Tuesday, 12 May 2015

Will you be back?


In case you were wondering, my Labour-supporting countrymen and women, why Friday proved to be so disappointing and why you spent the weekend in unexpected outrage, I have some suggestions.

For five years you promised to plunder England and the English once again; and enough of you made plain from the former Coalition’s beginnings that your regard the cross of St. George as just another signpost to a no-limits ATM: ‘Insert progressive slogan here for cash. No need to check your balance. You will not be charged for this transaction.’ Your parties’ plan was, (and your intentions were always made as plain as plain can be) that you would go to the sources of our four nations’ wealth and take whatever you wanted to spend as you chose without a word of gratitude for what you had already taken or of appreciation for what you were presently spending and without expressing the slightest regret about what you would take away from people in future. And when you didn’t win power outright last time you were none too critical (if at all) of those who rioted and looted for what you call justice but that doesn’t resemble justice at all in the ashen morning as the fire engines finally pull away from the ruins of a lifetime’s work.

And you insulted our faculty of memory. You insulted our intelligence when you assumed we’d forget just who plunged the country into generations-long debt and just who sold British bullion off cheaply at prices you depressed by giving advance notice. That metal was paid for by taxes; taken from the profits and wages of folk who had risen early to work long and hard hours for years to come home tired and a little preoccupied when their children wanted to play and you spent your thirteen years in office and the past five years in opposition defaming businessmen (all but your privileged pets) who every make wage packets for the millions in our countries who actually work – you defamed them as parasites, as thieves and oppressors. You, my compassionate Labour friends, raised the husbandless mothers of fatherless children above the wives and the widows and the regretfully divorced and you crowned them with crowns of innocence and absolved them of all responsibility for their plight from their first teenage pregnancy to serial motherhood through lifelong lack of work or a token few hours as they lived lives of security, ease and luxury unavailable to the Pharaohs in their glory.

You taught our children - if you taught them at all - about a nation’s history that was all warts and no face; about an economic system that was all gaps and faults as though we don’t in share live  four countries where numerous jobless and unmarried mothers can speak across continents at the cost of a few coppers and who can carry the equivalent of an orchestra and a cinema and a university library in her pocket but woe betide the English (or anyone else) if they complain she ought to manage to feed her children a little fruit and some vegetables from the income the hated private sectors’ taxes send to her bank account week after week without fail. And their brief, absent, useless former menfolk are praised as your potential heroes of potential labour which some of them might do if some of our permanent houseguests weren’t in the queue ahead of them.

You insulted our memory when you hoped we’d forget just who it was who most welcomed, who most eagerly accepted, who scoured the world for unfriendly strangers whose worst won’t live within our laws or keep the peace if doing otherwise suits them. You insulted and defamed those who noticed and who remembered exactly who it was who painted London’s streets and Underground with innocent blood and your officials and police have spent a decade and a half slandering, shouting down and imprisoning those who notice and who complain and who remember just whose blade it was that hacked through our soldier’s neck.
You’re still defaming and unleashing your street gangs and bureaucrats on anyone who mentions and who wants to investigate and punish, my Labour friends and neighbours, the authorities who presided over industrial-scale working class child sex slavery across the backbone of England for decades and who remember just whose foul bodies penetrated the innocent in body and soul until you looked away for years while you proclaimed your spotless compassion to the world.
But our memories aren’t so poor that every one of us can forget such things.

You continue to insult our entire race and you hold our civilization as the worst of tyrannies and its founders the greediest of parasites and you’re still doing it today with all your potential lessons unlearned.
And you do it through machines and across networks and in homes and streets and workplaces and schools built and heated and lighted by powers and forces that are measured by the names of the pioneering and most despicable dead white males (and one famous female) who built your luxury to complain across the entire globe.

You enthroned the IRA and their mirror-image loyalist terrorists as the rulers of our only province and you have dominated Wales and most of its officers for decades and still manage to blame all its failings on the distant, donor English and you have (by accident or design) arranged the rise of a potentially hostile foreign country on England’s border for the first time in three centuries and do you still enjoy, I wonder, the short-term gains your politicians achieved in elevating those smaller nationalisms while utterly suppressing our own? Yet still we pay the price of union, more (or less) cheerfully.

Worst of all, you and your priests and choirs and pet clowns have proclaimed and continue to proclaim your decency and moral purity while all the time denying the simple humanity of disagreeing – we are evil and all our works and all our thoughts are baleful and unworthy of the slightest respect or modicum of sympathy.

