers congregate, still, around Royal Avenue, longing for their recent glory days as racketeers and extortionists. An establishment, renowned for over seventy years for the excellence of its service became, like British ships and engineering and steel, a notch on the cost-cutter’s gun.

But M-P Gob and the Michelin men; thereby hangs a tale. Gob was one of the early celebrity chef-restaurateurs employing, in his day, many of teevee’s most repulsive, including the fuckwit Blumenthal, of bacon-and-egg-flavoured ice-cream fame. Marky was one of the first and one of the youngest to win two or was it three Michelin stars and so up-his-own-arse did he grow that anyone daring to complain about his food was confronted by the angry, sweating chef himself, raging at them and throwing them out of his gaff; how fucking dare they criticise his raw lambs kidneys on a bed of quick sautéed dandelion leaves? Man was and remains an
utter cunt. Just the sort of character beloved of the Michelin men. And he was the sort of cunt beloved also by that most irrelevant of creatures, the gossipy restaurant critic, and with the imprimatur of some worthless piece of shit like AA Gill, Gob’s pretentious greasy spoons were all fully booked; rich foodies wetting themselves as they stood in line at his door, some hoping, maybe, like some deranged, overweight self-flagellant, for a good public bollocking from the young maestro himself. No Business like Showbusiness.
The Michelin business is a bit like the Baftas and the Oscars, it shouldn’t mean anything but it does and every braying, illiterate celebrity cook yearns to have a Michelin star. Like the grizzly Meryl Streep with her Oscars, some cooks are just always going to win and retain a Michelin star and the gullible will flock to eat beneath it, as they flock to see Streep playing Whisky Maggie - because the industry tells them to. Gob is far too dirty and unwholesome-looking for your correspondent, who is funny about such things as hand washing and cross contamination. I share Christopher Walken’s incredulity at the fact that otherwise sensible people will let complete strangers, whom they cannot even see, handle their food and Gob’s contempt for his customers seems so ingrained and bloated that it is probably de rigeur in his kitchens for him to shove his manky fingers - as well as his head - up his arse. I am sure that the explosion in ItchyBums, the epidemic of Irritable Bowel Syndrome which started in the eighties is due to filthy conceited bastards like Marc-Pierrot Gob and his imitators as they peddled eating-out as a form of rough sex.
A former inspecteur from Michelin spilled the beans a few years back, revealing that the firm only employs a handful of insp-ectors to cover the whole of Europe and, like the British Health and Safety Standards board, is laughably incapable of monitoring even the establisments to which it has awarded stars, much less the establishments which - in not recognising - it has sent to foody-purdah.

I don’t know if any of the Arabian-owned grand hotels cling, still, to freshly-made Tartare Sauce, to double-skinned, steam-pow-ered stockpots but I doubt it. And hotels, anyway, are no longer the foodies’ Mecca. It is the celebrity cook who makes the running now, festooned not just with Michelin stars but a teevee series, too. Mee-shell or Al-bare, one of those fucking intolerable Roux brothers was on recently, ohh-la-la-ing all over the place about Alsatian Apple Pie or Roast Pork or some such. And, as though he was Margaret Thatcheur, ‘e was banging on about ‘Ow-You-Say, le threeft an’ le ‘ard work, and, and I’m not making this up, about ‘Ow very sad eet all ess, Ooh-la-fucking-la, zat we are employing so many eemigrant in ze Breetish kitchen, the cheeky, fucking Frog bastard. Since when have we given a fuck about what some jumped-up Frog cook thinks about anything? Stick to your snails, m’sieu, and your bouilla-fucking-baisse.

But it’s not just him. Look at the whining little shit and seedy shoplifting poltroon, Wobble-Thompson, look at the utterly, incurably self-worshipping Jamie Wotsit; the two, beardy gay bikers; the list is endless and constantly updated as another brain-dead celebrity cook or baker explodes onto the screen of public consciousness.
Once, in Britain, if we celebrated people at all, we celebrated worthies, unassuming non-millionaire sportspersons like Roger Bannister and Duncan Edwards, inventors, like Whittle, designers like Issigonis; proper musicians and proper actors, Julian Bream, Laurence Olivier. Now, here in Ruin, on page and screen, we sanctify and mimic dirty, greasy cooks.
Marc-Pierrot Gob’s typically bombastic advertisements for the Knorr semi-liquid Stock Cube are a milestone on Ruin’s Highway. Like himself, they are fucking rubbish; salty, dark and overwhelming of any native goodness. Don’t bother with them. I tried one recently, the rest are going in the special Ruinbin



Try and have right good fucking English Christmas round here.  Watch Jamie Bloke on telly and copy everything just right.  For soup is surprise a la Jamie.  Go in garden pull up handful of weeds from ground,  is ok leave some dirt on weeds, is organic soup,  innit,  go back in house and kick oven for good luck and get half kilo of garlic and smash up  with dirty old brick.  Have a break and pick nose for a minute,  tell cockney joke about My Old Mum.  

