29 June 2011

Things I love this week and things I don't



So this week it's been an intriguing mix of loving things and really hating things. Let's begin by simply listing the things this week that I have loved and then flesh the post out with further details: Jelly Babies obviously, Sammiches, Victoria Azarenka (Rrrrroooooooooooooooar), Pampas baby wipes.

Now at first glance it's not an extensive list, but it's been enough to keep me occupied. Jelly babies and sammiches are a standing positive so no further discussion needed on them, but Azarenka is someone we only became familiar with when Wimbledon began so let's discuss her.

Going back a few years I seem to recall a male tennis player commenting on how the women players were all pigs. I think he actually did call them pigs. He might have been Australian. And at the time, I think even the women were sort of looking at each other and agreeing he had a point.

These were the days of Arancha Sanchez Vicario who really was more swine than woman. For this reason I've never paid any attention to the women's game, which means I've paid no attention to the game of tennis at all as it is of course a woman's game and should not be played by men.

Fast forward a decade or so and there seems to have been some changes. Where has this new breed of no-pinters evolved from? Were the Vicarios of the tennis world screened out by the tennis authorities via a sophisticated programme of genetic engineering?

They've done a cracking job. It's mostly eastern European and Russian DNA that has been used it seems. There's an evolutionary reason for this, we touched upon on the previous blog. It's something to do with how the eastern European male genes are weaker than the females, as all the strong healthy men from the Soviet Union countries all spent decades at war and left the ugly infirm crazies at home with all the women folk.

So the females, sat at home all pampered and playing nice with each other and their genes became dominant producing millions of blonde 6 footers who all went on to either play tennis or do porn and the men were all deformed 5ft dwarfs with low foreheads and stubby noses predominately called Andrei.

Anyway, so this explains the Azarenka woman. A mixture of warrior and porn star. Awesome. She's engineered to sexually dominate her mate. And when he lays sated and exhausted she then snaps his neck with one hand and inherits all his money with the other. It's a win win situation! If only I was rich, what a way to go.


I also love Pampas baby wipes as they can be used to clean furniture, hands, toilet seats and my face - in that order.

Now then..things this week I've hated. Johann Hari.

I'm taking deep breaths as I type this such is my struggle to remain composed. Where to start..so Johann was caught fabricating his interviews.

Caught however is not the word. He admitted to it, he explained in a blog post how he inserts previous quotes from his interviewees if they're struggling to articulate themselves during his interviews with them.

Ironically I can't fully articulate myself how wrong this man's creativity is without cutting and pasting other peoples thoughts on the matter. He's simply an utter hypocrite and cunt is all I can manage at this time.

He won't accept that his "intellectual portraits" are a betrayal of the most fundamental standards we ought to be able to expect from journalists. This man has won the Orwell prize for fucks sake. How ridiculous does that seem now? Orwell could have written about him.

What reeeeally irritates me about this, is how this lefty hummus eating holier than thou sandal wearing son of a Swiss bus driver, has set himself up as the paradigm of journalistic integrity.

Any right wing journalist caught doing this would be savaged. If Peter Hitchens had been found lifting great blocks of text from all over the place and passing it off as his own he'd be dead by now. They'd have brought back hanging just for him. They'd have shown it after the tennis.

It's all dismissed as justifiable however by the left, if the essential truth, the greater truth is told. Usually only a mad communist dictator in fatigues could use language like this and keep a straight face. What truth? Who's truth? How can something that's been manipulated, altered, doctored, massaged and sexed up be the truth?

Tosser.

It's not for Mr Hari to decide what we ought to be reading or reading into something. If an interviewee is inarticulate, hesitant, or babbling then this in itself is information. It's a part of the interview, part of the truth. The greater sodding truth. You can't just edit it all out and replace it with a polished speech the person made a few years ago because you felt this was what they meant to say...especially when the interviewee is one of your leftie heroes who you want to portray in a positive light.

This is what I hate about lefties. When they are caught red-handed lying, cheating, or just being wankers - everything they indiscriminately accuse Conservative types of, there's always a higher purpose. It's never as bad as something Richard Littlejohn said last week in the Daily Mail.

Well now it seems there's a higher power even than Johann, one reaps what one sows and it is time for him to pay the piper and other mixed metaphors I can't be bothered to lift from Google.

His career is being examined with a fine tooth comb and with every hour that passes new and more astonishing bullshit is emerging. I'm guessing all his Iraq stuff is bollocks, I'm doubting he's been within 50 miles of a war zone. It's likely every serious interview he's ever conducted with have these embellishments in them, or just made up entirely, which makes his entire career a fabrication. I hope he ends up driving his father's bus.

26 June 2011

23 June 2011

In the black


The strategy for what to do with the monies from selling the 85% share the tax payer has in RBS and the 45% share in Lloyds is clear. The Chancellor simply needs to head to Vegas seek out a roulette wheel where the previous ten spins have been red and bet the entire £100billion on black.

You've doubled your money straight away then haven't you. And there are enough roulette wheels in Vegas to keep doubling up until he's cleared the £1 trillion National debt. Obviously he will need some cunning disguises so the bosses of the Casinos don't clock what's going on. Maybe a comedy tash or massive Sombrero.

