Brexiteers don’t want you to learn this simple trick

A guest post from #lighterfluidsnowflake

My dear fellow Remaindered,

It’s been a week now.

Are you ready to talk yet?

When Stalin died, Russians wept in the streets for their loss.

The lynchpin of their security; the very cornerstone of their shared prosperity and comfort had been removed; their very world had been lost. Most simple folk brought up in the socialist paradise feared that they would no longer be able to find food now that the great man had gone. Throughout his long and productive life of service to others, Comrade Stalin had done much to promote ever-increasing annual bumper crops, to increase longevity and to raise the material standards of living and personal freedoms of his countrymen. His lesser helpers had supported his genius in more modest ways: first by denouncing, then shunning, next disemploying and finally resettling out East the doubters, saboteurs and reactionaries whose lies about the results, methods and even the very logic of Scientific Socialism itself had done so much to harm the People’s Cause. And where are they now, those know-nothing backsliders and revanchists? Who knows? Not leading a bright new future for Russia and the world, I know that for sure.

How much worse do we suffer, now that the Little Englanders claim that Britain must leave the European Union because of a simple conjuring trick of arithmetic?

We have lost our home, and no-one in history can ever imagine our pain: they can literally have no idea how hard this feels for us.

The plucky David (he’s in a story from a book called the Bible; Google it) of Remain with nothing more going for him than all the main political parties, the BBC, Sky and ITV; all of academia; the trades unions and the leadership and creative folk of the subsidized arts; the education system; the National Church and all the nonconformists, the most thoughtful and talented of celebrities, Britain’s tiny and beleaguered Muslim population, J.K. bloody Rowling ffs!, all EU funded institutions, EU politicians and officials of the Commission and Parliament, the President of the United States and philanthropist George Soros, along with that helpful taxpayer funded leaflet from the UK Executive (the so-called ‘UK Government’);  the Times, the Guardian, the Independent and the Mirror somehow managed to defeat the Goliath of Leave by the sheer persuasive force of love. And now Goliath: that giant pillar of the entrenched establishment with four national newspapers; the immensely rich and influential UKIP with its huge network of paid agents and saboteurs controlling every institution in the land and 17,410,742 racists is trying to steal our moral victory from us by the petty lawyer’s trick of treating a simple head count as in some way binding.

It’s easy to see how this has come about. The evil and ignorant dross of these islands (the British working classes that have gone from the salt to the scum of the earth during two generations of New Left ascendancy) have been herded into the polling booths by fear and bigotry. Do you see what happens when people don’t eat enough sun-dried tomatoes and capers and instead gorge on chicken nuggets, pizza and cake? They should definitely stop eating cake.

What kind of person actually fears the importation of a million people per year from the most messed-up region of the world?

What can you call the folk who actually fear an ideology that preaches world conquest, the slaughter of the Jews and the utter subjection of women but ‘Nazi’? And they just don’t seem to pay care any more when you call them that.

How in Gaia’s name did that happen?

Progressive ideas have only achieved the smallest toehold in the reactionary world of education for little more than 50 years, so it is little wonder that so many products of 11 (and now 13) years of compulsory state education ignored all the wisdom and moral goodness of their betters and voted instead with fear. Perhaps after another 50 years working in university education departments and dominating the teacher training colleges, we shall produce a majority of citizens who can’t even.

But do not fear for too long, my brothers, sisters, siblings and other-kin because you cannot stop Progress.

It looks possible that the wiser heads in the Tory party will prevail and Britain will achieve a composite relationship with the EU through a variety of amended arrangements with the EEA, the EFTA and their connected codicils, sub-codicils and layered competences. After all, what is the Acquis Communautaire if not crystal clear? Won’t that be nice?

But best of all for the Progressive community in general and the European Movement in particular is just how out of touch the Brexiteers are. They remain so utterly ignorant of the social and economic changes that have swept through these beloved European islands of ours that they don’t know what is about to hit them.

Soon, so very soon, the long-suffering masses will arise.

