Monday, 20 November 2017


Well folks, here we go again, Harvey Wallbanger has certainly started something. After the revelations concerning his proclivities hit the headlines, the quivering ranks of mankind have been deluged in oceans of tears, deafened by accusations of rape largely promulgated by females pissed off by the fact that their largely nonexistent talents have not been recognised or rewarded. This I admit is a somewhat cynical overview of the prevailing situation, but then, I am, as they say, a cynical git, and am more than a mite suspicious when some dame goes rushing to the press complaining she was abused by some self-important pratt thirty odd years ago in order to garner the attention her less than perceptible attributes have been able to attract. A nice pair of knockers do not a prime minister make, nota bene Angela Leadsom. Who? You may ask, have patience and read on, I assure you, all will eventually be explained with as little offence as is possible under the circumstance, which is damn all under the circumstances and considering the subject matter.

The dames of dykedom are on the rampage, with the male of the species in their sights, having just done a resounding performance with the bollocking shears on male thespians, they have turned their attentions on the alternative gender of the political class, few of whom could have been suspected of being in possession of a pair of balls in the first place which only goes to prove that life is full of surprises. Now we all know what has been going on in Hollywood, not that anyone has been surprised, after all we all know what actors are like and did not need reassurance that our suspicions were correct. No more were we astonished at the revelations concerning the political class whose concupiscence was not exactly a well kept secret. We all knew what they were up to and did not require confirmation on the six-o-clock news on a daily basis such as we have been receiving on ad nauseam and dished up as divine revelation.

So, one has to ask the question. Why all the fuss? Simple, the Brits poor saps like nothing more than a sex scandal, to them a dose of moral outrage is as good as a wank in the dark and, as, an added bonus, socially acceptable. Nothing like a good tut tut on the doorstep with the neighbours to make one feel morally superior, which of course is what all this fuss is about.

There has been a hell of to do over some politico, his name I do not remember and can not be bothered to look up, who is accused of watching porn on his computer. Shock horror mes braves. So the bloke was having a bit of second-hand rumpy pumpy on the net, it is not as if he was doing a Spacey with the boys in the chorus or asking the eighty year old tea lady to demonstrate one of the positions, lumbago permitting. As did happen in Salem Massachusetts, innocence is no bar to being hung, indeed, innocence is totally irrelevant, to be accused in the first place is sufficient proof of guilt.

The latest contre temps concerns Andrea Leadsom, who? Do not worry, the woman will be forgotten long before you will have managed to remember her name so there is no point in bothering to make the attempt. Suffice it to know that she has initiated another squawk fest and has hit pay dirt in the form of Sir Michael Fallon’s head, regular Salome ain’t she?

Mrs L claimed Fallon had used naughty words in her presence, the woman was shocked rigid by this experience, so shocked that it took five years before she could articulate her outrage, but then better late than never. Every cloud ha a silver lining so at least we now know that Sir Michael is not bent, not that one can be entirely sure of that in this day and age, but, we will give the chap the benefit of the doubt, for the time being anyway.

Sir Michael had suggested to Leadsom that he needed somewhere to warm his hands, the dirty minded cow took offence, god knows what she was thinking of, perhaps he only wanted a pair of gloves, but that explanation was far too innocent to be effective, no. Sweet Angie, meek and not so mild, went running to the Prime Minister to demand Fallon be sacked. Naturally the silly bitch obliged, the sisterhood must stand together, Fallon was out and Leadsom got untold hours on the telle parading her martyrdom. The moral of this tale is simple. If in the presence of Andrea Leadsom never under any circumstances forget that while cold hands are a prerequisite for making pastry, but not for feeling up Mrs L.

Sunday, 29 October 2017


I must state that I am not suffering confusion over the iconic film by Orson Wells, this is nothing to do with Hollywood or stars of the silver screen. No. There is no mix up, for the individual who is the object of my attentions is not Citizen Kane, but Khan, you know, the publicity hungry prat currently masquerading as Mayor of London. Not the revered Lord Mayor whose provenance stretches seven hundred years into antiquity, but the designer wog who exists for the sole purpose of squandering the tax payer’s cash on projects conceived only to flatter his vanity. Although one should not be too censorious, he gives us of his all, expending his considerable energies on what he does best, which is frankly fuck all, or at least nothing of use or benefit to this our benighted capital of London Town.