Having cleared the nation's debts and maybe saved some you know for when this all happens again next year, he should then distribute the remaining profits to all white middle class people and not Muslims or homosexuals or Greeks thereby securing the next election victory.

Politics = piece of piss.

20 June 2011

Wimbledon preview

That's right bitch, go to sleep.


I obviously couldn't sleep last night as it's Wimbledon today and my whole year revolves around Wimbledon. Of course, when I say 'revolves,' what I mean is...I found out yesterday accidentally that it's Wimbledon today.

So on the strength of a random post I saw on a poker message board I've had a £150 on some bloke to win the mens' tournament who I'll Google in a minute as I can't recall his name and also I've had £25 at 12/1 on one of the Williams' sisters to bust out in the second round. Forget which one, the one who's been ill or something.

Novak Djokovic, that's who I bet on. And Venus* to bust out - although not literally I hope.

Andy Murray of course will never win a proper tournament of the tennis while his mam is still following him around along with that musty stench of incest that hangs over them like a cloud of filthy sexually deviant smog.

The raging jealousy in that woman's eyes at the presence of Murray's girlfriend is enough to put the fear of God in anyone. She makes Norma Bates look like Olivia Walton. It's no wonder he loses his concentration.

Update: *Serena Williams not Venus Williams. The one who cried.

"It's me he thinks about when you make love, you know that don't you."


16 June 2011

Today's guff


It's wrong to be awake at this hour. I'm having an ultra sound in a couple of hours, which means I haven't been able to eat since midnight so bits of sammich or sausage roll don't get in the way of stuff they need to look at.

I'll then have another gloomy chat with the Doctor boffins which means I won't have access to lunch until at least about 1:30pm. It's times like these I can appreciate how heroine addicts become so desperate when they're denied a fix.

I'm in poor spirits today anyway as I've just now seen Woman's Weekly have once again refused to print any of my recipes. Subscription cancelled.

I can't wait until tomorrow already.

15 June 2011

Oh a cloud, so fucking what?



This futuristic Airbus thing is all very impressive and I envy the air passengers of 2050 who'll enjoy the wonders of a translucent "skin" and a virtual golf course in the back of the plane, but if the checking-in process doesn't evolve also, along with the immigration processing, then all of these relaxation innovations will be completely ineffective.

If in 2050, before boarding these wondrous flying relaxation spas, passengers are still queuing up for four hours to check-in, aggressively felt up by sweaty security personnel and not allowed to carry a hip flask of medicinal whiskey with them in case it's a bomb, there won't be a flight long enough before these calming innovations take effect.

According to my research it takes eighteen hours for the body to fully recover from the checking in process of a major international airport. And given the suffocating nature of air travel itself, this 'coming down' process is extended by a further three hours per hour of flight, which means this calming process cannot even begin until you have reached your destination.

Please some one, I don't care how nice
the food is in Mauritius,
shoot me now.


All of this means that it can be almost two days into a holiday before you have calmed the fuck down enough to begin to enjoy not being at home anymore. That is of course if the misses is still talking to you after all the times you've called her a useless cunt since you set off from home.

By my calculations, being able to get a virtual blow job on one of these new Airbuses while looking at a cloud will only decrease the "coming down" period by about 47 minutes.Which is of course negated by the anxiety built up prior to landing which will remain and these new planes will fly us towards at 1500 mph; will we crash, will we not? How long will it take to get out of the sodding airport? Will I be robbed as soon as I am outside? Will the taxi driver take me on a 50 mile detour? Are my suitcases on their way to Japan as we speak?

When we consider the flying experience in its entirety and how little these fancy planes address the overall ordeal of 'getting away from it all,' you start to see the irrelevance of a plane where you can breath in vitamin enriched air and get a really close look at the sky. It's like a soldier having a jacuzzi in his fox hole.

And we haven't even begun to consider what a plane crash might look like from inside a translucent shell. Fuck me! I feel queasy riding a big dipper.

14 June 2011

I'm not having it!


Cameron and Clegg being made to look like twats by, I suspect,
a proper Conservative getting his own back.


We here at the blog do enjoy any moments of discomfort for David Cameron. In truth we only really get out of bed of an afternoon in the hope that he has contrived to impale himself on a rusty spike with no one at hand to offer assistance.

Today's example is less excruciating than the holy grail of his bleeding to death, but fun nonetheless. And curious too as there is in fact no evidence to support the claim that sleeves encourage the spread of bacteria. Thus, me thinks this Consultant is merely using his position to make Cameron and Clegg look like cunts. Fantastic stuff. Well played sir.

Doctor's stopped wearing white coats because of the risk of infection from filthy sleeving, but according to my research it's all bollocks. More patients have come to harm as a consequence of random punters in shirt and tie - sans white coat - draping a stethoscope around their necks and pretending to be a doctor and dishing out medicinal beatings behind curtains to unsuspecting patients, than have ever suffered from infections from dirty sleeves. Still, you've got to laugh.


Doomed


A chap is deep into his over-draft, his credit cards all tapped out. His children all on the game to raise a few quid to pay the outrageous heating bills. While chatting with his neighbour one evening he notices that his house is also in a state of disrepair and his children are quite dirty.