 Mmmm,  smell all that lovely garlic.  And then get some red hot chilli and smash with brick,  not too much,  just enough.  And then get ten pounds per litre olive oil off Sainsbury shop and pour some in jug.  Assemble all ingredients and season all up with half pound of cayenne pepper and half pound of vindaloo curry powder off Sainsburys.  Take weeds and oil and garlic and chilli and anything else you got lying about and throw in machine and give good fucking blitzing for minute or two till is right sloppy -  everything, weeds, garlic, oil and curry powder is one delicious and appetising grey-green mixture.  Wipe finger on arse of jeans and stick in soup.     Mmmm, is fucking miasma of friendly flavour  and texture,  'Strewth, fair leaps up from bowl and tickle under fucking chin, eh.? Pour in bowls and serve cold with handful of weed ripped up and thrown on top.  Mmmm,  is delicious and  is guarantee family will go mad for it.  Can make six month in advance and store in garage with coal.  Season to taste.
Next up is turkey.   Jamie Bloke says go down local turkey farm and kill bastard with own hands.  Is right organic.  Meaningful, like in fucking Guardian.  First chase after turkey in mud and shit and grab bastard by legs.  Mrs get one end and stan  get other end and twist like fuck, pulling like tug of war,  knack is to twist and pull just right and snap turkey neck.  Often bastard break free and bite and fucking squawk and shit and run around  and is back to square peg one.  Stanislav make rugby tackle on fucking turkey and bastard still won’t stop still and get killed.  Go back in van and get biggest in set of Stilson wrench and chase turkey bastard all around,  land blow on bird now and again but often is just fall on arse in mud and turkey shit.  Go back in van and start up engine.
Not much damage in the end, is just bumper and headlight and radiator all smash up but turkey is good and fucking dead, crush between van and wall;  not bite no other bastard.  Pay farmer hundred quid for turkey and hundred quid for wall and hundred quid for field all ploughed-up and hundred quid for not phone cops and hundred quid for  RSPCA.   Fuck me, thought plumbers was bad.  But five hundred quid for smelly old turkey about ten years old and made from leather and  most is all fucking claws and  feathers and shit. And have to pay cousin small fortune to fix up van with iffy parts  off eBay.  Still, organic make better citizen, like Mr Blunkett wants.  Only not  take turn with Mr Hoggart off Guardian and fuck other bloke Mrs and get kid. Too fucking organic for most folk.
Anyway,  get turkey up on table and splash liberally with white spirit off Sainsbury or petrol  from Sainsbury garage will do if not got any spirit  and set on fire until feathers is all burn off. Is best open windows.  If no spirit and no gas is best  cover with grated firelighter and light from other room . No need for too fussy.  Is Christmas and feather,  like run out of money,   is   Xmas  custom. Rub both hand vigourously down jeans and slap dead turkey on breast and stroke,  going,  mmmm just look  at that,  mmmm, just look at that.  Only  lightly season  - put few handful  of black pepper and couple of kilo of rock salt up turkey jacksie and pound or two of  ripped up weeds from garden,  hedge clippings from summer will do,   and few tube of squeeze garlic paste off Sainsburys.  Not bother with pull insides out.  All adds to great organic flavour.

