Thursday 26 November 2015


I was talking last night to a city dweller. 
One evening,  recently, she'd been taking a family youngster to an indoor rock-face climbing experience in  Newtown, one of Birmingham's inner-city development wastelands, open prisons in the sky, 
for the shirkers.

At the traffic lights an immigrant teenager leapt out, unbidden,  to sponge her windscreen. 

The proper course would have been to ignore her but it seems that these days many people submit to paying this migrant tithe, which, I suppose, might generate a hundred quid a shift, tax-free, maybe more.  For the hard-working little bandits, intimidating conscience-stricken  Gillys and Davids out of a pound a time, just to get through traffic lights in their own fucking city, it must seem like money-from-Heaven.  

Maybe those ghastly,  mongrel-dog arseholes  on Cruelty TeeVee's Devil's Den or whatever it is they call that freakshow, will cash-in. 
Ontrapanewers, the new saints - spivs, slappers and bullies. 
I dunno  who's worse, the ugly, bug-eyed peroxide baggage, that snarling fucking mutant, see-you-Jimmy Scotchman, 

or the big shrieky ladyman, in the blue suit.

Sense and sensibility.
Ms Good Taste, at home,

and educating us about our failures, 
on the PBC's Question Time show

God help us, 
if these uncouth, gobby vermin 
- and the irredeemably repugnant Al Sugar 
Bears a troubling resemblance to Fred West, 
does his  Lordship.

 are representative of business, then maybe we do need an influx  of thieving Romanians and violent Syrians to improve things. It does seem, though, that these creeps would put some of their money into building  a lean, modern, state-of, client-friendly begging infrastructure, making the right connections, weeding out those beggars without proper financial planning, and taking fifty pence from every quid hustled at the traffic lights.
At the end of the day, 'swhatitsallabout.
I'm in.

The kid, anyway,  came to the car window, hand out for her pound, but as my friend gave it to her she fumbled and said Oh, sorry, lady, so sorry, I drop pound back in car, is mistake, so sorry, very, very sorry lady.......My friend said that she had heard a coin strike the floor of her car and so gave the kid another pound. 
On arriving at her destination she looked in the footwell  and found a penny.

The thieving little bastard, sensing a fundamentally kindly soul,  had duped her, yet it was her own fault for succumbing, in the first place, to such bare-faced, I-dare-you intimidation.

In the long-term interests of community cohesion I would have jumped from the car and  said Get the fuck away from my car or  I'll punch your fucking teeth out, you fucking little bastard. How fucking dare you? And if she was a bloke I would punch him in the teeth and argue about it in court.

And unless people start reacting like that, refusing to be bullied out of a quid,   they will very quickly find not just their cars but their homes infiltrated by these sly little bastards, exercising their right to demand money with charity-menaces. 
There will come a time when a tarmacing Paddy traveller, hustling you for his daughters' Big Fat Gipsy Weddings, will seem positively benign.

Susan went on to tell me that her approach to her local supermarket was via a covered walkway, 

often occupied  by squatting, migrant beggars, fit young men; that on the streets of Bearwood she ran a gauntlet of drunks and those infuriating BigIssue sellers.
Buy this rubbish, out of pity for me.
It'll make us both feel worse.

 I'd kick his arse, too,  the bloke who dreamed-up that particular degradation. 

Yeah, the scum I employ, makes' em feel better,  
 sellin' mugs a magazine they dowanna buy, fulla stuff they dowanna read.  
Yeah, it's a transaction no-one enjoys, but hey, that's what charidee's all about, innit. 
An' lessfaceit, it makes me look good

Him and that fatbastard curtains lady, from KidsScam.
Garlic Breath Yentob and his fat bint.

Oh, please. 
I mean, really.
 Do we look like the sort of people 
who would rip off the taxpayer?
That'll be twelve thousand pounds please. 
Plus VAT. 
All rights reserved.

The streets of Bearwood have never been salubrious and  for a long time, now, have been home to poundshops, pawnshops, betting shops, knocking shops  and so-called charity shops; 
now they host  a thriving, multi-cultural, begging-with-menaces  industry. 

Militant immigrant begging, zero-hours contracts, a minimum wage which is lower than the official living wage, taxpayer subsidies to bogbastard skinflint employers, so's they don't have to pay proper wages;  a legal, political, ecclesiatical  and broadcasting establishment determined to protect its own vile nonces and now MediaMinster nutters and ruperts and racists ranting for war on civilians.
Distopia is not science fiction, here it is.








Ah, it's so good to be living now, in the home of parliamentary democracy; in a successful, growing economy, where even the suburban streets are populated by go-getting, cosmopolitan, young entrepreneurs, doing the right thing, aspiring,  and by people inebriated by the sheer joy of life in a vibrant, minimum-wage, working poor, food bank-supported, disability-denying, library-free, Godlessheathenbastards' zombie economy.

Dave Simple and Gideon, and everyone else squatting on the Great Latrine of State, shitting in our faces, they are very happy for us to gripe about migrant beggars for while we are doing that we permit their cruel 18th century brigandry; while our services, owned by us, are sold to Usury, we squabble about already derisory wages being undercut by European immigrants.  This immigrant problem, for such it is, no-one in parliament wants to solve it, for if they did, they would, simply by reneging on whichever EU treaty permits free movement of Labour.  Instead, up grows the cry of racist! - from those who are desperate, are always desperate,  to bomb poor, brown people wherever they are, to set them alight, rape them and torture them, cheeky fucking bastards; filth like, well, like all of them, Snotty Brown, William Hague, Jack Torture and now Winston Simple and the lunatic Mickey Fallon, all up to their diseased arses in Iraqi children's sundered intestines, these cunts cry racist!  at the wholly reasonable demand for  this country to remain largely British, as though that were unreasonable, as though every last filthy, thieving, child-molesting, coke-snorting peer and member was not elected or appointed to do that very thing; as though the British parliament was like a pan-European Dragons Den, there purely to facilitate the greed of any jumped-up barrowboy or grotesque female impersonator, or gabshite Jock louse.

It is odd, how a chance anecdote can crystalise a whole welter of grievance and irritation. I have known Susan all my life and have often been irritated by her almost congenital commitment to the idea of Doing Good, to Oxfam, to Helping,  but the ruefully-told tale of   her exploitation by a cynical teenager  inflamed my red mist   ducts.  I was raging, speechless, over a pound.

Either I'm too sensitive or else I'm getting soft but my friend, Susan, like many, is somebody's widow, doesn't matter whose, her life partner is gone and she must do what she must do, hard enough,  I suspect, to get out of bed and try, without her having to deal with imported menace, every time she leaves the house.

mr old rightie chided me the other day, for disparaging Mr Nigel Poundland; other contributors, sadly,  have left this place, over the same disagreement.  Be it Corbyn or Cameron or Clegg or Gnasher or the Fatman, Salmond, however,  I despise career politicians roundly and unremittinigly and set no store by them;  that is not to say that I disagree wholly with their stated aims, nor the wishes of their supporters, just that I do not trust their honesty, should they be in a position to keep their promises. 
And who would blame me?

The hustling migrants, young or old, should fight oppression in their own country, should resist the depradations of GlobaCorp, of skymadeupnewsandfilthandsport, of that ghastly cadre of politicians, local and national and pan-national, many of them not even elected.  We cannot do it for them,  for we should do all those things, too; we have our own fight, and nary  a comrade, nary a standard bearer in the whole rotten Palace of Filth.

The enemy within.

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.