Both men are skint. Yet the neighbour strangely has a Bentley parked on the lawn. Still, our good Samaritan pops over to the bank to ask the bank manager for another loan. "What's it for please?" enquires the suspicious bank manager. "It's for my neighbour, he's got no money and I think I need to help him, it's my duty as a good neighbour" explains our hero.

"How much do you want?" asks the incredulous banker. "About £10,000 should do it."

The bank manager quite rightly spits his tea out and begins laughing hysterically. The laughter soon abates after ten or fifteen minutes and eventually stops. Having composed himself the bank manager walks over to the door of his office, opens it and gestures for the man to leave saying, "Why don't you sod off you mad old cretin. And if you come here asking for another loan before you've given us the £300,000 you owe us I'll have you beaten with a stick. Why don't you ask your chum to sell that sodding Bentley?"


This of course never happened. Even the off-his-rocker mentalist would never try and take out a loan to give to a friend who was cash strapped but had a Bentley to sell when he himself was up to the eyeballs in unpaid bills.

Yet this is exactly what David Cameron is doing by dishing out billions to countries like India and Pakistan in foreign aid. Countries who have nuclear weapons and in India's case, a space programme. But this of course is vital if we're to be a developmental superpower.

And anyway, as we're borrowing about £26bn a month it's only about one half of one month's borrowing to achieve this laudable goal. I've always wanted us to be a developmental superpower. I'd rather we were an actual superpower, as we were about 150 years, but this is the next best thing.

What ze hell??


I'm loathe to judge anyone on their sexual deviancy, but if you were the sick fuck who found my blog by searching for "red girls tied up and are getting raped" I do hope you meet a grisly end in the next day or so.

Same for the person who searched "my Pony." Absolute filth.

Cave related time warping

We here at The Mouth of the Cave are always on the look out for interesting cave dwelling experiences and so at this time I would point you in the direction of this interesting blog piece on the ways our minds warp time in our everyday lives:

In 1962 Michel Siffre went to live in a cave that was completely isolated from mechanical clocks and natural light. He soon began to experience a huge change in his experience of time. Read the rest here.



13 June 2011

Harsh but fair

Regular readers of the blog, including Vladimir Putin, will know I spend more time than I really should in the Co-op. Today I had occasion to wish death upon a fat woman.

She was an enormous package, grotesque, with a whale's gut that could comfortably accommodate 900kg of plankton. Ironically if only she ate plankton instead of cakes she might lose some weight.

She had her son with her. He was of course also a rotund package who looked remarkably like one of those space hoppers turned upside down.

I felt sorry for him. Don't get me wrong, I hate kids as much as the next man - noisy little fuckers - but this was a clear example of the injustice inherent in the world that gives me so much trouble with the sleeping at night.

No child no matter how noisy or undisciplined or incapable of having a sensible conversation without rubbing something unpleasant on his face deserves to be saddled with such a maternally retarded monstrosity.

Through no fault of his own, he has been burdened, by fate, with a mother who clearly is not capable of taking care of herself let alone complex, vulnerable, excitable and hungry progeny.

He was a happy go lucky chap of about 6, we had some banter. I liked him. He seemed to imply via subtle piss taking that I ought not to be buying Jelly Babies as they were for children. I couldn't fault his logic.

Had this been the 19th century I could have beaten him for his impertinence with a nearby bag of coal, but as it was I was left without recourse. I respect subtle piss taking even when it's aimed at me. Touché sir.

Anyway, I digress. call me over-punitive, but ruining a child's body like this probably for ever simply because providing the poor bastard with a healthier diet would mean the mother having to eat healthier herself is essentially a worse form of abuse than beating him with a bag of coals for making me feel like a sweet buying cunt. At least the welts would heal in time.

He will probably be subjected to bullying at school, have no friends, not lose his virginity until he's old enough to visit Amsterdam.

And even after all this he will still have inevitable complicated health issues to look forward to - diabetes, fucked up liver, small penis etc.

And of course there's little chance he has a father at home to teach him how to cope with this series of kicks to the bollocks. His father will have either have never met his son or be equally as useless as his mother and so his 'father' in name only.

I would have had no compunction this afternoon in tying this woman to the back of my car and driving off at a speed of somewhere between 4 and 5 miles an hour until she dropped panting and vomiting. I would then have continued to drive until the only thing left of her simply blew away in the breeze. I would of course need to stop to fill up before all of her was gone, but a trip well worth the price of a tank of unleaded.

Harsh, yes, but according to my equations, the humane thing to do. For both of them.

Russia DOES read my blog


Having blogged recently (here) about how Iran reads my blog, I also noted that it was silly of Russia to hack my blogging statistics so Russia isn't shaded on my 'hits' map and therefore giving the impression it doesn't read my blog.

I knew from my man in Moscow that Putin himself reads the blog as he is also a keen lover of sammiches, so his clandestine games were simply folly. Conversely it is equally as silly of Canada to pretend it reads my blog as we all no one in Canada can read.

12 June 2011

Think we're Percy Thrower do we sir?




"Waargh Dangit, I know maaa raaaghts"

Someone burst Huhne's bubble


Chris Huhne is still not in prison and now he's even talking to the papers about his job instead of hiding behind the sofa. Will someone please kick him to death before we all perish.

