Friday, 13 November 2009

Will Self is a Cunt

It really pained me last night to see Will self (the overpaid witticist and smackhead knob) personally attack Dame Pauline Neville-Jones.

I happened to meet her in 1997, at the Commonwealth Heads of Government Conference in Edinburgh. She is a lovely, intelligent woman (though a bit posh), and we got royally pissed and sung 'Mack the Knife' on the karaoke.

Truly, Mr Self - you would be drinking through a straw for months if I met you.

Tuesday, 10 November 2009

Jacqui Janes

Well, everyone else is posting on the subject, so here's my two pennworth.

My views on the monocular mentalist are well known - I have friends in Stan at the moment and am disgusted by the underequipment and the total logistical fuck up that puts them at risk.

To lose a son because there were too few helicopters in theatre, while knowing that because of crap procurement there are 9 Chinooks sat in Odiham, and because of crap planning all the Merlins aren't yet ready for deployment - Jacqui Janes has every right to be angry.

I've just listened to Labour Party apologists on the radio trying to say that it was a private conversation and that we should all feel sorry for the blind nutter. Sorry, folks, but this twat wants to be prime minister and tell me how to live my life - I'd quite like him to be competent, and at the
very least to learn to fucking spell.

I'm not a great Sun reader, but they have done a public service by highlighting the insensitivity and incompetence of the man who claims to lead this once great country.

And if I hear one more Labour stooge on the radio I'm going to hit someone.

Friday, 30 October 2009

One Year On

It's exactly a year since my wife said her last words to me - she was in intensive care and sedated for the last three weeks of her life. Her last words were - "You did that on purpose, you bugger!"

Which is a lovely way to remember a remarkable woman.

We used to read poems to each other - here's a bit of doggerel.

Brian and Laura

What a fucking happy pair we were!
To sit, at night, with telly off-
Reading Wilfred Owen to each other.

For light relief some Sylvia Plath -
Never Ted, cause he's too dark.
Some Rupert Brooke - or Donne for those black days
When life cannot bring forth its spark.

And then again - there is John Cooper Clarke.

Saturday, 24 October 2009

A New Take on the Peter Griffin Show

I was out drinking with some Jamaican mates yesterday afternoon, and one of them broached the Nick Griffin subject.

"Did you see that Nick Griffin thing last night? Fucking disgrace, man!"

"How you mean?" I said.

"They never gave the poor bastard a chance - man, I was looking forward to finding out what these people stand for."

So well done the BBC and the Righteous - if my experience is anything to go by your ill-judged and ill-conceived mugging of that other monocular moron has just gained him sympathy from the West Indian community.

We need to debate with the BNP, but not at the level of personal attacks in a lynch mob atmosphere against the inadequate twat that leads them. We need to agree when they are right, and to not only destroy their argument but also to laugh at them loudly when they are wrong. That's one way to defeat fascists - the only other way is the UAF way and my views on life would not sit happily there.

There - I've said my piece. I'm just horrified but not surprised that the way Griffin was handled has backfired so far - only the two ladies treated him with any dignity, so Fuck You, Straw, Huhne and Mr Partisan Dimblebollocks, and thanks for the unfair and personalised attacks that make a fascist get sympathy from West Indians you utter, utter cunts.

Sunday, 18 October 2009

Poor bloody Dodger

One of my rats died on Friday night - not a big thing you may think, but the little buggers were my wife's pets and even though I didn't like them much they were my last tangible link to her.

I've kept them and fed them since she died, and to see little Artful Dodger dead in the cage yesterday morning really hurt - never again will he leap up to beg for food as soon as he hears my voice.

What a complete cunt life is sometimes.


Monday, 12 October 2009

You say it best...

Is it just me that feels awkward about the mawkish, almost Scousey farewells given to Stephen Gateley?

He might well have been a nice chap and a fine man to have a drink with, but he was also a queer, a drunk and a fan of the old marching powder.

That shit will kill you.

Sorry, Gateley fans, but he got what he asked for.

Queer twat.

Thursday, 24 September 2009

More Depressing Self Indulgent Shit

I'm a depressive.

Worse and madder even than that monocular moron of the manse that has ruined our country.

So it's time to inflict another miserable poem on the world.

It's called 'To Save Time'

To save time
Life should, each morning
Just kick you in the balls.

To save disappointment
You should, each day
Expect to be disappointed.

To save yourself?
She should, each second
Be in your thoughts.