So what have you become, my Labour-supporting countrymen? You aren't good listeners and it’s doubtful that the few of you who might see this have read this far. You were so surprised on Friday because you have walled yourselves away from all disagreement and contrary evidence, you have banished all dissent and even the possibility of dissent from your imagination and you have lost what your movement once upheld: sympathy and understanding for others who are not exactly like you. You have presided over the colonization of our lands and corrupted our children with the belief that only you and a handful of allies are in any way worthy of what is good and valuable. Especially democracy: so much so that your mouthpieces rarely (if ever) comment upon a political culture that can raise Labour and Green and (most) nationalist posters pretty much everywhere in safety and peace, but where posting blue or purple banners more or less guarantees a phone call to the glaziers. No wonder you were surprised on Friday.

Only today are you demanding that the electoral system that gave you a decade of unchecked power must now be changed because you lost.

I doubt the Conservatives will cure these problems. But what have you become, Labour supporter, that you didn't notice and you still don’t care that you pissed on England and yet are surprised that much England doesn't love you any more? And you’re still not listening. None of the above moves you to change in any way, does it?



You’re out there. Can you be bargained with? Can you be reasoned with? Can you feel pity, or remorse, or fear? And will you absolutely not stop, ever, until you or England is dead?  

Saturday, 9 May 2015

Amazing video: Cameron wins General Election


…and you won’t believe what happens next.


But seriously folks, it’s as though your house was ablaze (it’s an open secret it was arson and the arsonists are still around the neighbourhood, smirking and looking meaningfully at your children) and you called for help hoping someone will phone the fire brigade but you feared a man with a bucket of petrol would arrive instead, but then a man with a bucket of water arrived.

On the brighter side, if in five years and the other half of sub-Saharan Africa
arrives in Britain to vibrate our communities even better and we’re still powering Britain with windmills, at least those windmills won’t be lesbians.

All kudos to the Rotherham Labour Party, though. Its old-style pro-working-class slogan “Vote Labour and if Muslim rape gangs prostitute your daughter the length and breadth of the Pennines we’re here for you” has come up roses again.

I suppose they ate caviare in Downing Street last night – that being the best thing about sturgeons.

Hmm. Anyone want to buy a gross of “Power to the Purple” T-shirts?


Still. Russell Brand, eh?


Russell Brand.

Russell bloody Brand





Picture from here.

Thursday, 7 May 2015

If not us, who? If not now, when?


I nearly did it. This morning, despite all my jabber over the last five years and more, I nearly decided to wuss out.

But then I had to go and read this, and then someone relocated my spine using the only technique guaranteed to work with the male of the species: flattery. 
Darn.

Also crochet.
And that thing with cardboard rings to make bobbles for woolly hats.

And if the Scottish commies and their ‘English’ glove puppets break out the tumbrels to knit by over the next five years, then so be it.


And now for some poetry in the only language that has ever been spoken on the Moon, for some reason or other.


Then out spake brave Horatius,
The Captain of the gate:
“To every man upon this earth
Death cometh soon or late.
And how can man die better
Than facing fearful odds
For the ashes of his fathers
And the temples of his gods,

*

If you can keep your head when all about you  
    Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,  
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
    But make allowance for their doubting too;  
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
    Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
    And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;  
    If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;  
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
    And treat those two impostors just the same;  
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
    Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
    And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
    And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
    And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
    To serve your turn long after they are gone,  
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
    Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,  
    Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
    If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
    With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,  
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,  
    And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!


Because maybe, just maybe, attending to the above might be better for everyone concerned than this:

*

It was not part of their blood,
It came to them very late
With long arrears to make good,
 When the English began to hate.

They were not easily moved,
They were icy-willing to wait
Till every count should be proved,
Ere the English began to hate.

Their voices were even and low,
Their eyes were level and straight.
There was neither sign nor show,
When the English began to hate.

It was not preached to the crowd,
It was not taught by the State.
No man spoke it aloud,
When the English began to hate.

It was not suddenly bred,
 It will not swiftly abate,
Through the chill years ahead,
When Time shall count from the date
That the English began to hate.


Monday, 2 March 2015

Why conservatism won’t work any more



You, your family and all your closest friends along with all your most valuable possessions are stuck aboard a bus that’s teetering on the edge of a cliff that’s crumbling underneath you as in The Italian Job.

Gravity still works because gravity’s real because science, see? and if the bus falls you will all fall with it to possible death or certainly injury and the risk of drowning or hypothermia if, for example, the cliff overlooks a lake or the sea.

It gets worse.
Your family is divided and not really helping with either a solution or an escape plan. Your children follow various cults that preach the virtues of falling off cliffs on the one hand and the impossibility of falling off the cliff on the other so they aren't about to move to the back of the bus to rebalance it so the back wheels might just gain a bit more traction. They don’t believe in back wheels or care about traction anyway, because Tinkerbell. They watch a lot of Disney.