Huhne according to my latest figures, is a cheeky mad bastard. He has the barefaced cheek to tell us all that we shouldn't take price increases in electricity "lying down." That we should shop around, hit the power companies where it hurts if price increases are unreasonable.

What of course he ignores here is that he is responsible for electricity now becoming a luxury item and we can't shop around because give or take a few quid all the power companies will charge similar amounts - at the time of writing - an arm and almost a whole leg.

His view of the world makes Michael Jackson's seem quite down to earth. Chris Huhne lives in a bubble, a fantasy world where all our energy needs can be met by harnessing the power of love. It's why he has cheated on his wife so often.

He is leading the way, blazing a trail of love capture. He claims already that through making love to two lesbians while his wife and kids were at home waiting for him, he has been able to power his electric car that can reach speeds of over 85 mph.

It will be a long time before the entire nation is powered by our love of one another however, even Huhne concedes this. Unfortunately his plan in the meantime is to use wind power to meet our needs instead of coal or nuclear power stations.

Power companies under the renewables obligations, a document which is essentially porn to Chris Huhne, must buy 10% of their electricity from renewable sources and pay twice the market rate. This cost is then passed on to us and consequently millions of people are forced to choose each winter between food, clothing or heating.

This will have interesting evolutionary effects. How many generations before we start becoming a lot hairier from birth? With smaller appendages and slower heart rates. We'll be reptiles before the lefty green loonies see sense.

Chris Huhne is the reason why no one can afford to heat their entire homes, but is blaming the power companies as is the standard practice of misdirection employed by all politicians. And it only gets worse, 10% as we speak will be 15% next year and 50% by 2020 or some such madness.

This can of course only happen by bankrupting the entire world. It will require technology not yet in existence and we will also have to find ways of making the wind blow all the time. And none of this unfortunately, is a joke.

We're doomed. It's every man for himself. Good luck everyone.

The dog's name was Nigger, end of.



Dambusters pilot Guy Gibson's dog "Nigger" (latin for black) is to be renamed "Digger" in a remake of Dambusters just in case it offends anyone in America.

Where to start with this kind of thinking? Who really is going to be offended by this? It's a dogs name not a racial slur. And so called because Nigger is latin for black not because Guy Gibson associated black people with Dogs.

It must surely be incredibly patronising and insulting to any black person that the writers of this remake, Stephen Fry and Peter Jackson think they won't be able to cope with this and need people like Stephen Fry to be offended on their behalf. Only PC obsessives could find a problem here where their clearly isn't one.

You can't just re-write the past anyway simply because by today's values it might be unpalatable. No one in America has done that with any other historical film I can think of. Full Metal Jacket and Platoon seemed to do OK at the box office.

The Dirty Dozen set during the same period managed to be fairly successful despite including the line spoken by Telly Savalas' character, "Sir, do we have to eat with niggers." And that really was racially offensive. Not much grey area with that question.

Even if Barnes Wallis owned a pet monkey called nigger and actually hated black people you still have to include it in the re-telling of the story if the monkey was relevant to the event because it would be a part of the history of it all.

Even though there is nothing to be offended about here Stephen Fry is intelligent enough to know we evolve from learning from our past prejudices, not from attempting to erase them. And so what if they were offended? Worst case scenario the black community in America don't see the film because the dog was called Nigger, so what? They wouldn't surely have expected the script writers to change the name for their sake would they.

So this must only be about money, being overly cautious so every one goes to see it. Which kind of betrays their laudable motives for changing the dog's name in the first place. I preferred Stephen Fry when he went into hiding because of being terribly confused. At least when he wasn't around he couldn't fuck up a decent war film.


11 June 2011

We didn't let them into the bathroom

"Nice tits, but shame about the all the talking." - Prince Philip yesterday


If you haven't seen Fiona Bruce's interview with the Duke of Edinburgh you must MUST see it right this minute. He is brilliant. He is the panacea for all lefty BBC political correctness silly bollocks. Fiona Bruce is made to look incredible daft for asking a series of pointless non-questions and stating the bleeding obvious which is the standard means of communicating at the Beeb.

Picture of the day

www.eureferendum.com

10 June 2011

Iran reads my blog!



I was just now having a look at my blog stats for the week and saw I a shaded area I did not expect at all. Iran! Who's reading my blog in Iran this week. A total of 1.3% of my blog hits this week were from Tehran.

Obviously I panicked. What have I said about the Iranians this week? Eeek, will I get a fatwa in the post? I'm not signing for any recorded delivery items in the next week or so I can tell you that for nothing. Even if I have to reject a box set of awesome Star Trek TNG DVDs and some specialist items.

Well anyway...hello Iran. I assume it's Ahmadinejad that's reading me as no on else would be allowed. Forgive me for when I suggested you were a closet homosexual, but I was angry at you for arresting those Marines and making our Navy look silly...and to be fair, you do show all the signs; over compensating via oppression of women, awful beard, quite a snappy dresser and so on. Friends?

P.S. Russia I know you read my blog too, so it's no use hiding by getting your computron boffins to cover up the greeny shading on the map.

Black


Communists are just brilliant fun. I mean, obviously given enough time they'll kill us all off either through starvation or by sending us completely loopy via horrifically stifling totalitarian control, but apart from that they're brilliant.