Now is best part.  Go in garden with wheelbarrow.  If poor and not  got garden,  never mind, go down park, is open at Christmas,  full of wino and incognito crack prostitute from Cabinet and children shoot and stab  each other but never mind, is Christmas,  eh,  in prosperous,  cautious,  prudent Britain.  Anyway,  make plenty shovel of dirt in barrow and mix in smooth paste with couple of gallon of water from pond  and season with several kilo of garlic smash with brick and few jar of strawberry jam from Sainsburys.  Is good friends, garlic and strawberry, reassures  Jamie.  Make delicious mix of flavour on top of  dead turkey.
Go back in house and prepare turkey for oven  by putting in big fuck off dish and pour over tasty and flavoursome mud crust .  Get brother-in-law, Waldemar,  away from Christmas with Clarkson Video - Oh, this car go so fast my hair catch fucking fire,  Oh, this car so slow get overtake by fucking glacier;  Oh,  Birmingham is shithole;  Oh, you might think I am fat useless repetitive overpaid BBC cunt. But you’d be wrong.  And so on - to help shove in oven,  kick door with foot  and weld-up tight with gear fron van and roast at  five hundred Celsius, Gas Mark 20, for several days. Maybe a week. Maybe fortnight.  Remove when cooked.
Unfortunately, family say not eating that shit, Stan. You can be organic as fuck,  we is off down McDonald,  get decent,  honest fucking mechanically reclaim turkey burger made of eyeball, foreskin,  arsehole,  beak and fucking feather and come with salty,  powdered chip with large Coke and apple pie to incinerate fucking gob,  complete with have nice day greeting off poor fucking miserable pimply bastard wish he was fucking dead, roasting in Hell,  rather than togged-up in stripey shirt and cap on head.  Even with howling smelly regiment of spoiled little bastards all having birthday party and poor old cripple mopping fucking floor McDonald is better.  Fuck this organic shit.  Is not fit for decent person.  Only for  cockney ponce on fucking TV
Must admit Turkey en croute with dock leaf and Bisto sorbet not best ever family Christmas dinner.  Maybe next year take advice from  fish and chip bloke in Cornwall.  Dig big fucking hole in garden, throw in firelighter and stick and coal and roast alive some poor fucking crab and lobster and eat with fingers. Dance about singing I do like to be beside the seaside
Always assume of course that there is fucking Christmas next year and not all in  fucking NewLabour workhouse, nation of fucking homeless, vagrant dossers, line up for free soup off Salvation Army U Like.  Economic miracle, Phase 2.

je touch le chapeau a M le Suisse Bob




Thursday 15 March 2012


In  fact they're worse than Pikeys, says former Goldman Sachs executive, Mr John GreedyBastard, below,

  in a letter to the New York FilthAfter twelve years of greedybastarding the shamed banker has quit in disgust at himself.  The banking community, he says in his open letter, are shameless, lawless, greeedy fucking shitpigs,  they have no morals, no manners,  they are vulgar and overdressed in showy clothes and flashy watches, they drive vulgar cars and their children are fucking little monsterbastards,  their women are stupid sluts,

 NewPikeys, living it up at our expense.

goodforfuckall  and everywhere they go the lives of decent people are fucked up by their filthy, thieving ways;  they produce nothing of any value to society and are motivated only by greed and hatred. And they get everywhere, the filthy fucking bastards are in the White House, in Downing Street, in fact, there are bankers running every govament in the Western world.

Pikeys visit their Washingtom HQ,  below.

Just you do as we tellya, boy, and we'll cross yer palm with whitefolks' silver.

Big,  fat gipsy stitch-up

Mr JP Morgan-Tinker and his bride at the White House


And the thing that really fucks me off, continued the former filthster, is that when you try to get these verminous fucking throwbacks to behave themselves, you know, stop stealing things, start paying taxes and stop shitting over everything they say that if we don't watch out  they'll put a curse on us, take their foul traditions, their scrubbers and their nasty feral little bastards away, to some other country.  As though that wouldn't be just the best thing that could ever happen.


 22 Belgian schoolkids  killed in Swiss coach crash.

Good job NATO wasn't in the area, or it might have been much worse.
Meanwhile, far away in another part of town.....

Killing and Maiming of children

In 2009, more than 1000 Afghani children were killed or injured in conflict-related violence. 

 128 children were killed by armed opposition groups; 55 killed and 199 injured in mine accidents and 131 children killed in aerial bombings by international military forces.

Bodies of children killed in an airstrike are seen on the back of a truck in the city of Kandahar August 5, 2009.

Wednesday 14 March 2012


Hey, Dave;  you want I should extradite this ginger bitch, Woods, and put her in Ultra Deep Maximum Security for a few years?  I can, y'know,  just like that, and it'd be legal, ask  your home seckatry,  that old broad with the kinky shoes.  Or mebbe I should get one of these dudes to pop a cap in her scrawny ass.  I can do that, too;  or maybe a drone strike in Chipping Whoosits?

Gosh, thanks, Bar, but we'd prefer that you kept that sort of thing for people who don't, like the Murdochs do,  have any dirt on me,  y'know, innocent people.  Anyway, I believe  in giving guilty people a second chance, that's the kind of prime minister I am.

You mean as well as being the unelected kind?

Monday 12 March 2012


Staff Seargeant  GI Joe, 38 and a father of two is said to have left his Afghan base  heavily armed and shot to death sixteen people - 13 of them children -  before going back and handing himself in to the legal authorities -  ie the US Army, or Redneck Psychobastard Central.
 Speaking on Pentagon Radio,  US Seckatry of State President Hillary Trousers, 
My husband, President Spunky Bill, did not  have sexual relations with that woman.  And nor did I.

said she had no idea why the soldier had shot sixteen people, Maybe he ran out of bullets, said the increasingly crazy-looking old witch-dyke, and sixteen was all he could manage. This will not hinder my determination to start a war in Eyeran  or Syria or Pakistan.  Just so long as I leave that sonofafuckinbitch Obama lookin' like he's got blood and guts and sinews and in-fuckin-test- ines  hanging from his teeth.