Now, I have flattered the man and his abilities enough, my tolerance and kindness can only be stretched so far and their boundaries have now been breached, so no more kind words for the individual to whom this monologue is directed. The office of elected mayor exists only to bung financial rewards into the wallets of clapped out politicians too incompetent and idle to go out and undertake a proper job, a charge which could equally be levied at the entire tribe of politcos for whom honesty equates with a dose of the clap.

Our hero loves a bandwagon, can’t resist one if truth be told, not that truth and Sadiq Khan have ever formed any sort of bond. However the man is incapable of letting one pass him by on the high street without jumping on it, especially if it is running in support of some fashionable cause beloved of the urban intelligentsia whose enthusiasms are of no interest to the toiling masses whose taxes they rely on to pay for their generous subventions. But do not complain, that is democracy in action, you might get to vote for the bastards, but by God you pay through the nose for the privilege. Make no mistake, old man Khan costs us a pretty packet, and in return we are expected to be grateful for his attentions.

So. What exactly is the shyster up to. For a start there is air pollution, despite the fact that city life has never been healthier and we are no longer expected to walk the streets ankle deep in horse crap, but we must not let a seasoning of common sense get in the way of screwing the motorist to enter central London as Khan is proposing. The Guardian reading luvvies adore this sort of posturing, it makes them feel superior, especially as they can afford the charges having sheltered their large incomes in tax avoidance schemes.

Oh, I have not finished yet, not by a long chalk, fear ye not, there is more to come. Our fearless social warrior has declared war on wood burning stoves. Now I have never come across a wood burning stove, nor have I met anyone who has, admittedly I do not move in the social circles where such affectations are practiced, although I was rather under the impression that wood burning contraptions had not been seen since the Romans waved us ta ta and took them home with them some sixteen hundred years ago. Still it makes a damn good headline, and that is all that matters. In politics one must be seen to be compassionate, and if ones compassion causes distress to large numbers of people, well that life innit.

I cannot for the life of me work out why the likes of Sadiq khan have been foisted on us, it is not as if we are unable to navigate the vicissitudes of this world without his assistance and guidance, but there you are, we are saddled with the preposterous sod. Gawd ‘elp us. Now I will take a tour of the history of this political indulgence, the Mayoralty of London. First there was Ken Livingston, an adenoidal Marxist, an individual who has never done a job of work in his life but still manages to live high on the hog whilst acting like one. Ken is a weird cove whose hobbies are newts and wolloping his missus, ah well one must make allowances for prominent Marxists as the rules of society do not apply to them, which makes me think that if I turn Marxist will I be allowed to wallop the missus and get away with it? Are we not all equal?

After Ken we had Boris. No discernable improvement there. Bone idle and the national buffoon is the best I can manage on this subject, the man is all balls, not that I have seen his balls you understand but enough women have, even his wife sees them on the odd occasion when they are not employed elsewhere.

Back to sadiq. His latest wheeze is to take the licence to ferry people around the capital from the firm Uber, thus putting thousands of drivers out of work, and up to their eyeballs in debt trying to pay off the cost of the cars they bought and inconveniencing hundreds of thousands of the public who use their services. You have to give it to the man, he certainly knows how to stuff things up. How will our hero go down in the annals of London? After the taxi fiasco he will undoubtedly be labelled, London’s Uber Mensch.

Friday, 20 October 2017


There comes a time in the life of man, when having scanned the newspapers and digested the latest inanities of Hollywood royalty, that preening, prancing troupe of marginally talented individuals who are convinced they have the solution to all the problems of the world and wear their hearts on their sleeves while their brains are in their arse, supposing that is that they possess any in the first place, and digested the latest offering of tripe on the TV before throwing a brick at the contraption. Having done all that one is tempted to utter the immortal epithet, “Now I’ve seen it all”. Believe me dear ones, you ain’t seen nothing yet, there is more and dafter to come.

Everyone knows the Brits are barmy over their animals, especially the family canine, so am I, come to that, in fact I even make pets of the mice in my house, but I draw the line at this, leaving a bit of cheese out for Mickey is both sane and rational in comparison to what our dog lovers are up to, you couldn’t make it up, believe me, I know what I am talking about, I am a dab hand at making things up. Not here you understand, this is as kosher as a pork butchers in Golders Green.

The nub of the issue is that some people feel their pets are picking up conditions of medical significance from their owners, including obsessive compulsive disorder. I would not recognise such a disability in a human, let alone a dog, but then I am a normal cove living in Whitechapel, not some cerebrally spayed prat from places like Hampstead where loony middle class types are germinated prior to them being let loose on the generality of the population.