I just love how conspiratorial they are. How do they get like that? And then deny it too. A five year boy will eat a plate of recently baked chocolate biscuits, have chocolate all over his face and be throwing up recently eaten chocolate biscuits and still able to claim that it wasn't him that ate them but grown men ought not to be capable of this.

It's only communists that can do this. And since I've resigned from the world and accepted that I have no control over anything and it's every man for himself, I've learnt to embrace the communist. I've learnt to marvel at their ability to write down in their own handwriting how they think someone should be snubbed out and then be filmed secretly explaining to someone exactly how and then once rumbled be able to flat out deny they wrote or said anything.

I can see now how people can be around Ed Balls and not feel either violently ill or overwhelmed by the urge to drive a pencil into his throat hundreds of times while laughing manically and then masturbate while sat in a pool of his blood.

He's brilliant the way he can simply deny absolutely everything without even flinching and he a man who has suffered from that weird blinky affliction from childhood. Simply awesome stuff.

As for Gordon Brown, the depths at which one would have to sink into the dark abyss of his mind to find anything that even resembled a human emotion is knee trembling and matter crushing.

They say the eyes are the window to the soul, but if you would dare look into Gordon Brown's eyes, or just his one good eye, there is a profound lack of soul, a black nothingness, Paradise Lost made manifest, the death of humanity. Bone chilling, awesome evil. Enough literally to take ones breath away.

9 June 2011

I am a slut, but not a slut. Simple.

Call me harsh, but I don't think any of you are in
any danger of sexual assault or being called slut?


This slutwalk business. I don't get it. I do not get it people. I've tried to get it, but I always end up needing to lie down. From my research and what I've been hearing in my ear piece just now it seems the goals of this movement are two fold:

1. To remind us, the police and judiciary that if a women was dressed like a slut doesn't mean she was one and is therefore not culpable for any sexual assault she may have endured.

2. The reappropriation of the word slut.

Here's where I struggle; are these two goals not contrary to each other? On the one hand they're asking people to accept that they are not sluts just because they are dressing provocatively. And on the other hand they're also aiming to reclaim the word slut so that it won't mean dirty whore any more. Goal number two makes being a slut OK, while goal number one requires that no one confuses them with being an 'orrible slut.

Silly.

Also and anyway, reclaiming words is just the most ridiculous nonsense. It's something lefty, green tea drinking, sandal wearing people who have never really been subjected to any real prejudice dream up in their homes while they paint pictures using their own menstrual blood or strum those massive Indian guitars that always sound out of tune.

Words, like those guitars are just noise.The sentiments they represent is where the danger comes from. It's prejudice that is dangerous not linguistics. In the past the African 'mercan community have tried to reclaim the word "nigger." Jews have tried to reclaim "Yid." And whoopsies have tried to reclaim "faggot."

What has all this reclaiming acheived? As much as recycling. Nothing. Is there no racial bigotry anymore? No antisemitism? Can homosexuals find work anywhere but the BBC? No.

I will wager that while the average lefty thinking academic African 'mercan type may think that "nigger" has been reclaimed, if he were cornered by a group of white gentlemen from Alabama and repeatedly called nigger while a noose was prepared for him, he might have to accept that the moral victory of the word being reclaimed isn't quite worth so much as they thought in the practical sense.

Reappropriation is thinking on too high a level for really ignorant prejudiced people to appreciate. If reappropriation worked there wouldn't be any prejudice in the first place, so it wouldn't be necessary.

It won't matter if 90% of a country understand the theory if the really dangerous 10% are oblivious to it. If reappropriation was really effective Dr Martin Luther the King would have had everyone sprawl "I am a nigger" on their sandwich boards instead of "I am a man."

Dr King's aspirations were a little higher in reclaiming dignity rather than words and I fancy those who experienced the sharp end of the civil rights movement up close and all generations since were thankful of it.

Now then..I've ordered a little trolly to cart my O2 cyclinder around. I just hope it arrives in time for slutwalk London on Saturday as I am hoping to get me some.

What's it got to do with you?


Here's what you do if you're the Prime Minister and the Archbishop of Canterbury has just told you how to do your job. You obviously quote Leuitenant Chard of Rorkes Drift fame (even though that never really happened in my opinion) addressing the mad Swedish missionary who's just told him he's going to get everyone killed, "When I have the impertinence to climb into your pulpit to deliver a sermon, then you may tell me my duty."

Or in plainer English, sod off you mad old duffer.

Not that I have any respect or confidence in David Cameron. No, it's clear we're doomed as he no idea what he's playing at and consequently I'm as keen as anyone to see him tied up with piano wire and machine gunned, it's just that, while everyone is of course entitled to criticise Government policy there is no reason why high ranking members of clergy should be given the PM ears anymore than anyone else or their opinions respected anymore than my postman's.

What does Rown Williams know about education or health or anything else other than the super-natural? He's a theologian. He's no more qualified to tell Cameron how to manage the NHS than I am. In fact I'm probably more qualified than Williams, yet Cameron not only has never answered any of my letters, his legal people have told me I'll be in big trouble if I send him one more horses head!

Listen church people; the only subject you're an authority on is the one you just made up. Anyone can be a Theologian cause anyone can make up a religion. I could be a theologian by this time next week but I'd rather spend my time eating sausage rolls. In fact I could make eating pastry goods a religion, ...Praise be to the Gods of puff pastry.