Four-star General Hiram T Cheeseburger the Third said that

 Rally round the flag, y'all.

This is a most unusual event,  normally we kill niggerchildren with dronebombs or napalm and it is deeply regrettable that one of our troops was forced to put himself through this ordeal.

In the White House, President Obamalama, swivelling his head from left- to right-hand autocue said, 


My fellow motherfuckers. Let me make it clear.  I am the Commander in Chief.   And no soldier.  Under this administration.  Need have any worries.  About going to jail. That is not how.  I get re-elected. Unless that soldier is.  Pfc Bradley Manning. And we are  gonna. Fry his ass. Vote for me.

GI Joe's head  probably was fucked-up. That's what they do to soldiers, after all.  And maybe his Deathfest was triggered by one too many mornings spent up to his arse in GlobaCorp hypocrisy.
One would expect him to be nutted-off to some funnyfarm, for a year or two, and then honoured by all the rednecks who believe that the only good nig-nog is a dead nig-nog,  the Ku Klux Klan, the TeaParty, Guido Fawkes and his redneck masturbators,  the usual bunch of fascists, wifebeaters, racists  and childkillers.  These kids, after all, are all gonna grow up and be killers;  best just kill 'em now, so says order-order, the PizzaHouseOfBlood.

Rally round the Flag, boys.

Yes we'll rally round the flag, boys, we'll rally once again,
Shouting the battle cry of freedom,
We will rally from the hillside, we'll gather from the plain,
Shouting the battle cry of freedom!

We are springing to the call of our brothers gone before,
Shouting the battle cry of freedom!
And we'll fill our vacant ranks with a million freemen more,
Shouting the battle cry of freedom!

We will welcome to our numbers the loyal, true and brave,
Shouting the battle cry of freedom!
And although they may be poor, not a man shall be a slave,
Shouting the battle cry of freedom!
So we're springing to the call from the East and from the West,
Shouting the battle cry of freedom!
And we'll hurl the rebel crew from the land we love best,
Shouting the battle cry of freedom!
The Union forever! Hurrah, boys, hurrah!
Down with the traitor, up with the star;
While we rally round the flag, boys, rally once again,
Shouting the battle cry of freedom!

Sunday 11 March 2012



UN/Arab League -  what the fuck is the Arab League? - envoy, Kofi Annan, hustling in Damascus. I mean Urgently seeking a peaceful solution acceptable to all sides. But mainly Israel.

 It is the losssss of money  which concernssss me, 
I mean civilian life.

Whispering Kofi Annan is back.  Enough time has elapsed, presumably,  since the little bit of bother about he and his son milking his position as UN Seckatry General  and making some well-deserved money. Son, Kojo, was taking bungs from  the UN Oil-For-Food programme in the late Mr Saddam's Iraq and acting as mouthpiece for various well-connected, head-chopping, women-stoning, coked-up playboys in the Middle East;   y'know the kinda folks, Princes Charles and Andy's mates, Emirs and Princes, all manner of dictator filth.   Obviously, though, seeing who his old man was, Kojo never actually did anything wrong, like Jack Straw's bug-eyed, mutant son, Will,  or Lord Prescott's conniving property speculator son, David,  or George Bush senior's apechild, Dubya.  The sons of the powerful are all, in Jack Straw's words, Good Kids, Really.

Anyway, Kofi's back, lisping  his dire and worthless platitudes over the civil war in Syria.    One of the more useless UN Secretaries General -  has there been a decent one, since that guy who died in a plane crash, Dag Hammersjkold ? -    Annan has been wheeled-out as whispering peacemaker at large and we can, therefore, expect a further conflagration in Syria, spontaneous or orchestrated, as he does his masters' bidding, glueing a warped  veneer of diplomacy over the neo-con agenda in that region. look, we sent that great man, Kofi Wotsisname, and even he couldn't sort-out  that nigger shit.  The other main players in the Peace charade - Spunky Bill Clinton, Tony and Imelda, even conflict-resolution experts,  Gerry O'Nonce and Marty Kneecaps -  must all be busy with other projects;  Foundations, they call them, these murdering fuckpigs, busy hoovering-up bribes from WarCorp.
 Whispering Kofi Annan and President-for-Life Ali-Basher.

 There are terrorists, you know, Kofi, shooting my civilians....
Yessssss, Basher but.....isssss there sssome way we can all ........earn ssssome money? I firmly and ssssincerely believe that it makessss the world go round.
 We are all men of the world, after all.  Yesssss, I ssstill have the ssssame Swissssss account.  Clinton?  Yesssss, he'll want a tasssste.  And his doxy, Hillary Trousssersssss.  Blair?  Of coursssssse.  Bush, Carter, McCain, Romney,  they all need looking after, unlessss you want to wind up, when the night comes falling from the sky, how shall we sssay, dangling in mid-air?