They will rise from all the coal mines and climb into the sunlight. They will down tools in the huge, grim factories  in which they toil across the length and breadth of Britain, step away from the clattering loom and alight from the train's footplate and join with their Muslim neighbours (may their tribe increase) and alongside the trans-fatty-fluid and other allies will tear down the soot-blackened palaces of the mighty and insist that their children be sent to schools where they will receive educations every bit as good as those provided at Eton and Harrow.

Who knows, comrades; next year in Caracas perhaps?

Because you can’t. Stop. Progress.

You just can’t.

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.

Because sometimes you have to charge uphill regardless.

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.

Virgin ™ Queen

Patriotism runs through the British people like blood - or as the word Blackpool runs through seaside rock. Sometimes I miss it because I’m a pig and a pessimist about the welfare state’s bureaucracy.

Lorraine is smart and very knowledgeable about the benefits laws and rules and works two steps above me in the welfare hierarchy.

She’s also about half my age, half my body weight and as cute and as small as a sugar mouse.

And there’s the problem, I think. She has an infectious giggle (infectious like the Black Death) and resembles one of those fluffy office bunnies that the, um, maturer women of firmer figure and unfulfilled or unfulfilling ambitions love to dislike. If you didn’t know her for the benefits regulations wizard that she is and met her at a party or something you’d think: senior stylist at Toni & Guy, or guess her to be the Lancôme agent at Boots.

(Fear not for my marital fidelity here, gentle reader; Mrs. Northwester sits as close to me in all her Valkyrie charm as Lorraine does and herself outshines the rest of Womankind as the Sun does all the other stars.)

So I’m guessing that it’s mostly the avuncularity that comes with middle age that makes me think Lorraine’s just too cute for words. And I’m a pig; remember that.

But Lorraine has the heart of Elizabeth I.

It was like this at the office a week or so ago.

There were these two benefits advice cases: each concerned young people on whose behalf a parent was trying to get more payments out of the system for their offspring, and each was running into difficulties because their adult child was incommunicado one way or another.

Now the Data Protection Act, strange to tell, informs and constrains all that we do regarding inquiries and appeals about benefits claims. We just can’t talk to any third party about a person’s claim (even by as much as admitting that such as claim even exists) without a claimant’s written permission in advance or their verbal authorization if they are present there with their case worker/parent/prison officer.

And sometimes the law and the regulations require us to actually have information - often written and signed for - from the claimants themselves, or benefits just can’t be paid.

Most third parties don’t understand this. Most of them don’t even live in a world where abstract principles such as the law of the land apply to their own interests or desires, and therefore anyone who obstructs them when seeking what they want is an affront to their human dignity and some kind of bureaucratic bully. They don’t know the law and don’t care about it because ‘their money’ is involved here. But they do know their rights. Parents, friends, previously undeclared ‘partners,’ landlords and some ‘case workers’ who turn out to be nursing home cleaners trying to help some granny out, waste about half our phone time trying to negotiate or bluster out of us exceptions to the rules of confidentiality.

Prize Number One went to the mother of a jailbird trying to persuade us that he had been still officially the resident of accommodation for which benefit should be paid for a period during which he had been in prison. There are circumstances when the system is obliged to provide help with rent for those on remand or in prison on short sentences, and Mrs. A (Miss A in all probability) wanted to persuade us that for a certain period last year he had been ‘resident’ for benefits purposes, and thus that he should have help with his rent for that time – money that in all probability the highly suspect landlord should have no right to and thus which we should not advise The Housing to hand over as benefit payments. It looked exactly like a scam. Young Mr. A, however, was in prison again, and unable to tell us there and then that it’s okay to talk to Mum, and likely too lazy (and too unconcerned about what might become of his flat and possessions whilst he was Inside – the State will provide) to write to us any time soon at all, if ever. If he even could read and write. He’d never worked in his life and had been ‘in trouble’ ever since at the age of sixteen truancy metamorphosed itself into Not In Employment, Education or Training.

But we are supposed to help when we can (it says it right there on our contracts and a tiny percentage of us don’t even object to the system sending tax money to criminals and their families,) and so a number of senior benefits advisers and managers spent some considerable time trying to persuade the incandescent and Infinitely Entitled ‘Mrs’. A to persuade the thieving little scrote to Put It In Writing, and we’d see what we can do.