And yay, he doth prefereth to cook his sausageth rollths in ye microwave as opposed to yon cooker as it's quicker and he doth prefer the softer pastry. And now then, here's how you sort out the NHS, the education system and our armed forces...

Surprise of the day


Apparently Boris Johnson joined the Met police on a drugs raid yesterday. When the suspect was being cuffed and spotted the Mayor of London togged up like Chuck Norris amongst the crowd of policemen smashing his house up he grunted, "what the fuck are you doing here?"

8 June 2011

I am what I am. And why not?



There are some clear undeniable signs that my health has declined significantly this past year and isn't coming back. Even more shortness of breath, a loss of appetite, loss of enthusiasm for sandwiches or giving money away to all and sundry at the poker tables, difficulty sleeping, a lack of concentration, delirium, boils in my armpits, blood in my stools, a burning sensation when I urinate accompanied by a shrill whistling noise, impatient vultures on my front lawn, lightning and thunder always above me and so on.

It is of course important not to get too dispirited however. I once assumed that a nurse rubbing a warm balm into my skin would be one of the best days of my life, but no. Anyone who's ever had their earlobe blood gases analysed will appreciate this is far from the truth. The lesson here of course, is that no matter how things may seem, they can always get much much worse.

Haahaha, I kid, I kid people. That is not the lesson. Hahahahahahahahaha. No no no really hahahaha.



cough cough erm.. The lesson is this:

The path of destiny is shrouded in an impenetrable fog. We know this simply from the met-office medium to long term forecasts. The sort of fogs that engulfed London in the 19th century. It is a necessary fog, for it is much better we know not of our futures.

What happens when this fog is lifted? You can see London!! And who wants to see London? No one, the literal or the metaphorical. No, it is much better to exist blissfully unaware of the nightmare that is lurking somewhere in our midst.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA ..NO NO I KID AGAIN. AHAHAHAHAHAHA.



aww come back. What I'm saying people, is that our very lives and interactions are too complex to see any further than today a few feet in front of our noses and therefore to draw any conclusions about ones future is both futile and counter-productive.

Now then, I have been to the big house this day and have had to accept over tea and biscuits that I am essentially a respiratory cripple who cannot function efficiently without being hooked up to O2 all the time. I knew this of course, but only properly accepted this today. This is the biggest concession to CF I have made since I left work.

Accepting one cannot provide monies and a living for oneself is quite an unpalatable pie to digest. Accepting one cannot provide even enough oxygen to function efficiently is an even bigger one.

This has all the hallmarks of oppression in it's most profound form. No one likes to be dictated to. At least when it's a Government you can camp out in a square, when it's your own genes doing the oppressing there is no freedom to be won, well there's one but we're not keen on that just yet. If only CF had some tanks I could simply stand in front of and wave a little flag at. But that of course would be the wrong approach. This is an adjustment I am struggling with. But only because I am tackling it from an incorrect perspective.

As poor Seneca was about to do himself in at the behest of Nero his family and friends wept at his bedside. "People" Seneca admonished, "where is your philosophy? Surely we were all aware Nero was a nutcase?" In other words, this was to be expected and therefore accepted and their frustrations were naive. Quite. So where is my philosophy? It's hardly worth having one if it's abandoned when it's most needed no?

I have always maintained that one has a sort of symbiotic relationship with CF. Living with it, rather than fighting against it. This new adjustment means the end of my previous days of launching myself around the place, half man half German lager wondering into danger without a care in the world, but was this my raison d'état? No. And of course there are positives here, I just have refused to see them.

For every drunken night I will forego, I will be hang over free the next day. For every person that points and stares someone may pat me on the head out of a false, silly and patronising sense of compassion and I like to be patted.

There is no ideal, we are never denied anything as we are never entitled to anything in the first place. Ones life is what it is and mine will now be one where there is more wearing of cardigans and less sleeping half in and half out of my house with my trousers down by my ankles and my stuff strewn over a wide area.

A life of slow contemplation, spiritual enrichment, lower fat foods and Spanish guitar muzak. A time where the physical world makes way for the metaphysical. Where I am no longer a man, more a sort of thing that drifts about. And why not?


7 June 2011

Nominative determinism at it's funniest


So now, over in the US of States, Congressman Anthony Weiner has gotten himself in a pickle after sending pictures of his wiener to several women over the Twitters. He meant to send them privately of course via a direct message, but instead sent them to the whole world.

He then denied it, he said he could not say "in certitude" that the penis was in fact his and claimed his Twitter account had been hacked. Obviously the media were confused by this. How could he not know for sure if such a picture was indeed his todger?

Does he send so many lurid pictures out on many social networking platforms that he can't say for sure if it was his? Is that what he's saying? Cause that's worse than just admitting it. Or is he simply not able to identify his own junk?

This was of course all nonsense and eventually he was forced to concede these were indeed his boys. Luckily for him he's a Democrat and was therefore not subjected to as much ridicule as a Republican would have been.

One wonders however, how does this happen so often to high profile politicians? With their careers and reputations and marriages at stake how do so many politicians manage to get themselves embroiled in so many sex scandals.