So, there you are, sitting in your leafy suburb, insulated from the realities of life and with nothing to do having just demonstrated with that Socialist Luvvie, Emma Thompson, against the opening of a branch of Tesco. After all you can not have anything as common as Tesco in Hampstead, just think, allow that to happen and the next thing you know, the working classes will be turning up to shop there. After all empathising with the lower orders is one thing but lining up with the buggers to buy a bag of spuds is another kettle of fish altogether, they might start praising Brexit. So, what does one do to fill the void in your life? Simple, send the family mutt to the head shrink.

You are not in need of specs, what I have just mentioned is the current craze amongst they who dwell amongst the dope sniffers of North London and regard the realities of life as a vulgar intrusion on a par to earning money as opposed to inheriting it. Now, let us get down to the Winalot. There is a strand of humanity which feels we transmit to our canine friends our own depressing obsessions, such as the afore mentioned obsessive compulsive order, so, what is there to do? Get a psychiatrist of course, what else would one do under such circumstances? Well you could always chuck the mutt a bone, but, bear in mind we are talking Hampstead here where a dose of piles is enough to send one scarpering to the shrink let alone a mutt who is going doolally. From whence came this nonsense? Answer, Paw Squad, an outfit headed up by a dame known as Sarah Page-Jones. There you have it folks, a hyphen.

If one is going to talk shite while expecting to be heeded then one has to be in possession of a hyphen which is the indelible mark of a senior member of the socialist tendency, a fraternity which insists on a good pedigree and no brains, prime qualifications for preaching to the lower orders who can be relied on not to argue with a hyphen. What is wrong with these bloody women? Can they not be satisfied with turning their three year old sons into girls, must they now start on the defenceless family dog. What has poor Fido done to deserve this? Being hectored by a shrink too idle to earn an honest crust, and talked to as if he was as daft as his owner. Stand up for your rights Fido, bite the sods, they’ll probably have you put down but I rather think that would be preferable to being marched off to a shrink every time you throw a wobbler.

Monday, 16 October 2017


I am not about to start pontificating on the delights of alcohol, especially poncey cocktails, no, a bottle of rough red is more my style, not that any of this has anything to do with the subject I am about to address, one of immense import to the wellbeing of society and the way we regard ourselves, or to be more precise the way Hollywood tossers regard us, those right on politically correct commissars of socially acceptable behaviour. Our behaviour naturally, not theirs. What is this all about? Well lend me your ears for I come to crap on Tinseltown not to praise it, and not before time you may say, and if you don’t, then I will.

My tale concerns an individual who sails under the name of Harvey Weinstein, I had never heard of the fellow until recently but apparently he is a big cheese in Hollywood which goes a long way to explaining my ignorance. Our Harv has been accused of indulging in that revered ritual of film land, casting couch theatrics, a custom as old as celluloid, or to couch this in a more recognisable form, spread your legs for a chance of stardom, crude but so very true and Harvey is a master of that particular art.

This is not about wannabe stars sipping cocktails, more a case of sipping Harvey’s banger up against a wall, and very successful at it he was, the women must have been queuing the length of Sunset Boulevard for the privilege of having a grope in the stationary cupboard with the priapic director whose word could make or break the career of they who managed to rub him up the wrong way.

What is perplexing here is the storm of outrage from the cast of thesps, literally fighting to register their disgust for the antics of the beleaguered film director, as if they had been handed divine revelation on a plastic plate plastered with the legend “Trump must go” Heading up this tribe is that right on political puritan Meryl Streep who never misses a chance to excoriate the American President for his attitudes towards women and is mightily pleased with herself for the stance she takes, especially when she is up for an award. But why now? Why has she not started in on Bill Clinton.

Harvey’s antics have hardly been a secret in Hollywood, they all knew what was going, and said nothing, so they have no business getting all fired up at this stage of the game, not so much as the stable door tardily bolted, more a case of a stampede to pillory hapless Harv.

Make no mistake, the man has brought all this on himself. Undoubtedly he has been encouraged to think he can do whatever he wants, nobody bothered to explain to the clown that every action carries consequences, first of which is his missus has done a runner, probably to a divorce lawyer and a shed load of alimony, after all this is LaLa land where every problem can be solved by a settlement.

We have been here before, most prominently the case of Fatty Arbuckle who was run out of town after killing a girl. OK he did not throttle the poor lass, his enormous weight caused him to crush the girl during the course of copulation Come to think of it Harvey carries a bit of a corporation, not that he has inadvertently crushed anyone while screwing them, not that I know about anyway. What has happened before will happen again, the spirit of Fatty Arbuckle still wafts amongst the mansions of Hollywood.

