Friday, 15 September 2017

FEMINISM IS ALL BALLS.

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?

Wednesday, 6 September 2017

TECHNOLOGY? DON’T GET ME STARTED.

We live in an age which worships all things technical, while being assured it is our saviour and future, a fact embraced by all who can not think for themselves but rely on a machine to do their thinking for them which probably the vast majority of the human race, but then do not despair as there are those who think Elvis is alive and well. Working as a fish and tater hawker on Whitechapel Road. If you believe that you will believe anything, which unfortunately applies to most of the human race for whom gullibility, as an incurable condition, has replaced bubonic plague.

Enough of this frivolity. Let’s get down to the nitty gritty of this piece before I sober up and write something sensible, worth reading and polite to my readership, so, on with the motley. I can’t stand technology, it is the bane of my life, all these computers and pass words and god alone what else, indeed it is getting to the stage where one can not get on a bus without a pass word. Admittedly I have trouble with all things technological, without doubt I have trouble switching the light on and off, nor can I stand telephones, intrusive bloody contraptions at the best of times which only ring when one is asleep or enjoying a good crap after a prolonged state of constipation. Well I have started so I will finish.

First and most obvious is those automata in supermarkets which squawk instructions at you while your are trying to figure out if your credit card is maxed out and you left the gas cooker on. They are irritating but this is just the start, things have got worse and worse, and getting a damn side worser. Is it only me who gets the impression that contact between humans is becoming an indictable offence. Phone up a supplier of a commercial product and what do you get? A bloody robot that’s what, and they are touchy sods them robots, you’d think they were human the way some of them carry on. One outfit I contacted put me though to a robot which could not understand what I was saying. Now I am a patient sort of old cove, but finally I lost my rag and started efffing and blinding at the bloody thing, what happened? Did I receive satisfaction? Did I hell, I was cut off. I ask you, cut off for cussing at a fucking robot, the indignity of it all. I think I have lived too long.

There is hardly an institution not infected by this insidious virus, bring back the Luddites, start wrecking these perverse machines which are destroying the ability of people to think and react for themselves, not that the fools could do so under the most propitious of circumstances, but at least we could enjoy the satisfaction of telling them what we think of them, or to bugger off and get an education.

Where will it all end I ask myself? The way things are going it is only a matter of time before you go to the doctors, only to be confronted by a machine and told to stick your cock in the hole and cough.

Sunday, 27 August 2017

A SWIFT PAT ON THE ARSE.

All ages have their individual peculiarities, and the principal peculiarity of the age in which we dwell is that it is impossible to be a man in the traditional sense of the word, try and be a man as ones male predecessors understood the term and you are on the way to trouble if not incarceration, or at the very least a million dollar law suit as has happened to a hitherto unknown by the name of David Mueller, who found himself in court for goosing Taylor Swift.

Now most men will try it on with a member of the opposite sex, but a smack in the chops is usually sufficient to cool their ardour, although if they get frisky with another man they are regarded as admirably progressive and transgender champions, nolo contendere as they say in legal circles. The nub of the storey is that boy Dave gave Taylor a pat on the arse, to which the lady took great exception, why she should do so is beyond comprehension as if you dress as a tart and act as one, then your average bloke will get the right understanding of your moral boundaries and make a play for a piece of the action, or a chunk of arse if you insist on being common, which I rather suspect a lot of you are.

Let us now take a close look at miss Swift, or at least her track record in these matters, by the way the lady is a singer, well that is how she describes herself although in my book, standing on a stage while squawking and flashing your fanny at the audience does not qualify on for the lead role in Tosca, Callas the dame ain’t. If Taylor has any talent at all it is in the art of self promotion, in that field she leads the pack, specialising in the art of hooking a prominent male. There are no shortage of male celebs willing to partner the lady in this particular tango, where intern for a feel and a fuck they get their names in the papers and the chance to boast to their mates that they have ended up in the ranks of the A list of heterosexual athletes and are not as bent as corkscrews.

These activities are timed to co-inside with the next highlight of her career, a tactic which never fails, except for the victim who invariably fades from notice as soon as he is dumped. All this can not continue indefinitely, hence the current hoo ha. Rumour has it that our heroin has another magnum opus on the launch pad thus the need for a fresh publicity angle, this is where Mr. Mueller comes in. The fellow is being sued for millions, naturally, this is America after all. Considering the political climate the outcome was foretold, a swift victory for Taylor, who magnanimously accepted damages of one dollar, along side millions in free publicity, but it does not end there, oh no.