Benefits bureaucrat time spend / wasted on this oxygen thief, his pullulating family and the landlordly parasite? Maybe six hours. Six hours wasted when we could have been detecting and correcting overpayments caused by fraud and error, or helping pensioners actually get what they had earned and saved and were taxed to receive, or people who really do have debilitating illnesses or injuries rather than employment-absolving ‘depression’ or ‘panic attacks.’

Prize Number Two was actually a sad case.

Young Mr. B was unable to come to the phone at all, and we needed confirmation from him about something to authorize help with rent for a similar early period. Dad wasn’t getting it either. Poor chap, he was trying to keep the lad from getting into debt and plain couldn’t see why his own say-so shouldn’t be enough to put the story straight and thus send the money on its way to fill a hole in Mr. B’s bank account. When you work all your life to support your family it’s not obvious to you why The Social can’t just recognise your integrity and truthfulness as you’ve always proved such by doing the job in all weathers come what may.

Same rules apply – no ‘okay’ in writing or in person from the customer and we can’t discuss it, full stop, and thus can’t explain just why the boy should write to us or phone ASAP. This is not merely a ‘detail’ or a ‘bureaucratic roadblock’: it’s Mr. B’s legal right not to have his parents pry into his finances without his say-so. We’d written to Mr. B at his new residence via a mailing address in Hampshire and though I expected the inquiry to be passed to him soon, I simply did not expect him to be free for a phone conversation in which we could explain the counter-intuitive point that we needed him to understand so he’d give us the information to prove he qualified for retrospective help with his rent.

It was frustrating. I wanted to help, and those around me wanted to help, but we couldn’t see a way around the confidentiality issue at that point. But Lorraine could, and she explained how we could get the job done without breaking the law or paying unjustified benefits. I won’t go into the details of our workaround which was boring, but the job was done.

Up jumped Lorraine with her idea, like an HMV Spitfire pilot and for all the world a Size Six Britannia: all elaborate summer holiday plans, boy band gossip…and patriotic indignation.

‘It’s not fair to do everything for someone in jail and then we can’t help someone who’s gone to fight for his country.’

In my opinion, the welfare state for working age ‘customers’ should be third or a quarter of its current size, but if anyone ever does decide to cut it down to non-insane proportions in terms of funding, entitlement and personnel, I hope they don’t start this bleach-blonde Boadicea.

Maybe they should start with a pig.

Picture from here.

Now...accursed

Shakespeare put a speech into the mouth of Henry V at the battle of Agincourt on the 25 October 1415.

That particular war was one of dynastic pride and conquest for personal gain – the kind of warfare that our civilisation has come rightly to despise. Now we expect out just wars to be of self-defence, or survival, or liberation. Conquerors are beyond the pale – but their kinder successors are not (or shouldn’t be.)

The Saint Crispin’s Day speech plays another part in our national culture: to express not only pride in martial skill and to recognise courage and service, but to glorify ideas of nationhood: of continuity; of people and institutions coming from somewhere and being made by people to suit their present needs and the results bequeathed to us as treasures – our true heritage.

Shakespeare wrote - and his plays were performed - at a time when the idea of Englishness had emerged from two forms of government: mediaeval inernationalism (the conscious thought and political ideal of a united Christendom in Europe) and the private dominions of the landed magnates. Shakespeare was aware of something that was still informal and that would not be made real until the next royal dynasty: of Britishness. We few, we happy few in these islands of four nations were exemplified by the common soldiers, pub joke-like, with Englishmen, and an Irishman, a Scotsman, and a Welshman. He wrote confidently and proudly in the new-found patriotism of his age, and in some ways gave it its language and some of its lasting form.
He wrote with the editorial approval of the State of the day (he had to, otherwise he would not have been allowed to stage his work).

It is dificult to imagine him being able to write so confidently and unequivocally about arms and the men who bear them, and civil society and civil government’s support if he was writing in today’s deliberately and treasonously equivocal days.