Tuesday, 3 October 2017


Marble Arch is one of the great edifices of London, sublime in its dignity, originally it was the main entrance to Buckingham Palace and you do not get more dignified than that, except when Fergie was resident in the joint, but that is for another time. Let us concentrate on recent events at the site, events which had no resemblance to dignity in any of its forms, in short there was a punch up. Nothing new there, nowadays punchups are as common as bollocks on the streets of our revered capital city. What was the novelty regarding this contretemps was it was not between drunken lads looking for a bit of argy bargy in order to soak up the hours of the night before sobering up, or football yobs taking it out on supporters of the other team. No, the protagonists here were members of the alternative gender, or whatever we are supposed to call the bloody women these days.

To understand the depths of what I am about to write it is necessary to enjoy an understanding of gender politics along with the linguistic arcana accompanying the science. Admittedly I am not in possession of such understanding, therefore why the hell should you? One should always beware of where you go and what you say when you get there, especially in politically correct London, the truth of this nugget of commonsense will soon become apparent. When you may ask? Can’t he just shut up and get on with it? All right, fret ye not dear readership, I am about to spill the beans on the battle of Marble Arch, or if you must be common, dildos at dawn.

This concerns an outfit which staggers under the moniker of Action for trans Health, ATH if you insist on acronyms. The trans bit gives it all away. This is a bunch of lesbians who got into a brawl with another bunch of the Sapphic tendency and started punching seven bells out of each other. Hardly ladylike but there you are, not that one could describe a gaggle of butch dykes as ladies, in fact if you were so intemperate enough to do so you would probably get a knee in the balls. This is what happened. A dame by the name of Tara Filk-Wood, taking umbrage at the stance taken by Maria Maclachlan, gave the said Maria a smack in the gob. What caused the ruckus was a dispute over the vexed question of gender identity, a subject recently unknown but now elevated to the status of national imperative, not that anyone inhabiting the real World has either knowledge nor interest in the subject, after all if you were born with a dick then you were stuck with it for the rest of your natural, ipso facto you were a man. Therein lays the rub so to speak.

These days there is a branch of medicine devoted to cock cropping, a few hours under the knife and all gone, you are now a woman, but it seems that some women do not accept that irrefutable fact. Another group has entered the fray, TERFS, what in God’s name are these you may ask, well I do not know and can not be bothered to find out, suffice it to know that this lot were the other team in the fracas.

There is now a Parliamentary committee investigating the subject, what else would one expect? This is important, the country might be going to buggery and back on a Sunday afternoon, but we must get our priorities right, there are also economic aspect to all this. What would the tourists think when they come here? Expecting to see the glories of Londinium and what they get is a gang of Dykes knocking the bejesus out of each other. After this I would not be surprised if the EU insisted we Brexit and do not waste any time in going, and all because a few hairy arsed lesbos say a dude without a dick can not be a woman. I ask you.

Saturday, 23 September 2017


Cometh the hour, cometh the man. Unfortunately, for we in this benighted nation of ours there is no man to succour us in our perilous times, there are men at the pinnacle of what could comically be described as our democracy, but in actual fact they are nothing more than a bunch of bloody old women, not that such a term would be considered acceptable in modern society where the function of men is to be charged with rape by drunken tarts who change their minds over the culpability of the male after having had a damn good screw. So, we are left with Teresa May, who could hardly be compared to Julius Caesar not that she has ever heard of the fellow, after all the dame is in receipt of a modern education, which if nothing else guarantees that one can face the world confident of knowing nothing whatsoever about the place. A perfect qualification for a politician.

Mrs. May is Prime Minister of England, a position in life she acquired by offending nobody other than the electorate, who, we all know to our cost, count for nothing in the real world of politics, which is why it is safe to hold elections every now and again, as the results if unpalatable to the ruling elite can always be ignored safe in the knowledge that the buggers will not know the difference. The same situation prevailed in ancient Rome, the mob was kept quiet with a plentiful supply of bread and circuses, whereas now we give them the dole coupled with endless episodes of brain destroying soap operas, nothing changes does it? They play, we pay.

Daisy May is now lady of all she surveys, as the daughter of a clergyman the woman probably feels that Jesus wants her for a sunbeam, perhaps the old boy does but he is probably the only one of that persuasion, I do not think the Conservative party is singing too many hosannas in her praise other than they who wish to scupper the brexit process, which is why they voted her in as leader in the first place. To have done otherwise would have given the voters the impression that their opinions counted, and god knows where that might have led to. It is all well and good talking about democracy but putting the concept into practice is another kettle of fish altogether, a thing not to be tolerated in a freedom loving society.

