Wednesday, December 31, 2008

Chapati, Sodomy and the Lash...

The original Vikramaditya, earlier today.

Lurking around the net earlier today, I made a regular stop at Samizdata where Michael Jennings was kind enough to share some of his photos with us insular types. One of which was a photo taken in a Chinese port, featuring an aircraft carrier with decidedly Russian naval architecture.

That stirred my curiosity, so I searched for further information. I didn't get quite what I expected though. One of the images spat out was for the INS Vikramaditya.

A bit more digging gave me this:

A big, naughty boat, earlier today.

This was formerly the Admiral Gorshkov, which began it's life as the Aviation Carrier Baku, withdrawn from Russian Navy service circa 1993.

She's now to the best of my understanding with the Indian Naval Service renamed Vikramaditya.

Now don't misunderstand me, if India wants a deep-water navy that's fine by me. If India wants Soviet built hardware, that's fine likewise; I have a soft spot for Russian ship design, they have a knack for elegant multi-purpose solutions after all.

No, what bugs me is that our cretinous PM recently announced this.

Why are we funding a military spending splurge in the Indian Ocean. Why are we effectively buying India force-projection hardware that the RN can only dream about, while all our armed forces are scraping around for basic kit?

Why are we cursed with a government of such stupefying idiocy and wastefulness?

It fucked my New Year up, just thought I'd share the love.

All the best for 2009, but I'm not exactly bursting with optimism.

Monday, December 29, 2008

This the MTK Home Service, Here is the News...

A view from the studio, earlier today...

A New Year message to the Government, the Department of Health, the Home Office, ASH, CRUK, the BHF, WRAP, Alcohol Concern, the Hamster Marketing Council, the Haemhorroid Management Foundation and all the rest of you interfering, lying, useless, sponging parasitical bastards.

As of midnight, December the thirty-first 2008 I am appointing you all to take over as my Sexual Advisory Council, so that in the future:

A triumph of optimism over experience, earlier today.

Wednesday, December 24, 2008

Another Xmas Present...

An addition to the ranks of the right-thinking is this chap.

Lots of jolly good sense. Carve yourself off a thick slice, and enjoy with a large scotch.

A merry Christmas to my reader (you know who you are, Mrs. Flange of Didcot), and a more hopeful New Year.

Sunday, December 21, 2008

Thought For The Day

A Tab Packet, earlier today.

Could the Christmas truce of 1914 have been possible without cigarettes? Discuss.

Wednesday, December 03, 2008

Of Openings and Things...

The Upper Chamber in a Constitutionally bearable state, earlier today...

Following the thrills, chills and spills of a twelve-hour night shift, I decided to watch the State Opening of Parliament this morning.

I suppose it was much as I expected. BBC/Nu-Labour waffle from the usual suspects, followed by the arrival of HM and her supporting cast.

What I wasn't fully prepared for was the feeling of numb despair and fatigue that enfolded me like a clammy, piss-soaked horse blanket for the duration of the proceedings.

The camera panned around the Upper House, and I found myself sighing at the endless parade of failures, halfwits, crooks and nonentities filling the chamber. From the toad-like incompetent Lamont to the scheming bladder of festering shit that is 'Lord' Mandelson.

When HM arrived I felt crushed under the conviction that she may as well have been paddled across a septic tank in a rubber dinghy as make progress into that place. I was overtaken by the miserable realisation of the sheer hollow pointlessness of the whole circus.

The relentless blathering of Huw Edwards with it's flatulent cargo of meaningless platitudes about democracy, sovereignty and the rest simply served to throw into sharp relief how our most cherished institutions have been devalued to the point of meaninglessness.

The sight of that arch-cretin Martin, trailing the risible Serjeant at Arms in his wake (an individual who reminded me of nothing so much as the Mekon with a terracotta paintjob and a bad wig), the whole sewer full of elected shite following on was an image of arse-clenching infuriation.

As for the speech? I retained sufficient will to listen to it, and fortunately the current raft of crises served to partially plug Nu-Labour's legislative cloaca, restricting them to a mere eleven bills. Needless to say, elementary decoding allowed me to foresee still more tax-payer's money being hosed at bullshit something-must-be-done initiatives, with a rich topping of miserablist neo-puritan strangulation of any human happiness.

The Ship of State is riddled with teredo, and I don't know how the timbers can be renewed.

Another year and a half of this? Shoot me now. Just get it over with.


It was fifteen pieces of twattery. I suspect I blanked out four bits while in the grip of Peri-Traumatic Stress disorder.

Thursday, November 20, 2008

Good Clean Family Fun...

What it should look like, in time, if a shit-wipe oxygen thief doesn't wreck it in infancy; earlier today

In an earlier post, I made reference to my former incarnation as an APT.

I've watched the Baby P scandal unroll endlessly, with it's various references and suggestions with an almost surreal sense of inevitability.

You see, there are two species of Public Mortuary, those operated by local authorities which are properly funded and free of the petty bullshit politicking that bedevils the NHS, and the ones based in NHS hospitals (the vast majority) which enjoy neither benefit. What they both have in common is that autopsies are their stock in trade.

Autopsies fill the day. The Coroner's Court system requires autopsy as a statutory obligation in all cases of sudden or suspicious death, and the death of any baby will require autopsy.