What's he that wishes so?
My cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin;
If we are mark'd to die, we are enow
To do our country loss; and if to live,
The fewer men, the greater share of honour.
Or feel the curses of Mussleman’s ungrateful scorn
God's will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.
For all have been stood down from lack of thrift.
By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,
Look in my parliament for such
Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;
And never work or thank or serve
From idler’s cradle to their public grave
It yearns me not if men my garments wear;
Such outward things dwell not in my desires,
As toys unmade by such as they; enjoyed
But never earned but wished withal and given from the common purse,
But if it be a sin to covet honour,
(Bar a daughter’s death or sullen injury
As infidel prophet and his clerics teach)
I am the most offending soul alive.
No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England.
God's peace! I would not lose so great an honour
As one man more methinks would share from me
For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more!
Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,
That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
As are scribes and clerks aplenty safe at home
Or town criers, players, and priests unmanly made
Let him depart; his passport shall be made,
And eight weeks on the morrow shall be done
As swift as modern chancery allow
And crowns for convoy put into his purse;
Who cares from whence; not ministers civil
Nor philosophers public, sage, and loving by their
Daily, oft proclaimed philanthropy.
We would not die in that man's company
That fears his fellowship to die with us.
This day is call'd the feast of Crispian.
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam'd,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Should he not need to stay in filthy hospital
Or dwell amongst vagabond knaves
My judges have decreed shall live as freemen
As rich in rights as any Duke or armsman true,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say 'To-morrow is Saint Crispian.'
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,
And say 'These wounds I had on Crispian's day.'
And they will curse him, like as not,
For blood he spilled and ne’er question why
Nor wonder whence their freedom comes
But as a gift from God or bounteous Nature
And never think to pay or count the cost
That bought their still felicity.
Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,
But he'll remember, with advantages,
What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,
Familiar in his mouth as household words-
Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester-
But likelier in schools my kingdom wide
Will learn other names of sages, clerics;
And foremost slaves; but not of those who struck off
Their chains, or why, or how.
Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb'red.
If drink be made, or law allow
Its quaffing public or in houses
Where weak and hurtful children dwell.
This story shall the good man teach his son;
Should husbands, fathers, or replacements need
To live with mothers e’er again in
England’s generous, charitable slums,
And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
Unless the parish schools go silent
When England’s kings and martial glory
Need to be retold -
But we in it shall be remembered-
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
As raavagers unversed; ignorant, unlettered
And base; cursed as swordmen; killers plain
By those who think of peace as rain but not the work of men.
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition;
And gentlemen in England now-a-bed
Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here,
Which may be true if hospital bed it be;
Unchanged, unwatched, unsanitary
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.

Another manifesto

They're all doing it this week it seems, and he does this from time to time: puts it - if not as an identical twin then at least as a brother - pretty much as I feel about some part of my country's life.

This one's a manifesto about Britishness and, apart from the picture which more or less identifies him as an agent of the World Accordionist Order, James Higham takes the biscuit.

Take it away James Higham, at Nourishing Obscurity.

Tommy schmutter

There's hope for this old country yet.

Despite all the pacifist whining and anti-British, anti-war propaganda of the MSM for their political-class masters most ordinary people in this country are neither against our troops nor against the idea of arms and armies.

Look around you on the street and you will not notice many people: young and not so young and even children wearing this country's desert camouflage but not in any post-ironic, we are all CND now kind of way.

Like the sailor suits and the bomber jackets before them, Desert DPM camouflage is worn unselfconsciously and, I suspect, rather proudly as casual and leisure wear. Trust the rag trade to catch the true heart and spirit of a nation that still likes itself and honours those who wear its uniform.



Not that it's always easy.....


TOMMY

by Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936)

I went into a public-'ouse to get a pint o' beer,
The publican 'e up an' sez, "We serve no red-coats here."
The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die,
I outs into the street again an' to myself sez I:
O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, go away";
But it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play,
The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,
O it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play.

I went into a theatre as sober as could be,
They gave a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me;
They sent me to the gallery or round the music-'alls,
But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls!
For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, wait outside";
But it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide,
The troopship's on the tide, my boys, the troopship's on the tide,
O it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide.