Taylor is going to donate to charities aiding abused women, no mention of which charities or how much, and I suspect those donations will fade into obscurity to await the next campaign for attention. What about David Meuller? He is already on the cutting room floor, forgotten, financially wiped out by the lawyers fees and without a job, be that as a warning to any other blokes who are tempted by the allures of Derriere Doris, it ain’t worth it boys. And if any of thee are offended by what I have writ, then serve you right for reading it in the first place.

WANT DEMOCRACY? THEN DON’T LET THE BUGGERS VOTE.

Now this is a serious proposition, none of the customary piss taking or sticking two fingers up at the establishment, no siree, for once I will be restrained and decorous, this subject is far too serious to be treated with disrespectful levity. Having got that out of the way we can get on with slinging the shit, nothing lasts forever, not even respect, which of course has its place in the firmament of public discourse, but, one can have enough of restraint and I have now had my ration for the week.

The Almighty, God bless him, went out of fashion some considerable time in the past, but fads like fashions come and go, and religion abhors a vacuum, there is always one around the corner waiting to take its place at the head of the queue, in this day and age it is democracy, after all one can have too much of a good thing, as they who voted against Brexit would fervently agree with. The seething masses have no understanding of the finer things of life, or what is good for them, it is a complete waste of time tying to educate the gormless buggers, it is up to us to do the right thing and if they do not like it, then ignore them, after all it is for their own good, ask any self-righteous social worker is you have any doubts on that point.

Deciding on the future of ones country is a serious business, not to be left in the hands of those idle sods who’s sole ambition in life is to lay in bed watching soap operas and only getting up for a crap, harsh I know, but all respectable left wing intellectuals who know what is best for everyone, and nothing concerning the generalities of life will agree, not that they would admit to such agreement, public honesty is not encouraged amongst the upper echelons, neither is picking ones nose or farting when the leader of the Labour Party is making a speech, but democracy is far to important to be entrusted to the hands of the demos, who undoubtedly think Donald Trump is respectable and Nigel Farage should be Prime Minister, which says all you need to know about them, which is altogether too much.

Nobody wants a dictatorship, heaven forefend we should end up with such a system. There are definite limits to what is acceptable in a democracy, as any self respecting media poof will tell you, the working classes are for talking about, not talking to, and definitely not for listening to,that road leads to trump and Brexit, and we none of us want that, at least none who can read, write and do sums.

So let us have done with all this squawking about representative democracy. Democracy was constituted to represent us, the liberal elite and none other. So sit back in your IKEA chairs, slurp a gallon or two of Chardonnay and to hell with the shite from the council estates.

Friday, 18 August 2017

N0 CRAPPERS FOR CRIPPLES.

Yes, I know we should not mock the afflicted, but there are times when it is nigh on impossible to resist temptation, especially when one has come within an inch of being mown down by some self righteous prick on a mobility scooter bowling down the pavement at a speed more suited to Silverstone. Now you may well think that I hold a certain animus against the more disadvantaged of my fellow citizens, and if you do then you would be bang on the bacon, I am, there is nothing more irritating than they who grizzle and moan over the iniquities of life and expect, ney demand, that others not suffering any physical imposition should be discommoded in order to underline their martyrdom. I am referring specifically to the disabled, which is not the done thing to do, but frankly my dears I do not give a damn.

All this is part and parcel of the modern doctrine of what you want you can have and to dispute this irrationality is to invite the punishment of being tarred, feathered and run out of town. The physically disabled are sacrosanct and must not be criticised, but someone must at some stage point out to these people that if you are a cripple there are certain things in life beyond your reach, amongst them, climbing the north face of the Eiger, running the London marathon while your prosthetic is at the pawn brokers, and indulging in the more athletic poses of the karma Sutra, and the sooner disabled folk accept these proscriptions on life the happier they will be, although I suspect that having a good moan is one of the chief joys of their existence.

The most recent rumpus concerns the inadequate provision of lavatories on the trains. Two people popped up on the television to regale the viewers with tales of how due to lack of lavatorial facilities on the train they were reduced to wetting themselves and are now demanding legislation. Naturally, after all we can not deny a physically impaired person lavatorial facilities, that would be against their human rights. But I ask you, what about your ordinary passenger? Forced to sit next to some cripple pissing himself with gay abandon, surely they are entitled to a bit of legislation, how about a law that all cripples must be registered and forbidden to venture out in public without incontinence pads.