I remember when AIDS  - or HTLV, as it was then, Human T Cell Leukemia Virus  ( I am sure that Acquired Immuno Deficiency Syndrome was substituted for it's acronymical convenience, seeing as how we are all deemed, now,  here in Ruin,  to be too stupid to say, much less understand complete words )  first started stalking the sexlives, sniper-like of anybody who had sex. Which is most but by no means all of us.

All of a sudden the commentariat, drunken slags, pimps and nonces,  themselves, generally speaking,  all fur coat and no knickers, like Lady Barbara Amiel,  the tart who broke the bank at  the Filth-O-Graph or shameless gangbangers like Simon Hoggart of theArsebridger; all of them, anyone with a bully pulpit  from which to sermonise  was, with varying degrees of hysteria, urging safe sex on the rest of us;  obsydian, tombstone-like megaliths almost  crashed, nightly,  through the bottoms of our TeeVee screens,

 so portentous was their YouWillDie  message, OhYesYouWill.

Stars and celebrities died from AIDS in a blaze of publicity.  Trusts were established to commemorate victims and to mitigate the arse-blitz, to reinforce NewSodom's barricades against God's own  vaulting, judgemental plague.  Good for fuck all politicians leapt enthusiastically on what would become a  vast, sprawling morality play, as well as  a health campaign. No business like showbusiness

 John and Edwina, spearheading his govament's SafeSex campaign

 As  a health minister I insist that you wear a johnny, Johnny.

Too fucking right I will, if I may say so, 'salright old spinsters riding bicycles but I need to be careful when I'm riding the village bicycle, as I am with you. I'm the fucking prime minister, Oh yes, indeed I most certainly am, in a not inconsiderable manner.

Impudent govament ministers and jumped-up experts and moralists seized on this   relatively minor health problem to further lecture harangue, corral and bully us.  The appearance  of Aids  gave  I Know Bestism a hundred-per-cent-pure shot in the arm. Anybody could be an expert. Shit, I was one myself, briefly. And if you didn't want to be a pro-gay expert, as I styled myself, you could be an I-always-knew-it-would-happen redneck expert,  these people are all diseased anyway.  They need treatment.  And a good punch.

I know that relatively minor health problem is an inflammatory statement to  many  but less than two million people dying from AIDS in 2010 compares with fifteen million children dying from hunger every year.   I don't know if the San Franciscan Interior Decorators Association ever makes a hunger-quilt,  as it so showily made  an AIDS victims' quilt  but I doubt it, too busy with the string quartet in their salons to hear the  weakening howls of anguish  from the  other side of the world.

  I mentioned before that the word community   makes me long for an AK 47. Somehow,  the deaths in New York and San Francisco - on top of the Stonewall defiance - strengthened and entrenched the idea of a Gay community;  more separatism, more exclusion, more Me-ism.  And a further fragmentation of a population which should be remorselessly unified against GlobaCorp.  Black community, gay community, fat community, transgender community, foxhunting community. Bollocks, all of it. Diabetes'll kill me and it's already fucked me right up but I'm not part of a Diabetes Community.  There's only one community,  the planetary community.

The starving to death community.
 And hunger, preventable hunger,  kills more people than  AIDS, Malaria and Tuberculosis combined. Be that as it may, I digress,  the opportunity to moralise was a gold-embossed invitation to MediaMinster;  now the queerbashers, like Straight Simon Hughes, could really let rip, tut-tutting, finger-wagging; but it was not just queers who got AIDS, our masters reminded us, anyone could get it.  Although it was probably caused originally  by  a queer, further back in the fucking chain.  You know, some  of those queers were actually bisexual, too,  and, y'know, your wife might have had a knee-trembler with one of them. You know what women are like. And she might give it to you.  Or she might have caught it long before she met you, off some other lover who also did it with men.  Christ, why didya marry the bitch in the first place? Dirty slut.