And not scandals which take a grotty tabloid months of surveillance to uncover by rooting about in bins and sewers for spoiled prophylactics that are then analysed for juices not belonging to the spousal naughty bits - more often than not it's this sort of thing. Mucky pictures being sent without due care and attention, or being caught in a lavatory offering up oral sex to all and sundry.

How are these people able to let their guards down, to literally expose themselves in such a casual manner?

For the same reason that when the every day man on the street's wife finds his mucky bongo DVD it's not hidden under the sofa, it's in the actual DVD player. She goes to pop Notting Hill in the player and there in the tray she finds Sluts, fucked by horses and other animals III.

It is all the work of the mischievous Goddess of Nookie. When you're all randied up with eyes glazed over and most of the blood flow is towards the penis you are never able to think straight. Blood flow to the brain is at its absolute minimum just to keep the body functioning. All other resources are allocated to the pleasuring of oneself. Reflexes are subdued, awareness diminished, instincts relaxed and consequences dismissed.

Achieving a glorious ejaculation requires that all other brain functions must cease and this is why we are all at the mercy of the Goddess of Nookie at this time. And when it has been achieved the brain still does not begin to function efficiently again for at least ten minutes, by which time you have gotten dressed, wiped up and completely forgotten about the DVD, or are now panicking like fuck cause of what you just did to a lorry driver at a service station on the way to the Liberal Democrats conference.

Anything can and will happen in this vulnerable condition and we should not be surprised when politicians and high profile types are caught with their pants down. Indeed we should pity them in fact. There but for the grace of the Goddess of Nookie, we go.

Amen.

5 June 2011

A freedom of cunts

Nothing a short burst from a machine gun couldn't fix.


We can use the word cunt now as the BBC have decided it's OK. So let's put it to some good use this morning and discuss burglar and arch cunt Wayne Bishop. This chap has been a professional burglar since leaving school and has made the lives of those who live anywhere near him a misery.

He has many many little urchins who are clothed and fed by the tax payer and other people's valuables. He has been released from prison because his human rights afford him the right to a family life. The collective noun for cunts like this in fact now a "freedom."

Now, while I don't know the ins and outs of the case, I'm sure this is bollocks. Listen judicial system, I know you read my blog, the purpose of jail, the initial purpose, is exactly to do just that: to deny criminals their single fundamental right, which is freedom. Which is to say imprison them. It's why it's called prison.

If keeping someone in prison and away from his little sprogs and custard stained tracksuit wearing whore or a wife is a breach of his human rights, then surely prison itself must be done away with as it's the worst kind of human rights contravention?

You can't have it both ways. You either have prison and those that break the law have to accept that when they enter one they can consider themselves "between human rights" until their release. Or we just don't have prisons at all and just call it a day with crime in general and then it's every man for himself, which of course, in reality, is already the case. Just no one has publicly announced it yet. Cunts.

* * *

Now then, since I took the decision some five years ago to spend as much time asleep as possible it of course means the most interesting experiences and occurrences that occur during any given week are my dreams and it's last night's cacophony of nonsense I'd like to discuss now if you'll indulge me.

I'd initially dreamt of something involving Louis from Smallville, but the details are of little consequnce. All you need to know is she wanted it and I nearly gave it to her, but she changed into someone else and then I was suddenly somewhere else anyway and then I woke up as I needed a wee.

Later on I dreamt, instead of boarding a train for some horrible part of London, I'd accidentally boarded the Euro Star train bound for Paris and was heading swiftly towards my doom. This of course is enough to give anyone nightmares (within their nightmares), but it wasn't just the fact that pound for pound the dirtiest most arrogant city in Europe was just an hour away, it was entering the channel tunnel that gave me the willies.

I did not like it. Now then amateur Freudianists, calm down, it's not because I'm scared of nookie or cause vaginas baffle me cause I'm not and they don't - I know that wee comes from a different hole now. And it's not because I can't get an erection either cause I just had one thank you very much. It was not a metaphorical sex dream.

I am simply mildly claustrophobic having once been unable to free myself from a Kagool. And coupled with my Francophobia it became an unbearable incarceration. Even the sort of stewardess girl, who I think was the lovely Anna Sigalevitch from the Piano Teacher, was unable to soothe my concerns.

Where was my yuman rights in that situation eh? Where was the European Judiciary to deliver me from that imprisonement? It can't be right when an honest to goodness law abiding citizen like me can't be rescued from being near France, yet 'orrible burglarising cunt Wayne Bishop is released from prison with an apology and a bag of monies just so he can go home to his rent free four bedroom house to copulate with his grubby misses and add further to the surplus population of the under classes again.

I woke up all sweaty and breathing deeply and is it any wonder? Freedom? I should be so fortunate. Cunts, the lot of them. Gertcha.

You are on ze wrong train Monsieur, would you like un grape?


The symptoms of doomdom

Future historians will one day regress the origins of a Europe wide war to the weeks of June 2011 when thousands of Spaniards and Greeks took to the streets and squares of their respective capitals out of frustration and anger at the political corruption that had led their countries to the brink of bankruptcy.

Meanwhile during the same period in the UK, possibly because the mainstream media didn't want anyone to know what was actually happening on the continent in case everyone got the same idea here, everyone was focused instead entirely on the finals of Britain's Got Talent.