Our glorious Prime Minister has just returned from Florence, home of the spiritual godfather of politics, Machiavelli, an apt choice as the purpose of the shindig was the interment of brexit, which will be vigorously denied despite all the evidence to the contrary. Mrs. May undoubtedly sees herself as the modern Boadicea, but we all know what happened to that old broad, only with only a modern education to fall back on, the mistress of the shoe shops remains in blissful ignorance of the fate awaiting her.

It is said that all political careers end in tears, they do not, they end with a stab in the back, as will assuredly be the fate of mother T. Who will yield the knife? For Caesar the coup de grace came from Brutus, the big B of his time, consumed by resentment and ambition. If you are of an historical disposition would put your money on Boris doing the dirty deed. But, mark my words, Brutus stuck the knife in, but he did not last too long afterwards. Enjoy your domination of the Forum Teresa, it ain’t going to last, and you will be replaced by another charlatan, ‘twas ever so.

Friday, 15 September 2017


Of course one should not say such things as this, indisputably it would be considered as being derogatory towards women, the fact that most men would agree with this statement counts for nothing in the arse about face world of political correctness which as we all know is the Nicene creed of modern life, and God help any who are so intellectually incontinent as to question this unassailable fact. Well, I am incontinent therefore I am about to sally forth in defence of the male of the species, most of whom have no balls, as those useful tools have been swiped by the harpies of the metropolitan dykehood.

Where do we start on this inexhaustible subject of which nobody of any sense had ever heard of until recently? A good place to kick off is Miriam Gonzalez, who is she? You may ask, anything to do with Mrs Pankhurst? nothing so exalted, the lady referred to is none other than the missus of Nick Clegg, a clapped out British politico who was given the bums rush by the electorate at the last election. This dippy bird is a lawyer, well what else would you expect? When she is not helping shady characters to evade their just deserts, she is running around looking for excuses to be outraged over, usually some perceived slight to feminine supremacy.

Mrs Clegg always gets a splash in the papers when throwing a wobbly over the iniquities of male attitudes, in the argot of the age the woman is a celebrity, but why does she enjoy all this attention? What has she done to earn such deference? The answer to that is sweet fuck all. This harridan glides to the attention of the nation on the coat tails of her old man who she castrated before the poor sap had even shuffled down the isle, if there is one thing guaranteed to send our Miriam screaming up the wall it is to be addressed as Mrs Clegg. That’s feminism for you lad, Hypocrisy in a D cup.

The lady is not alone on the rostrum populated by professional offence takers on behalf of womankind, head and shoulders above all others is the doyenne of dick destroyers, Germaine Greer herself, perpetually fulminating against the insufferable domination of men, although I seriously doubt that any man has dominated this crusading academic, or at least having tried to do so, walked away from the confrontation fully intact and in working order. Once wore hypocrisy rears its ugly head, if it were not for men, who would have heard of Germaine Greer? Oh she needs us, believe you me, if the woman had a shred of gratitude she would offer grateful thanks to the male sex for the limitless publicity their presence on the planet has afforded her no,t forgetting the shed loads of money she has made from being perpetually outraged.

One more, then I will promise to disappear into the ether and hold my peace, at least until the next time I feel the urge to sound off about the preposterous mores of contemporary life. My final vignette concerns a lady by the name of Bel Mooney, never heard of the dame? Not to worry, very few have, so, I offer one or two biographical details. Ms Mooney is an agony aunt for the Daily Mail, dispensing crap tarted up as advice to those poor souls witless enough to write to her. The lady in question, and believe me she is a Lady, television royalty no less, once married to a Dimbleby, you don’t get much royaller than that in this day and age. Unfortunately dear Bel has about as much experience of everyday life as did a French aristocrat of the anciene regime, which is why she is divorced and now wedded to fashionable causes.

Many years ago they were building a motorway near Bath, as is obligatory in such circumstances the event attracted the mandatory compliment of weeperes, wailers and assorted tree huggers. Naturally Bel was there handing out moral support by the bucketload. One of the protesters asked a favour of Mrs. Dimbleby, the answer he received was priceless. Unwilling to accede to the request, Mrs. D. fearless feminist that she was fell back on this priceless bon mot “I’ll have to ask my husband” That dear readers says it all., which proves that behind every unflinching feminist there is a strong man. As I Said at the beginning, feminism is all balls, and where the hell would they be without ours?