But in amongst all the self-loathing and fear and guilt I spied, one night on the telly, a junkie-cowboy-angel-rentboy, somewhere in Manhattan, in Bathhouse Central,  the revolving door of rough, anonymous, gay sex with a cascade, a multiplicity  of partners, showering one another with maybe-malign sperm.  Fuck that safe sex shit, he raged,  I didn't come out, upsetting my mother and father and brothers and sisters, just so's I could settle down in some monogamy shit with the same man every night;  fuck no,  I like risk, I love it.  Here was someone from William Burroughs'  fevered ejaculatory world or from the divine Last Exit to Brooklyn,  here was one of the people who populate the pages of what mr verge calls Transgressive Literature but whom we usually pretend are just fictional , just some de Sadean erotomaniacal reverie,  or even just rhyming coupleteers from Lou Reed's Walk On TheWild Side.  Holly came  from Miami Fla., hitch-hiked her way across the USA, plucked her eyebrows on the way, shaved her legs, 'n' then he was a she, said Hey, Babe, take a Walk On the Wild Side. This guy, a young man, was as real as pain, was proper queer; not a simpering showbiz Mommasboy narcissist,  like Rufus  fucking Wainwright, but a raging, righteous, independent  Quentin Crisp punque and he spoke for lots of them, I guess. These are people I'd met, as a runaway teenager, in all-night cafes on Birmingham's Bristol Road,   way back, before before. These people are the sexual underworld, these people are the business.

I don't know if he lived or died, that young man, but I really wished him well  in his outlaw  adventures.  I have been a brinkman all,  no - I lose track of time - some of  my life;  even as a kid, cycling downhill with my feet on the handlebars;  riding on the open platform of the corporation bus, back leant on the chrome unpright, holding on to nothing, an invitation to the blues, one pothole would have thrown me into the following traffic; always standing right up to the edge of the train platform, literally and figuratively, driving cars and riding motorbikes way too fast, falling off and crashing, DOA, one time, revived by an Emergency doctor, whom I promptly, flailingly thumped, as soon as consciousness was restored and I saw him incising my chest to drain a collapsed lung;  drinking too much drink and smoking too much smoke. Bring another bottle, build another joint.  One time a doctor said to me Don't ever get another skull fracture, mr ishmael, your skull's like a fucking jigsaw.  But it's alright, I learned my lesson well.  Motherless children have a hard road, just takes time to work that out, if you've never known anything else.And of course we, all of us, must take, if it's kindly offered,   shelter form the storm -  shelter  which some,  here, have so recently and irretrieveably lost.  I'm alright, now, never travel by train. Or motorbike.

I have friends in their sixties, after a lifetime of predictabilty, regularity and security, moaning about their mothers being a nuisance, and me not having known one these fifty and more years.  One way and another, therefore,  I am seriously sympathetic to the sexual outsider, living out on the streets, battered, mistreated and villified cruelly, even - no especially - by the worthies who  dally with them, so hotly, so moistly, before scurrying home,  their true passion aired,  to their official wives or husbands.

The worst that happened to me, I should say,  was that a Methodist minister  tried to molest  me, shortly after my mother died. He didn't succeed -  I was big for my age and strong and his wife was downstairs  but the attempt was one of the most shocking things that ever happened to me.  I say he didn't succeed but noncing happens  in a funny old world, maybe being able to exert brutish, breach-of-trust power over the vulnerable and get away with is thrill enough. Brian Duckworth, his name was and he and another minister ran a  ring, like they do, assaulting, trading damaged children, between themselves and some Dr Barnardo's staffers. Same old story, same old song. Duckworth went on to be something big and smiley and trustworthy in Methodism, worked in Central Hall.  Dead now,  the bastard.

I don't mention this to make a link between homosexuality and paedophilia, even though I do think that intrinsically, in some cases,  there is one.  Duckworth, for instance, wasn't, to my knowledge, homosexual as such, he was married with children and as far as I know stayed that way.  Just liked to molest children, just a paedophile.  But there are other cases, other currents, in which gay and paedo merge, almost as an act of carelessness.  In many ways, I admire gay activist Peter Tatchell, he's brave, taking on Mugabe's men and he's brave, being wrestled to the ground by Michael Portillo's goons and he's forgiven Simon Hughes when what he needs is a punch in his warty gob but when Tatchell  starts talking about young gay men of twelve and thirteen and how the age of consent should be lowered to thereabouts I can't help but wonder where he's bound.  I go pale, inside and out, at the shocking effrontery of such an assumption,  gay young men of twelve.........Maybe I'm an old reactionary, maybe people, legally children, should be able to fuck whoever they want to from the very second that they are able to.  The idea of an age of consent is, of course, unnatural, repressive of million-year old instincts but much of how we organise society is contra-natural and I think that we have to have ages of consent in the same way and for the same reason that we have speed limits on the roads - to stop people being hurt.  Mr edgar recently chastised me for my use of the phrase Age-inappropriate relationships but the idea of Peter Tatchell  or someone even older than he having penetrative sex with a twelve year-old - and this would be the consequence, or one of the consequences of such legislation - and the emotional damage which such behaviours might cause is poorly, inadequately described by the phrase age-inappropriate.  Believe me, mr edgar, I am a Duckworth scholar in such things.