I have seen many, and as a professional duty, I developed and pioneered new techniques in perinatal and neonatal reconstruction. That is, reassembling the little mites when the pathologist has done what must be done.

One of my last tasks before I baled out of the NHS in my unending (and so far pointless) quest for sanity in the public service was assisting at the second PM (in the case of suspicious death, the first PM is conducted by a Home Office pathologist under the direction of HM Coroner, and forms the basis of the prosecution case, a second may be requested by the defence team) of a battered baby.

I don't remember the details of the case, including the child's name. One doesn't unless the idea of A Rubber Room With No Sharp Things appeals, but I remember the injuries in forensic detail. I remember plugging the x-ray shots into the viewer and looking at them.

I remember the scorching rage that I felt as a man and a father that such a thing could be done, that such injuries could be inflicted by a full grown adult on something so tiny and utterly, utterly defenceless. I remember the sure and absolute knowledge, felt in my very marrow that if the perpetrator were given to me, that I would demonstrate my professional, clinical dissection skills, on him for as long as he could survive them.

And then I put all that aside.

It was my proud boast, that a normal adult subject of autopsy could be restored in just under twelve minutes. Babies always took longer. They're delicate, fragile and small; requiring specialised instruments and specialised techniques. When the pathological/police circus left town, I prepared those instruments, put some Bach on the tape player and marshalled those techniques.

I spent forty-five minutes, lavishing all my care, attention, patience and professionalism on that tiny, broken scrap of humanity. A being who enjoyed no love, patience or care in life. Who had, in fact, been systematically smashed to bits by a creature utterly unworthy of oxygen.

When I'd finished, I wrapped him in a clean sheet, placed him gently in one of my many refrigerators; and went for a cigarette and a cup of tea.

My point is this.

I had to suppress all emotion to do right by that dead child. I had to deploy and apply all my patience, skill and professional detachment to do the right thing by him.

When it comes to Peter Connolley (Baby P), will our masters do this? Are they capable of this?

Or following all the usual hand-wringing, bullshit and mawkish, goulish slavering; will we see the same old rush to judgement, followed by an avalanche of piss-poor ill thought out legislation?

Somehow, I lack any optimism.

Thursday, November 13, 2008

On Balloons and Pricks...

A pissed-off, forestalled also-ran; earlier today

There are few things piss me off more than individuals who say what I meant to say, but infinately better than I could.

Like this insufferable smart-arse.

Of course, it is also "extremely difficult to monitor" whether any parent smokes in their own home but I've got some lovely marshland to sell to anybody who seriously thinks that a total domestic ban won't be the next step after this bullshit has bedded in. And that, of course, is what all this is really about. Once these corrupt fuckers have set out their stall by banning foster parents from smoking, it won't be too much of a push to ban natural parents from smoking

A man who is certainly ahead of the curve. Smart, concise and perceptive.

As if that wasn't enough, I have this enragingly well-written piece to swallow into the bargain.

The public buildings part is nonsense. Pubs are not public buildings. Neither are clubs. They are private businesses. Companies that own office blocks are not permitted to allow anyone to smoke in them, anywhere. Van drivers cannot smoke in their own vans, salesmen in their cars - even if they are self-employed. If you set up a smokers' club, employed only smokers and only allowed smokers to join it, you'd all be standing out in the rain to smoke while the club lies empty. That's how stupid it is to say 'it's to protect non-smokers'. Even if there isn't a non-smoker within fifty miles, a smoker cannot light up indoors, even if he owns the establishment.

I ask you, what fucking chance do I stand? Maybe if I spent more than thirty-five minutes a day sober...

A sweeping and courtly bow to The Filthy Smoker, and to Leg Iron.

Monday, November 03, 2008

It Shouldn't Happen to a Devil...

The Breakfast of Champions (moving in reverse).

Flying my daily mission over the hinterlands of Blogistan earlier today, I made my regular visit to hell, wherein I read the following...

Your humble Devil went for quite a lot more than a few drinks with PigDogFucker last night, and jolly good fun it was too. So, this morning I rose bleary-eyed and now, having fortified myself with fruit juice (alcohol leaches Vitamin C from the body) and coffee (ah, caffeine, beautiful caffeine!), I am ready to turn my jaundiced eye towards the news... it may well be that His Satanic Majesty was merely bleary, or it may be that he suffered a proper hangover, but I was shocked to note that he was working from such odd assumptions. Vitamin C indeed, tsk. tsk.

Hangovers are a much more evil beast than that. Not only are you suffering from an acute vitamin B1 deficiency, but you are dehydrated even unto monkeyballs. In fact, the booze will have blown your body chemistry to shitrags and knackered up your electrolytes into the bargain. This is why you feel like something the cat sicked up, you are suffering from a self-inflicted poisoning.

But why, I hear you ask, are you bollocking on in this vein Old Scrotum?

Well, to digress for a second. In my last job I was a Chief Mortuary Technician, or to give it it's proper title, a Senior Anatomical Pathology Technician. This basically involved dissecting corpses, but in order to obtain the wallpaper that permits one to do these things a certain amount of training is required. Four years of it to be precise, covering many diverse topics to illness and death related.