Thursday, 3 September 2009

Some Days

As proof that blogging is really all about vanity, I offer a little poem that sums me up in just 20 lines of doggerel.

Some Days

Some days, I just need
To sand the rougher edges of my mood
To smooth the spiky bits of life
In ways too often misconstrued.

Some days, I need a drink
To slow me down, or pick me up -
To make me comatose perhaps -
I don't do fractions - there's the rub.

Some days, I like to smoke,
A toke or three to take the pain away -
To induce dreaminess and peace
And cool the raging passions of the day.

Some days, I like to fight,
Creating confrontations on a whim -
To express my frustrations?
Yes, but also to get back at Him.

Some days, I vegetate,
To... but there is no reason there.
No voluntary action can be made
No sense, no will, no God, nowhere.

I think I might give it to my psychiatrist at our next meeting - it's easier than trying to explain to someone just out of their teens why a middle aged man is such a fuck-up as I am.

Monday, 31 August 2009

Homage To A Government

I was feeling a little cynical and down this evening, so decided to cheer myself up by reading some Larkin and wallow in the joy of not being as miserable as he was.

This was a bad move, as I came across a poem I hadn't read since the third form at school, more than 30 years ago. It refers to Heath and to Northern Ireland, but applies equally well to the Monocular Moron of the Manse and Afghanistan, except that the last line should really be changed, because New Liebour have raped this country so effectively that all we shall be leaving our children is debt, unless we are either Liebour politicians or their banker friends.

It's called 'Homage To A Government', and sums up perfectly the despair we all should feel at the antics of these shallow, self-serving, half-educated Marxist scum that fooled the people into electing them to power.

Next year we are to bring all the soldiers home
For lack of money, and it is all right.
Places they guarded, or kept orderly,
Must guard themselves, and keep themselves orderly.
We want the money for ourselves at home
Instead of working. And this is all right.

It's hard to say who wanted it to happen,
But now it's been decided nobody minds.
The places are a long way off, not here,
Which is all right, and from what we hear
The soldiers there only made trouble happen.
Next year we shall be easier in our minds.

Next year we shall be living in a country
That brought its soldiers home for lack of money.
The statues will be standing in the same
Tree-muffled squares, and look nearly the same.
Our children will not know it's a different country.
All we can hope to leave them now is money.

Feel the love, New Labour parasites.

Talk to the Taliban

With the new policy of McMental being to engage in conversations with the terrorists who murder our troops, I offer this small revision of the Dr Doolittle song, updated to reflect the wisdom of our absent Leader.

If we could talk to the Taliban, just imagine it
Gabbling to a goatherder in goat
Imagine prattling to a pashtun, waffling at a wifebeater
What a waste of our time that would be

If we could talk to the Taliban, learn their languages
Maybe take a Taliban degree
We'd study wifebeating and murder, opium and burqah
Bribery, corruption and Kharzi

We would converse in hatred and in ignorance
And we would curse our future prospects too
If people asked us 'can you speak to terrorists'
We'd say 'We're New Labour, can't you?'

If we could talk to the Taliban, learn their languages
Think of all the things we could discuss
If we could walk with the Taliban, talk with the Taliban
Lie and cheat and murder like the Taliban
And they would lie and cheat and murder us.

The one eyed scottish idiot really has no idea, does he - we should be fighting the Taliban and their allies in Burnley, Bradford, Leeds, Luton, Oldham, Birmingham - in fact wherever they are in our country. But he won't do that because he wants the Taliban block vote for New Liebour - he's hoping that more than 150 of the buggers will turn out to vote for him and his dhimmi friends.


Friday, 7 August 2009

In Gord We Trust

Well, it looks like the technology proposed for the ID card has been well and truly compromised already - 12 minutes to crack it with a PC and a mobile phone, no less.

Where do I sign up, again?

Computer Weekly has the story here

Really and truly, this is beyond a joke - not only will this idiocy cost billions that we can ill afford, be an insult to every free Briton and herald the inception of Brown's New OstBerlin state, but it seems it's technologically incompetent even by the standards of the NuLabour shower of shit.

If the card itself is so insecure, how much confidence can we have in the back end database? I can foresee SQL injection attacks based on this hack - perhaps one day we could create a card that deletes all the tax records in the system, or makes all people with the surname 'Brown' ineligible for state provided services, or...

Bunch of arseholes, the lot of them.