It is all murky and can be argued either way, libertarian/tolerant or what should we call it, traditional/intolerant but  maybe not all gay people want to see the age of consent lowered to puberty, maybe it's just the in-yer-face segment of that community which wants to have its boy and eat him.

But the current gay issue is a message from another world, not about lowering the age of consent to twelve, it is about faux-marriage, or the unqueering of homosexuality; those making the running on this one demand that they marry, just exactly like heterosexual couples.  A million miles from the oppositional Manhattan outlaw,  this group is desperate to subdue and colonise the very terrain from which their predecessors fled.  Anything you can do, we can do better.
Civil union confers upon gay couples all the legal protections of holy deadlock,  the absence of which underpinned the movement  for civil union. The term marriage, therefore, and the pursuit of the nomenclature is strictly totemic.  The pursuit  by some gay people  of the term married couple is, in my judgement, a bitchy, spiteful, rub-their-noses-in-it  hetero-bashing manouvre which should be resisted, which is an abomination.  Of course we must let people live together without hindrance and with proper legal protection but let them not insist upon this dreary, spiteful  wrongheaded homogenisation;  wassamatter, are they no longer proud to be gay?  Aren't  they now demanding  a right they al;ready have, the right to be straight? 

Despite their aversion to participating in the biological activities  which creates life, gay men, some gay men, rich, pampered,  dribbling, self-indulgent old queens like Lady Sir Elton John can now buy, commission children in the market place, just as if they were sending some gofer out for  a line or two of cocaine,  they take no risk, they bear no pain,  they create nothing,  they only consume.

But that is not enough for them;  they fool themselves and  attempt to browbeat, to cudgel with the truncheon of  equal rights, to fool everybody else that they are young parents ordinaire, wilfully heedless  and expecting the rest of to be as pig-stupid ignorant as they  of the fact that fucking, conception, anxiety, pregnancy, labour and delivery are the only route to parenthood. Obviously. Elton and David may  primp and preen, may act as parents  magnifique et formidable before  their fawning, tonedeaf courtiers, when all they are is shoppers.

 Frothy, empty headed, vacuous and trivial, play-acting at being alive.

And so it is, so it must be with those screeching and whining that not only must they, non-reproductive,  samesexers, be treated the same but must be linguistically, terminologically indistinguishable from the breeders.

 Punch in the gob,  that's what they need;  quick rub-down with a housebrick.





For some years, now, BBC2 has been running a series of Transatlantic Session in which a basic band of vaguely traditional Scottish-Irish musicians joins forces with some visiting American dignitaries of the genre - some of them are quite magical but they are grown increasingly tedious;

 smirking, beardy fiddlers, manic pipers and an absolutely intolerable lap slide guitar player who, regardless of suitability or taste ladles his syrupy tones over absolutely everything, join ensemble with some long-tressed Kentucky singerbabe, just as doggone purty as a picture, 


 or a guitar-flailing Tenneseean loon sporting a snufflers beard, the whole cloying confection intercut with commercial ethnobabble about the Music and the Roots and about NoBarriers. Fucking horsehit, really, although it has been worth looking at just in case the late Kate McGarrigle

 or Mad Maestro Paul Brady - surely a cousin of Marty Kneecaps -


 or some such transcendent musical jewel made a brief, sparkling appearance.

The redeeming feature of this long-running series is that there is never an appearance by gibbering hobgoblin Sir Jools Holland and his assorted headshrinkers and necromancers; that, in itself on a BBC2 music show, is a kindness.

 No, laydeezangennulmen, don't laugh, I really can sing.
 And I have extremeley eclectic musical tastes.

The loose underpinning of these jamborees is the supposed connection between (whte) United States music and Scotland, the best part of England - y'know, nationalism. Scotland's great influence on the world, the ethnic cleansing of the US by murderous Scots, Paddies, Germans and all the Bible thumping riff-raff of Europe, of which Scotland and Ireland appear to be so proud. Sioux, Arapaho, Navajo, Cherokee, Iriqouis and Innuit, Celtic bandits have slaughtered them by the thousand, stole their lands, desecrated their sites, raped their women and children.; Ah, but Jaysus, the music. And sure the people was starvin' at home, so they were, so why not take stuff from the Redskins, now, dem being Godless heathen savages an all, so they are.

Alongside all this nationalist tedium there is an international marketing opportunity, or should I say grassroots movement, as people all over the world discover their Celtic connection and in the true spirit of traditional musicians everywhere, sign recording contracts and hope fervently for a cross-over, number one platinum album.