When I'd qualified I took up the Chief's post at a major hospital in East Kent, and as I was still living in London at the time my bosses lodged me in the nursing hostel from Sunday to Thursday night for the first six months. Needless to say, Sunday to Thursday nights were spent in the social club on the hospital campus.

I don't get hangovers anymore, they stopped dead when I turned twenty-nine. I think my body finally realised that firing warning shots at me had as much effect as telling Vlad the Impaler that he's a very naughty boy, and that whatever else I did, I'd be back the next night for lots more of the same. Don't get me wrong, I regard my body as a temple, it's just that I seem to get most of my kicks from defiling it.

Accordingly, watching the whey-faced zombies staggering around the nurses hostel every morning pricked my conscience; after all, I was always the instigator of these bacchanalia and never suffered the consequences.

Thus it was that I determined to find a practical application for all the stuff I'd soaked up from hours of reading Stephens, Seely & Tate, and Poulson's Clinical Toxicology. I determined to liberate mankind from the scourge of the hangover.

The key is prevention, not cure. After all, if you wake up with the feeling that someone has lavishly carpeted your mouth with Axminster, replaced your eyes with two pickled onions and substituted a slowly revolving hedgehog for your brain then the damage is done.

You need to replace the water and vitamins while you sleep, so that you wake healthy and refreshed. Impossible? Not with my blindingly-bloody-obvious solution.

Simply prepare a reasonably sized bowl of salad before you go out, and bung it in the fridge. All the watery, cellulose-ridden cack that any self respecting carnivore would be ashamed to have in his intestines. Shredded lettuce, tomatoes and cucumbers. If, like me, you hate rabbitry with a passion, feel free to add a dressing or a nice thick slab of cold ham and a dollop of Branston. DO NOT get creative. One test subject reported a disastrous failure, but under interrogation admitted adding pulses and carbs which totally derails the whole concept. Simply scarf the lot before you climb the wooden hill to blanket fair and all will be well. As you sleep like a newborn babe, all that ghastly cellulose breaks down, time releasing all the water and vitamins you need. Simple but brilliantly effective.

This has been extensively field tested under battle conditions, and it works. Now, if they can dish out a Nobel to this mendacious tosser, I'm throwing my hat into the ring for next year's prize for medicine. I think I've done more good than Mr. Serial any which way you slice it.


If you're one of these inexplicable creatures who feels compelled to spend the evening necking Pooftahpops with Galliano and plasticine chasers on top of a bellyful of QC sherry, I advise you to make more than one salad. This because you will almost certainly spend a large part of your night kneeling in the bathroom while your upper gastro-intestinal tract pressure hoses the Twyfords, and may need to repeat the prescription.

Abnormal Service Will Be Resumed...

Something abnormal, earlier today.

I must apologise to my reader, Mr. Torquil Pissflaps of 'Dunthinkin', Thabo Mbeki Crescent, Staines. My absence is due to an acute attack of blogstipation coupled with an almost surreal feeling of despair at the antics of the Whores of Westminster and their assorted battery of stinking parasites.

However, my spleen is recharged and overdue for a thorough venting. Watch this space...

Friday, October 03, 2008

South of the Border...

Yeah. Right.

For those of you wondering why our immigration and border controls are such an unmitigated fucking shambles, you could do a lot worse than go here.

Make sure you have a stiff drink/medication and/or a nice place to have a lie down however.

Monday, September 22, 2008

Drang nach ASH!

A symbol of defiance, earlier today.

Just found this bunch of heroes. All you Tabtroopers get over there to listen to the Kraftwerk style vibe.

Got to love those crazy Deutschlanders, nicht wahr?

Saturday, September 20, 2008

Explication on tap...

Some dialectical refinement may be needed.

The estimable Holbers evinces surprise that a stupid bastard is being stupid.

Holbers wonders why socialists believe that the answer to socialist failure is more and harder socialism.

I heard a lot of this toss from my socialist pals and drinking buddies in the eighties. 'We failed because we weren't socialist enough' was the constant cry, and the vehemence with which this was propounded grew in proportion with the boneheaded lunacy issuing from Foot and other loonies passim.

Well, basically applied socialism works like this:

A man, driving along a road decides that it would be an interesting experiment to plough his car into a brick wall. It's a new, untested concept and so he does this at twenty-five miles per hour.

Net result: The wall is fucked, and the car is off the road for two weeks.

Most people would decide at this point that the experiment was finished. The result was an inoperable car, two weeks on public transport, increased insurance premiums and a buggered wall.

Conclusion: Driving into walls in your car is counter-productive.

However, if we apply the socialist mindset, our hypothetical driver will view the wreckage and loss, and wonder to himself:

"Perhaps that didn't produce a useful outcome because I wasn't going fast enough"

Therefore, the experiment gets repeated, but at forty miles per hour.

Net result: The wall is fucked and the car is a write-off.

Again, anyone rational would lower the boom on this one. Fucked wall, indefinate time on public transport whilst our hero raises the bread for another car and insurance premiums up the wazooly.

Ah, but socialism is a brilliantly successful notion! Onwards and upwards!

If that approach failed, perhaps he was driving into the wall at the wrong angle!