Yes, makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep
Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap;
An' hustlin' drunken soldiers when they're goin' large a bit
Is five times better business than paradin' in full kit.
Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, 'ow's yer soul?"
But it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll,
The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,
O it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll.

We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too,
But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;
An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints,
Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints;
While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, fall be'ind",
But it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind,
There's trouble in the wind, my boys, there's trouble in the wind,
O it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind.

You talk o' better food for us, an' schools, an' fires, an' all:
We'll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.
Don't mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face
The Widow's Uniform is not the soldier-man's disgrace.
For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Chuck him out, the brute!"
But it's "Saviour of 'is country" when the guns begin to shoot;
An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please;
An' Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool -- you bet that Tommy sees!

Poverty Causes Violence : Final Proof

Click picture to make it bigger...




Click picture to make it bigger...






Fortunately for the German people they live in a largely demilitarized country where any expressions of patriotism and racism are forbidden equally and where cradle-to-grave state welfare is provided along with; great retirement benefits; mandatory vacation rights; job protection; strong unions and the enlightened centrist policies that proportional representation and membership of the European Union all guarantee one of the highest standards of living, access to services, peace, and...what's that word - you know; the one that begins with an 'f'...

Nearly got it...
No. no, but it'll come back to me, and...



I know.
I know.


It's bad taste to make political points about a human tragedy on the very day itself, but...
It won't prevent the Left asking for more of the same and pointing out how many more machine-gun massacres there are in Britain with its Anglo-Saxon anti-welfare culture and its strident nationalism, its killer troops in Iraq and Afghanistan and...

Look, kids.

Capitalism and freedom. Traditition, country and religion (except for Islam)..
They cause poverty.
They cause school massacres.
They offend Muslims.
They casuse sterility in rats, golbal warming, the coming Ice Age and they shot Kennedy.

Thank the blind forces of [non-competitive] evolution/Allah/Mother Gaia/History, that the Americans have learned their lesson and are aiming to be like Germany...just as soon as they've invested all that nasty cash in state welfare projects.


Home

An investigation into the diseases of the bulldog

Bulldogs have been kept and prized as a distinct breed in Britain at least since Elizabethan times. Famed for loyalty and friendliness which transform into fierce displays of protectiveness against threats against the family or home, they have long been treasured as both pets and protectors of their masters.
But there’s nothing in the world that can’t be improved by the application of scientific theory by trained experts.

Puppyhood and upbringing.

Traditionally bulldog puppies have been raised singly or in pairs by their owners immediately after weaning. House training was usually done by punishment and reward: shouting and slapping with open palms or rolled-up newspapers, followed by rubbing their noses in their mess and then taking them outside to do their business, followed with praise and petting when they get the message.
This is unscientific and cruel. Studies have shown that shouting and paddling cause emotional stress and physical pain to bulldog puppies: so much stress in fact that they have been known to whine and cringe when they need a bowel movement and this forces them to beg to leave the house. This result is cruel - and indeed unnatural. Even worse, envy and resentment can grow up between puppies that learn at different rates and are therefore rewarded at different times.
Dogs are domesticated wolves and in nature there are neither rolled-up newspapers nor human beings to strike wolves with them. Anthropomorphic notions such as discipline should be dispensed with and puppies should be allowed to explore their world and their boundaries naturally and unconstrained by anything but their natural pack instinct and the benevolence of their ‘owners.’
It may take them a little longer to learn to prefer going outside, and it may be messy, unhealthy and inconvenient for all concerned until they do, but there is nothing cruller than a beating so severe that it leaves emotional scars and produces cowed and whining subservient pets.
Under no circumstances must ‘successful’ puppies be praised or petted in the presence of their less ‘obedient’ litter-mates.

Health and exercise.