A talent show in the loosest possible terms where a kid who looks like a puppy in a syrup and was clearly cloned from another spooky Canadian kid was about win the opportunity of a lifetime to be appalling exploited by a sweaty Simon Cowell. The days when the sun never set on the Empire had never quite felt so long ago.

I'm disgusted at us. If millions and millions of people watched these shows out of a sense of irony, fully aware of how utterly offensively vacuous they are, I wouldn't lose quite so much sleep, but no. These shows have become genuinely important to people. People talk about them at work, on twitter, in queues. Everywhere. Seriously.

So while the European Union begins to break up, a monumental notion no less significant than the collapse of the Soviet Union, everyone in this country is distracted by someone juggling orphans and the news that amateur racist Cheryl Cole might be returning to judge the X-Factor.

We're doomed, we've given up then is what we're saying to ourselves. That's the general conclusion we can draw from these specific symptoms of doomdom. We're the national equivalent of a once beautiful but now fat divorcee who wears track suits all the time with custard stains down the front, smokes 100 cigarettes a day and feeds her seven kids crisps for tea before sending them out to make life a misery for anyone living within a five mile radius.

Call me presumptuous but I don't think Socialism has worked.

* * *

Well if the country can ignore the nightmare that is so clearly approaching with all the inexorable velocity of an out of control Fiat Punto skidding sideways down an icy road towards a group of school children while the female behind the wheel applies her lipstick in her rear view mirror in complete ignorance of the terrified faces of the little cherubs she's about to skittle into a mass grave.

I myself will use the Concacaf Gold Cup which starts tomorrow to take my mind off the fact that we're all doomed and it's every man for himself.

Mexico as we all know are current Champions having given the US of States a 5-0 shellacking in the 2009 final. I see no reason why this can't happen again this year. It being held in 'merca will only add to the humiliation of the host nation as they are slaughtered once again.


Mexico play the might of El Salvador tomorrow night at Cowboys Stadium. The result will be a national embarrassment for El Salvador and many members of their team will never quite be the same again.

Elsewhere in the sporting world, my new MotoGP hero while Valentino Rossi sorts out how to ride his Ducati is Marco Simoncelli and his magic Euro hair-do. He looks remarkably like a 1970s Kevin Keegan in fact, only not quite so gay.

I fancy him to win his first MotoGP race tomorrow in the Catalunya GP. He's been threatening to win one of these things all season, but has up to now, preferred instead to fling himself off his machine or fling other people off theirs.

Marco is not the crowd favourite having destroyed poor little Dani Pedrosa's shoulder in the last race in Le Mans with an overtaking manouevre that required the breaking of up to nine laws of physics and as many racing regulations.

Fantastic stuff. Proper racing. None of this nancy boy F1 business where there's no racing allowed, only prancing about in Gucci sunglasses shouting ciao at the locals.

"I tell you what, I will LOVE IT,
love it if I win tomorrow."


3 June 2011

Gurken sind nicht Sex-Spielzeug


I'm glad cucumbers are getting some bad press at the moment. It's about time vegetables were given a hard time. It's always meat that's blamed for health scares. Apparently this e.Coli business in Germany has effected more female cucumber consumers than male. Up to a third more in fact. I wonder why this might be?

I use the word consumer as there's obviously more than one to enjoy a cucumber. And of course, while no one's saying so in as many words in the news media, the reason German woman are more at risk of this current outbreak, is because they shove them up their hairy German muschis.

A German woman impaling herself on a cucumber in this way and doesn't wash her hands afterwards is always going to feel a bit queasy in the following days. And there's a lesson in this for us all. Don't abuse nature in this way. If vegetables and fruits were meant to be used in this way they'd be self-lubricating. And also if they were meant to be eaten they'd taste like meat.

Leave vegetables to the rabbits people, you'll feel better for it. You've got teeth, use them. Meat for the win!

1 June 2011

How do you solve a problem like Sepp Blatter?


Having been the only nation to oppose Sepp Blatter's re-election (Scotland obviously being a colony) England have now well and truly fucked themselves. They now have even less chance of qualifying for the next world cup than Wales.

The FA are past masters in finding the wrong way to do things and paying over the odds for the privilege so this was all to be expected. The solution is simple, which of course automatically makes it too complicated for the FA, but it's worth explaining it to them anyway as I know they read my blog.

Simply gunning the man down in broad daylight will only treat the symptom as there are many many Sepp Blatters waiting in the wings, the answer of course is to simply withdraw from FIFA.

England then encourages Wales, Scotland and Norn Iron if they can put a squad together to do the same and set up their own "World Cup' in a similar fashion to the American set up where world championships in their main sports consists almost exclusively of American teams.

There would be one qualifying group of four. All of which qualify for the tournament. The tournament consists of one group of four all of which qualify for the semi-finals. England ought to win the World Cup every four years. The law of averages and Murphy's law combined may sometimes mean England don't win the World Cup, but they would always at least make the semi-final stage, something they have only acheived once in some forty five years since 1966.

This is no more surreal and stupid than belonging to FIFA and participating in their life-size game of subbuteo. If England are to avoid being flicked about my Sepp Blatter and his underlings for ever more it's really the only way.