Thus he hits the wall again, at sixty miles per hour, but at an angle of sixty-five degrees.

Net result: Fucked wall, car written off and two months in traction.

And so it will go on. If it's not a problem with speed and angle, it must be the type of wall. If he drove into a drystone, or one made of London stock brick it will produce The Beneficial Outcome he craves. If that fails, it's the type of car or the underpants he's wearing or some other fucking thing.

It can't ever be the simple fact that driving into a wall in a car is a fucking stupid thing to do.

Oh well. You can lead a socialist to water, but they'll never have the common sense to drown themselves. Such is life.

Hang on.

I got that wrong. Bear with me, be patient and read the analogy again, but this time for 'car' read 'someone else's car', and for 'wall' read 'someone else's wall'. This is known as Toynbeeism.

There. That sums it up quite well.

Friday, September 12, 2008

Times flies when you're having fun...

Au voleurs! Dégage les chiens!

All together now!

Happy birthday to you,
Happy birthday to you,
Happy birthday thieving bastard incompetent EU fucks,
Happy birthday to you!

Yes, for the fourteenth year running, the Court of Auditors have refused to sign off on the EU's accounts.

Christ on a bike! Why is this allowed to slide? Year on year on year on bloody year! I was thirty-five the last time these cesspool bottom feeders got a clean bill of fiscal health.

Possibly the fact that the only place I could find any reference to this tragi-comic state of affairs was here may have something to do with it. The MSM are curiously silent.

Plus à change.

Here's a little reminder of where some of your hard-earned dosh finds it's way to...

HT The Last Ditch.

Monday, September 08, 2008

I have met my Nemesis!

Me and my Nemesis earlier today.

At last! I knew my unique style would eventually attract the most ruthless of left-wing intellects to do battle, and I am not disappointed. In response to my use of this image from my last post:

Mac the Knife's tab consultant earlier today.

The magisterial Dirty European Socialist has weighed in with this:

Hi I think smoking makes her look uglier. Why does that make her look sexier? I don't see it myself. Do you fantasise about lighting fire to women!
Is that some fake macho claim that you light fire to women when having sex with them? Rubbish. You are a mad man You want to kill this women.
If she was naked she would be sexier.

The man is a national treasure I tell you! An absolute must read. Go! Go and read now! Every minute you delay is a minute of your life wasted!

Simply staggering...

Doesn't she look well on it? Smoke tabs, you know they make you sooo hot.

Courtesy of Alex Massie, more egregious toss.

"Question 12: Do you believe that more should be done by the Government to reduce exposure to secondhand smoke within private dwellings or in vehicles used primarily for private purposes? If so, what do you think could be done?"

I wonder what response they'll get. Let me think. Hmmmmm....

I know! Clamp down! Clamp down now! It's got to be done for the chiiiiiiiilllllldreeeenn!©

Right. Just for the avoidance of doubt, pass what laws you fucking like. The day you lying, filthy authoritarian fucks start paying my mortgage, you can start making suggestions as to what I do in my own home, likewise my car (in which, as it happens, I don't smoke).

Until then, go and fuck yourselves up the socket. No dice.

HT Mr. Eugenides.

And there's more...

Schnell Sarkozy! More barbed wire! Macht los!

The stupendous and essential Christopher Booker had this to say...

To address our looming energy crisis with the urgency it calls for, we would not only have to ignore the fantasies of Mr Hansen and the green lobby, but also directly confront our government in Brussels, which stands in the way of almost every measure we need to take. In this sense, in terms of what it will cost us, energy looks to become the defining issue of our EU membership

I sincerely hope so. Finally an issue that may deliver sufficient public impact to haul the whole rotten edifice that is the EU out from under it's rock* and into the public domain.

The looming energy crisis may throw the unconscionable stupidity/cupidity/insanity of this monstrous crypto-empire into sufficiently sharp relief to render even the BBC and MSM powerless to spin it into obscurity.

It'll have to be during the hours of daylight however, as otherwise there may not be sufficient light to see it.

*Hopelessly mixed metaphor. So sue me.

HT EU Referendum.

Wednesday, September 03, 2008

And now, the news in brief...

Continued innovation, earlier today.

Over at Nation of Shopkeepers an excellant summary on the State of Play.

Your body will belong to the state, perhaps even in death. The state will use huge resources and violence to ensure that you comply with this dictat. Your thoughts and speech will be policed, and you may well be screened for crimes they think you may commit in future ~ perhaps ones you have not even thought of yet. Don’t worry, they only have your best interests at heart.

Sharp and concise. I thoroughly recommend it.

Sometimes words simply fail me...

The sort of stupid trivia that distracts the MOD from it's higher priorities.

I read here that the MOD, hereafter known as the Ministry Of Dickholding is engaging with PETA to get rid of the traditional bearskins worn by Regiments of HM Foot Guards.


Peta is proposing a new shape is adopted and has approached designers including Vivienne Westwood, Stella McCartney and Marc Bouwer

Super darling, absolutely fabulous!

Robbie LeBlanc, Peta's director for Europe said: "We can still have very regal looking guards who look fantastic.

"We felt doing this kind of thing was a way of keeping with the times and keeping that iconic status.

Did you sweetie? I'm sure they'll look scrumptious, simply to die for!