However such is the lunacy of the Western World that such legislation is virtually guaranteed, but why stop at cripples I ask you? There’s that LGBTXYZ mob, then there is the blind. We’ll end up with so many specialised lavatories on the trains there will be no room for the passengers, who if taken short will have to drop their drawers and take a dump on the side of the road, after which the Transport Police will arrest then for indecent exposure.

Monday, 7 August 2017

SWING LOW SWEET CHARIOT.


I do not want to disappoint but this screed has nothing to do with the Bible despite the title. It is not about fiery chariots descending from on high to shower the wisdom of the World onto the shoulders of Elisha. The chariot in question is the modern equivalent of the horse drawn contraption, an aeroplane, and while it was not the Angel Gabriel who descended to Earth preparatory to sounding the last trump, it was one of the passengers who trumped it up, not on a brass instrument but through his fundamental orifice, in plain and unambiguous language, he farted. Now we have all at some times in our passage through this vale of social faux pas, dropped a clanger, and then blamed it on the dog, unfortunately on this occasion there was no canine present to shoulder the embarrassment, so they evacuated the ‘plane.

I kid you not dear readers, one fart and the airline schedules were blown to the winds. The craft landed at Raleigh-Durham airport, the smell was so bad that the passengers were evacuated; one rip snorting raspberry and they had to get the delicate flowers off. According to reports they were suffering nausea and headaches. Did the oxygen masks drop down? Was there panic and screaming? Or, more probably were they phoning their lawyers preparatory to suing the carrier, after all this is America where a fart is as good an excuse for a multi million dollar law suite as you are likely to get this side of a public urinal.

This must have been the Hiroshima and Nagasaki of anal emissions to cause an entire ‘plane to be emptied, I can not imagine such a happening even if an entire team of rugby players had blasted forth after a night spent necking ten pints of Guinness topped off with a plateful of vindaloo.

Despite the pandemonium, nothing has been said about the delinquent sod with the rebellious sphincter, did they force feed him a dose of syrup of figs to clean him out? Or contact Gwyneth Paltrow for advice on his diet? Or just told him to stuff a cork up his arse and suggested in words of Anglo-Saxon simplicity not to add to the effects of climate change? We will probably never know, but remember, this is America where talking shite is a social obligation,. So we should not be surprise that they fart better than the rest of us.

Wednesday, 2 August 2017

ALL COCK AND CLIMATE CHANGE.

I presume some of my readers assume they have heard it all, that is also what I thought until recently but one can always rely on the loons of academe to upset the apple cart and ruffle our assumptions, and a few other things along the way, and I certainly had mine well and truly ruffled by two American academics, James Lindsay and Peter Boghossian. I do not know which oyster these pearls of learning issued from, suffice it to say I was shocked rigid for the pair are claiming that climate change is caused by the penis. Are they serious or merely trying to keep their intellectual ends up or was this a faux pas at the printers, or most probably the mother of all cock ups?

It all started with a paper they wrote titled “The conceptual penis as a social construct” Christ, and there was me thinking it was just a dick, or am I just pissing in the wind here? According to messers B and L penises are responsible for climate change, apparently this load of old bollocks addresses the issue of hypermasculinity through a multidimensional and non linear process, something to ponder next time you whip it out for a sly jimmy riddle at the back of the Odeon. Get the jargon, this pair are incapable of calling a spade a bloody shovel when everyone knows it is a soil transitioning implement.

All this was published in reputable academic journals and widely praised, as it should be for the article ticked all the right boxes and was couched in the language of the left. Naturally, if this bilge had been couched in plain English it would not have seen the light of day, the intelligentsia despise nothing more rabidly than the patois of the demos, for as we all know the working classes are for talking about , not for talking to, therefore there is no point whatsoever in making oneself understood by them, do that and they will start thinking they count for something, which all right thinking folk instinctively know to be preposterous. This research, and I use the term selectively, has been enthusiastically received in our universities, a fact which underlines the quality of teaching in those institutions and goes a long way to explain why they are churning out graduates who, to put it charitably are as thick as pig shit.

Now panic ye not, James and Peter were indulging in a hallowed literary tradition, like the Hitler diaries it was a hoax, but I fear for their futures as academic panjandrums do not take kindly to being exposed as the frauds they undoubtedly are. So, the penis is not the cause of climate change, breath easy lads, your dicks are safe, it was all a piss take.