Adult bulldogs have long been treated as needing daily exercise and the twice a day ‘walkies’ has featured in traditional bulldog care. This must be abandoned as there are many hazards outdoors; including the risk of injury from playing too energetically and leaping about too much, or the danger of cut paws from broken glass or sharp stones.
The archaic practice of throwing sticks or balls for them to chase and bring back to their ‘masters’ only encourages aggression and cruelty as it teaches them a primitive kind of savagery incorrectly called the ‘hunting instinct’ which is in nature only a product of famine or illness.
The game of ‘fetch’ is especially harmful if there are two or more dogs competing for the object ball as one or more of the animals will necessarily fail to reach the ball each time and this will cause them deep and unnecessary distress.
Cereal-based food - rather than meat - is the healthiest food for them, and synthetic chews: not hide or real bones.
Bulldogs should be kept indoors and entertained by technology alone. The Discovery Channel, for example, often features uplifting documentaries about life in coral reefs and the Antarctic which may engage bulldogs’ naturally inquisitive natures; though films about Africa should be avoided at all costs in case they should see hunting hyenas or wild dogs stalking and killing prey and be renered bloodthirsty as a result.
They should never be exposed to tobacco smoke (especially indoors) as studies have shown that beagles can be harmed by having it blown into their faces via masks.
Bulldogs should never be forced to work as guard dogs, sniffer dogs or put to work on farms. They are a part of Nature and it is only right that they be provided with all the necessities of life rather than being exhausted and otherwise mistreated and traumatized in work roles which they might not enjoy.

Aggression.

Despite their owners’ proud claim that bulldogs are friendly and good with children and slow to violence, in fact once they do get involved in fighting they are implacably cruel and brutal. They often inflict terrible wounds on their victims with viciousness not seen in other domesticated breeds or even in nature during famines.
One reason for keeping bulldogs indoors and away from meat-based products is to wean them off the aggression and killing frenzy bred into them over centuries by human beings who believed (contrary to the morality that Nature teaches those wise enough to see it) that death only leads to more death, and so violence must be avoided at all times: except in pursuit of scientifically-approved goals decided upon by enlightened officials.

Other breeds.

The most sinister consequence of traditional bulldog breeding has been the way that these animals interact with dogs of other breeds. It has long been known that poorly-trained bulldogs have occasionally attacked similar breeds; standard poodles, dachshunds and very often Irish wolf-hounds. But given the chance, these beasts will have a go at Afghans, Pekingese, Indian Spitzes and Serbians; anything.
This must stop.
The best way to reduce the bulldog’s inherent brutality and aggression is to surround it with a great many hounds of other breeds.
This must not be done half-heartedly, however. In former times traditional bulldog breeders allowed their animals to meet and play with the few exotic breeds that were available in a less varied dog word; especially Scottish, Welsh and Irish Terriers and also Himalayan sheepdogs, Labrador Huskies, Polish hounds and Australian and American Bulldogs. This didn’t work well because when put together peacefully these breeds would often form cohesive packs which displayed shared territoriality and mutual interdependence and resistance to incursions from other, less aggressive breeds such as Alsatians, Rottweilers and Borzois.
Whenever possible, bulldogs should be separated from these ‘compatible’ strains – perhaps by humane aversion therapy, and instead compelled – under threat of the reduction of their food supplies or the removal of favourite toys - to live amongst less aggressive breeds from the Continent or - better yet - from further afield. Ideally, bulldogs should be shown these other breeds being rewarded for their passive natures by more frequent and copious feeding (even to the extent of taking the bulldogs’ own treats in their plain sight and directly transferring them to their better-behaved neighbours.)
Any signs of aggression or resentment on the part of the bulldogs should be punished by severe and constant scolding and the deprivation of privileges, and also, if possible, by introducing ever more newcomer dogs to their homes and giving them their favourite sleeping places.

Any bulldog that growls at an aggressive cat should be destroyed immediately.

Conclusion.

The bulldog is a pestilence; a uniquely destructive breed that should never have been created.
If the above methods of pacification and control still don’t work, then enlightened masters might be obliged to take more drastic measures to solve this canine pestilence once and for all.

Some strains of Persians, it has been discovered, are capable of carrying conditions inimical to bulldogs’ health and plans are afoot at the highest levels to introduce infected Persians into the wild at the earliest possible opportunity, which may finally provide a solution to the bulldog problem, as well as reducing the numbers of other problematic breeds.

Isn't science wonderful?

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