Where do I start? Oh yes. Look Robbie love, bearskins aren't a fashion statement, they're an integral part of Guards tradition. The bearskin dates back to Waterloo, when the 1st. Regiment of Foot Guards repulsed Bonaparte's Old Guard. They adopted the bearskin then, believing they had defeated the Grenadiers of the Old Guard, when in fact they had beaten off and routed the Chasseurs of the Guard.

Things like that matter in the British Army. They matter a lot, that's why their colours have all those funny foreign sounding names embroidered on them.

Some funny, foreign sounding embroidered names, earlier today.

It's called tradition and it's part of the glue that holds these formations together. Yes, they fight primarily for their mates, but they also go those terrible, grinding, sometimes fatal extra miles because their Regimental tradition informs their every waking hour. It's one of the reasons why they stand ready to die if needs be, for all of us. Yes, even you Robbie, you nauseating, self-regarding shallow wankshaft.

So just fuck off back to whichever wine bar you crawled out of and tell Vivienne Westwood, Stella McCartney and Marc Bouwer that this commission won't require their services. The only commission that carries any weight in the BA is the one bestowed by HM via RMAS.

As for the MOD, I realise that I'm very outdated not having set foot through the gates of Sandhurst since 1975, but I seem to recall that it's supposed to have more practical concerns. Silly little things I know, like procuring proper kit that works.

You know the sort of thing, application specific vehicles, body armour, ammunition that fires; that sort of tedious, unglamorous bollocks.

Instead, what are they doing? Entertaining misanthropic bungholes like Robbie LeBlanc, to dismantle yet another fundamental of our premier regiments, and replace it with 'a new shape'.

To paraphrase Al Pacino in 'Scent of a Woman',

If I were twenty years younger, I'd take a FLAMETHROWER to this fucking place!

Might I suggest that if your highest priority, when our armed forces are committed in two theatres of combat, is saving the ickle pwitty animules, that you are in the wrong fucking job.

Get out, go home, fuck off, join Greenpeace, just do something else. Go where your pathetic NuLabour drivelling will meet with a sympathetic hearing. Do what ever your fucking pathetic, threadbare excuse for a conscience tells you to do, but leave our armed forces alone, and make way for people who care about them and their families. Perhaps even people who care about the defence of the Realm. This is no time for stupid mewling emotional inadequates to hold sway over anything this important.

Just to recap:


...needs this.

Monday, September 01, 2008

I keep doing these bloody things...

62% Geek

Created by OnePlusYou - Online Dating Site


HT Counting Cats, Obnoxio, and all the rest of you with too much time on your fucking hands. *sighs*

Friday, August 29, 2008

Acronym masterclass...

A shite logo, earlier today.

Courtesy of one of my must-reads, The Daily Mash.

A suggestion of irresistible merit...

Roy Hobbs, a recently blind person, said: "In my experience NICE aren't really very nice at all.

"They should change their name to the Clinical Unit for Not Treating the Sick."

What more could one possibly add?

Wednesday, August 27, 2008

Symbolism on the doorstep...

A culprit, earlier today. NB 'H' is played by a stuntcat.

Little H is one of my cats. For various reasons, she has an interesting habit of gorging, and then throwing up. Copiously. She doesn't do it too often fortunately, and over the last ten years has gradually yielded to my cajolings to take her activities outside.

So it was that on Monday night, she popped outside and everted herself mightily over the patio.

A few hours later, I nipped out to check the lamps in the garden. It was raining and that brought out lots of these things...

An alfresco diner, earlier today.

They'd located H's little delivery, and were indulging themselves accordingly. Quite, quite repellent.

Slugs, gorging on vomit. Slugs, gorging on vomit. Where else does that happen?

Oh yes. I remember.

Proudly serving the slug community since the 12th Century.

And is there honey still for tea?

The 'extended police family' earlier today.

For those of us who thought PCSO's weren't the greatest idea ever.

I found this crap in The Telegraph this morning, and the redoubtable Longrider wasn't slow to pick up on it. He has pinpointed the essential bits with his customary concision, including the creepy parallel with the French revolutionary Committee of Public Safety; reknowned forever for delivering anything but.

Personally I see a closer resemblance between this repulsive, shambolic idea and the Blockleiteren.

What I find particularly loathsome about all this, is Labour's need to dress up their filthy, secretive oppressions in the wholesome language of hearth and home, to wit:

Accredited Persons* have a key role to play in the delivery of Neighbourhood Policing and are an important part of the extended police family.

"the extended police family". I love that. I really love that. Does that mean there's a Daddy Policeman, a Mummy Policeman, an apple-cheeked Grandad and Granny Policeman and hordes of little laughing Baby Policemen?

No. It fucking doesn't. It means hordes of jumped-up, little cockslots rampaging around with powers they're neither trained nor equipped (mentally or psychologically) to use, arse-reaming us for the benefit of shit-shyster backstreet businesses and local councils.

This one is really going to end in tears.

Baby Policeman tried the big nasty robber, but that was much too dangerous, so Baby Policeman tried the gang of teenagers, but they just told Baby Policeman to go and fuck himself up the socket; then Baby policeman tried a little old lady whose Westie had dumped on the pavement, and she was just right.