It couldn't get worse.
At the back bus are noisy passengers who don’t care whether the bus moves at all because they’re happy skinning up and flirting and passing a bottle vodka round. Some of them are unpacking fireworks which are pretty and don’t you believe in a little harmless fun, Dad? The people on the back seats won’t sit still let alone let you into the back to rebalance the bus or help you open the emergency door because they’re having fun telling their friends about their day. #OMG. #I can’t even. Because your wife insisted on buying new loft insulation, a barbecue and a new shower curtain recently and has demanded two foreign holidays per year for the past twenty years you jacked in your karate lesson and the gym subscription so you don’t fancy your chances trying to force the party animals to help or simply get out of the way. And there are a lot of them and anyway your wife and kids think they’re just having a bit of fun; so no harm done.

It gets worse.
Some other passengers are starting to move forward, unbalancing the bus even worse and threatening those still seated; shaking them down for valuables and copping a feel of the girls and maybe roughing up anyone who objects – and you family shouts the objectors down (including you) as killjoys or snobs.

We’re going to need a better word for worse.
There’s a mob of strangers outside rocking the bus trying to get in and they’re not only going to add weight and tip it over the edge if they do get in but if you believe what they say (and you’re the only person on the bus who believes them except some pasty-faced old chap cowering near the back) they’re going to take your seat and steal your possessions on the way down and they have plans for your wife and children that don’t involve asking your opinion.

It’s worst.
The driver and conductor of the bus (it’s a very old-fashioned kind of bus so it still has a conductor who doesn't do his job. But anyway)... Oh, right. The driver and the conductor believe that it’s not really such a high cliff and anyway it has a nicer view than the one from the nasty old road they just steered you off onto the harmless cliff. They announce with polite apologies that there’s been a little problem (which they call “an issue” because calling things problems can upset nervous people and nervous people do things that feel unacceptable to bus drivers and all their friends) and that if all the passengers will just hang on and be patient they’ll have the journey going nicely again… if certain passengers will just stop complaining (and especially complaining about the other passengers who are on board like the rest of us whether they bought a ticket or not), and so stop complaining about the crew and the other passengers.


And your plan to survive and fix all this is to insist that the driver engages the hand brake?

  




Saturday, 10 January 2015

The Nancies of Nancy?



Hey. All of the French political parties except for the one led by most popular Presidential candidate are invited to a National Day of Unity to protest against the Islamic murders by Muslims in France.


Say, what kind of ‘Unity’ doesn’t invite people who oppose the cold-blooded murder of men, women, children, police officers, Jews, and the subjection and mutilation of girls and women anyway?





Picture from here.



Wednesday, 20 August 2014

Another really good reason to say f*ck

Dumb Jon notices the Tory Party bounding like a graceful gazelle from kamikaze attacks on the British nation to hara-kiri as it prepares to eat its own nostril contents on the World Wide Watch.

Can we perhaps step away from the cultural Marxism - ‘cultural Marzxism?’ - of the gay-marriage, Really Believe in Global Warming, Hug-a-Hoodie because the stocks are so uncool maaan Tory Party for a moment? You can’t laugh all day long because someone might notice and cancel your takeaway delivery order of twenty-six 14” thick crust pizzas with everything….

You’ve got to ask yourself just exactly what sort of political i.e. partisan, strategic, public relations reasoning goes on at the party’s highest levels behind this internet-age equivalent of undressing upstairs at night with the lights on and the curtains open.

In what way do the Powder Blues Who Lose imagine that every aspect (real, imagined, speculative, alternative reality and visionary) of this needless persecution will not somehow be plastered across the BBC, the Twitter sphere, the Guardian, the BBC web pages for UK (and for politics), Facebook, the BBC London pages, Channel Four and the BBC gardening and weather sites from now to Election Day?

There will likely be special flowcharts and commentary showing how both Sarah Palin and the IDF are helping the Toriez inflict their very own Night Of The Long Knives on the shrinking democratic UK Right’s equivalent of a gentle giant on his way home from the cigar store: all full of pizza and chocolate and light-heartedly bantering with a Klan cop and surrendering by light-heartedly running towards him in a friendly and non-threatening manner?

Someone might devise a specialist search engine: 
www.google.dividedtories.org.uk


But a party that conducts its business in secret and far, far away from its membership and the electors probably reasons that as MacMillan won’t even publish a hardback about l’Affaire Bow Group, who’ll ever know? 
 

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