I got in trouble - and a little acclaim - up here a while back for publicly  lambasting  the rapacious juggernaut arts movement in Scotland.  Here, and especially  so the further North you go, any smirking wee Fiona sawing at a tuneless fiddle is a maestro-in waiting;  any sourfaced crow singing unaccompanied in Gaelic  a fifteen-verse dirge about hanging or murder or betrayal - some Fathomless Grievance Blues - anyone, in fact, who, lacking taste or modesty, gets up and makes a noise in front of others deserves public subsidy, because, like the horsebeaters in BigFatPikeyWeddings, what they are doing is traditional.  Not while old people are cold, ventured I. And anyway, most of it is shite;  those awful accordions, Jesus fucking wept. And what is  good will survive and flourish without subsidy, like the Delta Blues.  Some were delighted at my heresy, others wounded deep in their morbid souls.

I shrink, therefore, from Scottish traditional music, especially performed by professional ego-tripping ponces and slappers. And I retreat even further from the overseas varieties, from Canucks claiming some spurious ancestral connection to the  banks and  braes o' bonny Doon; from Kentuckians ot Tennesseans blethering about Wicklow and Clare.  The only good things to come from that hillbilly region were the Everly Brothers and Dolly Parton.

Mr mongoose, anyway, suggested this chanteuse, as an Evensongstress.  I dunno, had he been bombarded for a decade or more  with Annie Crow and the Smirking Wee Fionas, he might take a different view of this stuff.




This is one of those things that we all get. A guy I used to know  never bothers to write to me but instead forwards me  dozens of these things, which, I presume,  he receives  from somebody who can't be bothered to write to him, either; it's communication, Jim, but not as we know it;  in fact, it's not communication at all.  I dunno what it is, some i-phenomenon, waving, not drowning, maybe.

Most of them originate down there in mr mike's  world and are generally from some Aussie redneck, hating Koreans, Vietnamee, all Asians, in fact and chinks, niggers, jews and abos,  especially abos, who are ruining his country, immigration, welfare and  women. He hates most things.
This one, though,  from the UK, is different and sits well, here,  in these chronicles of Ruin

They Walk Among Us - BE VERY WARY

This is a collection of letters sent to a South of England Newspaper who had asked for examples of stupidity


My daughter and I went to the McDonald's drive through check-out window to pay our bill and I gave the clerk a £5 note.
Our total bill was £4.20, so I also handed her a 20 pence piece.
She said, 'You gave me too much money.'
I said, 'Yes I know, but this way you can just give me £1 back.'
She sighed and went to get the Manager who asked me to repeat my request.
I did so, and he handed me back the 20 pence and said 'We're sorry but we do not do that kind of thing.'
The clerk then proceeded to give me back 80 pence in change.
Do not confuse the clerks at MacDonald's !!

We had to have the garage door repaired. The GARADOR repairman told us that one of our problems was that we did not have a 'large' enough motor on the opener.I thought for a moment, and said that we had the largest one GARADOR made at that time, a 1/2 horsepower.
He shook his head and said, 'Lady, you need a 1/4 horsepower.'
I responded that 1/2 was larger than 1/4 and he said, 'NOOO, it's not. Four is larger than two..'
We haven't used Garador repair since. Happened in Moor Park , near Watford .


I live in a semi-rural area. We recently had a new neighbour call the Highways Department to request the removal of the 'DEER CROSSING' sign from our road.
The reason: 'Too many deer are being hit by cars on this stretch of road! I don't think this is a good place for them to be crossing, any-more.'
 Story from Potters Bar, Hertfordshire.


My daughter went to a local Kentucky Fried Chicken and ordered a Taco. She asked the person behind the counter for 'minimal lettuce.'
He said he was sorry, but they only had Iceberg Lettuce.

From South Oxhey , Hertfordshire.


I was at the airport, checking in at the gate when an airport employee asked,
'Has anyone put anything in your baggage without your knowledge?'
To which I replied, 'If it was without my knowledge, how would I know?'
He smiled knowingly and nodded, 'That's why we ask.'

Happened at Luton Airport


The traffic light on the corner buzzes when the lights turn red and it is safe to cross the road.
I was crossing with an intellectually challenged friend of mine.
She asked if I knew what the buzzer was for.
I explained that it signals blind people when the light is red.
Appalled, she responded, 'What on earth are blind people doing driving?!'

She is a Local County Council employee in Harrow , Middlesex. (And she's NOT blonde)


When my husband and I arrived at our local Ford dealer to pick up our car, we were told the keys had been locked in it.
We went to the Service Department and found a mechanic working feverishly to unlock the Driver's door.
As I watched from the passenger side, I instinctively tried the door-handle and discovered that it was unlocked.
 'Hey,' I announced to the Fitter/Mechanic, 'it’s open!'
His reply: 'I know. I already did that side.'
This was at the Ford dealership in St Albans , Hertfordshire.