*akkreditiertensleute anybody? Shit.

A Song for Europe...

A popular crooner, earlier today.

The chorus popped into my head unbidden last night, and the rest just followed. I may tinker around with it over the coming days, as I want it to be just right for notre cher colleagues...

Once there was a country,
Where freedom was The Word,
It wound up yoked to Brussels,
And then the lines were blurred,
It’s liberty was stolen,
It’s culture watered down,
It’s nationhood was bartered,
By a traitor they called Brown.

Get yourselves a backbone,
We can stand alone,
We don’t need their bloody union,
We’ve got one of our own!
Got one of our own!

At Nice as well as Maastricht,
They forged their filthy chains,
They set them round our nation,
Looking only to their gains,
The people never noticed,
For no one told them true,
The dirty lie of Lisbon,
Though their so-called leaders knew.

Get yourselves a backbone,
We can stand alone,
We don’t need their bloody union,
We’ve got one of our own!
Got one of our own!

The Irish showed their mettle,
Telling Brussels where to go,
The Czechs they saw the truth of it,
And struck another blow,
Both nations know the frailty,
Of freedom left to wane,
And wouldn’t let their liberty,
Pour away down history’s drain.

Get yourselves a backbone,
We can stand alone,
We don’t need their bloody union,
We’ve got one of our own!
Got one of our own!

They promised referendum,
They promised us a choice,
They gave no referendum,
They will not hear Our Voice,
Listen well you bloody liars,
You filthy traitors all,
Better listen to the British,
Or we will cause your fall.

Get yourselves a backbone,
We can stand alone,
We don’t need their bloody union,
We’ve got one of our own!
Got one of our own!

© Copyright Resistance is Useless! 2008 All rights reserved.

Any LPUK or Witanagemot Club member who finds this useful can help themselves.

Now I need a tune. Not some folky, tankard on the belt beardy bollocks, but something that hammers like a diesel engine. Something that stirs the blood and sparks some righteous anger. Something along the lines of 'We will rock you' but with a bit more melody. All contributions welcome.

Sunday, August 24, 2008

Where were the other two then?

Words fail me, earlier today.

What about the all-too-British over-enthusiastic amateurism as embodied by the Legz Akimbo-esque dance troop? It’s the quality we thought so charming when a gambolling New Labour introduced it in 1997. That was before they raised it to the terrible, twisted artform that left us neck-deep in the shit we find ourselves in today

And my favourite quote...

(Boris Johnson unable to control the flag while looking like he’d slept in his clothes was just the peanut in the poo.)

There's more of the same over at Chicken Yoghurt, the discerning misanthrope's ideal Sunday evening snack.

Saturday, August 23, 2008

I have seen the future! And it sucks...

Look what we have waiting for you

Hard on the heels of N-Power's outrageous co-opting of children to the greeny 'crusade', the outstanding Spiked! presents us with something even more egregious.

‘Imagine if every child in the country channelled their Pester Power in service of the Glorious Green Future.’

Yes, you read that correctly...

This is no idle dream. Greens seem determined to convert the nation’s children into environmentalist versions of Mao’s Red Guards, the blindly-revolutionary youths who spearheaded China’s disastrous Cultural Revolution.

It may sound like hyperbole, but it isn't. Some morally impoverished sack of shit by the name of James Russell has excreted something masquerading as a book, under the title How to Turn Your Parents Green. Well, it didn't work quite so well on me, as it only succeeded in turning me several shades of puce.

It seems that having failed spectacularly to pull the wool over the eyes of most sensible adults, the eco-comrades have legitimised targetting children for their filthy brainwashing techniques.

Lee Jones, the author of this excellant if enraging article, makes the predictable connection with Orwell's Spies but here the reference lacks the tinge of cliche and is grimly apt.

Kids should patrol for ‘poisons’, demand they be replaced with eco-friendly products, monitor the depths of baths and put time limits on showers; they should start ‘griping for organic carrots’ and clothing, insisting on walking instead of taking the car, ensuring taps aren’t running and toilets aren’t flushed (‘if it’s yellow, let it mellow…’). The list goes on, and an escalating system of fines is to be collected weekly from ‘transgressors’ of the children’s Glorious Green Charter.

Where to next I wonder? Incorrect thought? Incorrect philosophy? Reading material? Viewing habits? Oh yes, this sounds like the foundation of a happy home and a society comfortable with itself. Can't wait.

There is something simultaneously foul yet almost pathetically hilarious about these people. A brainless catastrophic misanthropy yoked to a mind that plainly functions, but in some warped parallel reality.

What to do with creatures like this? Individuals who want our children re-modelled along these lines...

James Russel's favourite masturbation fantasy perhaps?

...or this?

...or even this?

...I'm leaning towards force-pumping their rectums full of boiling concrete before flaying their hides and recycling them to make bog-roll for leper colonies.

They're eschewing half-measures. So should we.


Thursday, August 21, 2008

And now over to...

Warning! Fucked License-Fee Payers Ahead!

Grams: BBC Evening News theme

Poorly Connected BBC Frontman:

Good evening, now to Well Connected Suit, live in Beijing. Hello, Well Connected Suit...

On live feed from Beijing, with exotic backdrop of night sky, venues etc. etc.

Well Connected Suit:

Good evening, you shitty peasant...

Poorly Connected BBC Frontman:

Can you tell us how well Team BBC has done in the freestyle expenses events today?

Well Connected Suit:

Abso-fucking-lutely awesome! We have been hoovering it up
around the clock...

Poorly Connected BBC Frontman:

Sounds tremendous Well Connected Suit!

Well Connected Suit:

You don't know the half of it my son. I've got money literally,
literally, falling out of my arsehole! Holiday of a fucking

Poorly Connected BBC Frontman:

Any words for the viewing public at home?

Well Connected Suit:

Fuck the lot of you! Ah-hah-hah-hah-hah-hah-hah-hah-hah-hah-

Grams: "We're in the money"

The BBC. They can do this because of the unique way in which they're funded.

Wednesday, August 20, 2008

For the avoidance of doubt...

Your result for The Perception Personality Image Test...

HBDS - The Commander

Humanity, Background, Detail, and Shape

You perceive the world with particular attention to humanity. You focus on the hidden treasures of life (the background) and how that is affected by the details of life. You are also particularly drawn towards the shapes around you. Because of the value you place on humanity, you tend to seek out other people and get energized by being around others. You like to ponder ideas and imagine the many possibilities of your life without worrying about the details or specifics. You are highly focused on specific goals or tasks and find meaning in life by pursuing those goals. You prefer a structured environment within which to live and you like things to be predictable.

The Perception Personality Types:


Take The Perception Personality Image Test at HelloQuizzy

My tanks to your lawn...

Monday, August 18, 2008

Oh, well that's OK then...

A Greater Manchester licensee has barred his local MP from drinking in his pub for voting for the smoking ban.

Stupid, bigoted NuLabour bastard earlier today.

Robinson's tenant Roger Hantulik has put up posters warning Labour MP David Heyes he is not welcome at the Prince of Orange in Ashton-under-Lyne.

"He took away my choice to have smokers in my pub, so I have taken away his choice to drink here," said Hantulik.

"Trade has halved here since the ban. The average age of our customers is 40 years old and up and they were good drinkers and good smokers. Now they have gone. They sit at home drinking cheap crates of beer from the supermarkets and smoking.

"The pub is dying and I am not sure how long I can hold on here."

Hantulik has been in the trade for 20 years and at the Prince of Orange for seven years.

But MP Heyes did not seem overly bothered claiming he had not been in the pub for about eight years.

"I think the majority of people object to smoky pubs. I would vote for a smoking ban again if I had to."

"I think the majority of people object to smoky pubs"

No, you silly disconnected cunt. The problem lies in the fact that you don't think at all.

Check out the widget to the right of this post. 2000+ pubs to the wall since this fucking ridiculous, illiberal farrago of a law was enacted.

But they're only small businesses aren't they? Who gives a fuck about them, eh?

He's on a roll...

An orange, earlier today.

The Nameless One rides again!

Anthony Burgess was by turns brilliant, prescient and a prize cunt. Some things however, he nailed to perfection. To wit...

But think - the State is only an instrument. Everything depends on who has control of that instrument, which can so easily be transformed into a weapon. It's unwise to assume, even with our heightened wariness of tyranny, a continuation of a tradition of liberalism.

Which is all I have to say to all these stupid, stupid unthinking fuckslots who parrot the line 'If you've nothing to hide, you've nothing to fear'.


Sunday, August 17, 2008

Is it? Or isn't it?

Yes, it's about him again.

I've mentioned the modern miracle that is Dirty European Socialist before, and I suspect I will do again.

The Nameless One weighs in, as this guy really is irresistible. When The Witanagemot Club blog awards announced the category 'Shouldn't be allowed to own a computer, let alone have a blog', my fingers assumed a life of their own as they danced across the keyboard, for credit where credit's due.

DES combines a writing style which suggests he wears a welding mask and types with a mallet in each hand, with thought processes implying a forced lobotomy at the hands of a drunken chimp armed with a lump-hammer, and yet, and yet...

You see, The Nameless One asked the key question; the one that sometimes crosses my mind where DES's concerned...

sometimes I think he is just a fuck ignorant dick. Other times I believe he must be a spoof - a piece of political performance art that is deliberately trying to be as outrageous and mindlessly cliched as possible

...and the reason he posed the question was this masterpiece of political insight...

The tories will not win. The evil slave trading tories must never win another election,. It is obviius to even the biggest fool, Thta if the tories win they will back slavery and kill all balcks

If it's the former, then he needs to be pickled in formaldehyde and studied. If the latter, he must be given a prime-time slot on BBC1 as he's clearly a comic genius of the first water.

In any event Comrades, the clarion call has been issued and none can shirk their duty. To the barricades! The balcks must be saved, even if it cost us our lisve!

Bordering on the truly magnificent...

Stuff like The X-Factor makes me want to either:

a) Retch
b) Die
c) Prise my own kneecaps off with a screwdriver

However, alerted by the (endless) trailers I tuned in last night, breaking the habit of a lifetime, to see if they told true.

They did. Self-delusion on an epic scale. I give you Ant & Seb.

Culture Corner...

The incomprehensible, earlier today.

Mr. E has something to say about being involuntarily immured in the Edinburgh festival.

Not if my dream of two clowns on unicycles playing table tennis with your severed nuts ever comes to fruition it won't be, you braying shagsack, so fuck off.

Do go and enjoy the whole thing.

Friday, August 15, 2008

Hang on a mo...

God, earlier today.

I tend to avoid CiF on the well-worn principle that there's only so much one man can stand. I avoid Julie Burchill for exactly the same reason, as with the exception of Polly Toynbee, she is the towering monument to how high a vapid know-nothing berk can rise in the MSM.

This however, I couldn't resist.

I believe, literally, in the God of the Old Testament, whom I understand as the Lord of the Jews and the Protestants. I'm a Christian Zionist, as well as a Christian feminist and a Christian socialist.

Now, I'm an atheist, and have been since before my balls dropped, but even I know that JC is conspicuously absent from the Old Testament. He pitched up for Bible II, in which his life is chronicled. That's where the christian bit comes in Julie. Get it? Christ? Christian?

If I remember correctly, the book of Isaiah actually injuncts people to 'consider not upon things past', and to 'behold, I am doing a new thing', which could be interpreted as meaning that the old instruction book goeth even unto The Bin.

But it's all a bit complicated for you isn't it Julie. You deeply stupid, fabulously, supernaturally ignorant anus.

HT Flying Rodent

Thursday, August 14, 2008

Bordering on lyrical...

A ludicrously nostalgic take, earlier today.

Ambush Predator has something to say about yet another egregious failure on the part of the Boys in Blue. As an organisation, the police must, must, must pull it's head out of it's collective arsehole.

It contains this analogy, which is about as neat, concise and apposite as you're likely to find anywhere.

But perhaps Mr Lawson now knows a little of how the general public feels when the guard dog they’ve kept, fed, trained and cleared up after all their lives (to the tune of hundreds of thousands of pounds of tax) turns on them instead of the burglar.

I definately couldn't have put it better myself.

The principle of policing by consent is now seriously under threat, and unless the link between the police and the law-abiding community is reforged as a matter of urgency it will collapse.

When that day comes, not all the body armour, tasers and glocks in the world will put humpty back together again.

Saturday, August 09, 2008

My gag-reflex is in overdrive...

Proud symbol of a dissident running from the secret police, earlier today

Wolfers nails it in spades...

'. . . and now dozens of small children, all dressed in scarlet, dance about in a representation of the blood escaping the anus of the Emperor Minge after a particularly bad attack of piles in the 8th Century. . .'


Too good to miss...

Alfred the Great, revolving at 3000 rpm earlier today.

The Anglo-Saxon Code

No crown but ours shall govern here,
No strangers rule with gold or fear,
No plow but ours may slough the loam,
No prow but ours slash the spume,
No hand but ours may bind our kin,
No gods but ours proclaim a sin,
No law but ours may stay a blow,
No hand but ours may draw a bow,
No men but ours may hunt the land,
No sons but ours bear sword in hand,
No word but ours shall we trust,
No flags be flown except of us,
No land but ours do we demand,
No more than what we have farmed,
No strangers slaving on our soil,
No man unpaid or forced to toil,
No heroes praised but ours alone,
No other kin but our blood and bone,
No strangers to tell us who we are,
No obedience to any foreign laws.

HT The Lone Voice.

Friday, August 08, 2008

Good evening, and welcome to Plugorama...

A plug, earlier today.

Two additions to the roll. The first, which I stumbled across by accident is Counting Cats in Zanzibar, an anglo-chainrattler with a nice line in Libertarian concision. Well worth a read.

The second, courtesy of DK is Obnoxio the Clown, lovely bloke, and from his photo he's approved by the British Dental Association too.

Sunday, August 03, 2008

He's a Little Yellow Something Alright...

A little yellow idol, earlier today.

This, I had to share:

There’s a one-eyed yellow Scotsman of a dour and sullen hue
There’s a stench of pious bullshit all around
There’s a broken-hearted woman dreams of socialism true
And the yellow Scot forever lets her down

He was known as Red McBroon, and he made the Party swoon
Though his cowardice had long begun to smell
But for all he was a wanker he was feted by the bankers
And Polly Toynbee smiled on him as well

Posted chez Mr. E by the remarkable Nick Drew.

I commend this gem of modern English literature in the highest possible terms. Please read the whole thing.

Thursday, July 31, 2008

A part of me died tonight...

Trixy has named her secret love.

I leave you with my special correspondent:

HT The Hellenic Horrorspotter.

Sunday, July 27, 2008

Compare and contrast...

L/Cpl Kenneth Rowe RAVC

Lance Corporal Kenneth Rowe, 24, who was shot dead by Taliban insurgents on Thursday, had been due to leave front-line duties the day before, but had persuaded his superiors to let him stay because he was worried about the lack of cover.

Michael Martin, 'Speaker' of the Whorehouse of Commons

...It shows just how Michael Martin has enriched himself and his family at our expense. In many ways the Speaker symbolises all that is wrong with our parliamentarians, the arrogant sense of self entitlement, the dodgy payments to family and friends, the desperate desire to keep it all in the shadows and out of sight of the voters.

I have nothing to add.

H/T Guido, DK.