Tuesday, 2 September 2014

Not for the squeamish...

So, my last Friday commute didn’t go quite as planned. With the Dartford Tunnel closed the only realistic option was to go clockwise; the long way round. Eight hours later I finally completed the 250-mile journey and collapsed into bed… but sleep just would not come as I relived the worst part of the journey. No, not the crawling, stop-start madness of canned commuters trying to get home, but the hell I witnessed when I stopped at Cobham Services to refuel.

Jean-Paul Sartre said “Hell is other people.” He was being unusually generous. My dear god, what horror. A teeming, steaming, loathsome hive of pointless human garbage, gurning into their KFCs, queuing for their Maccy-Dees and dribbling… everywhere the dribbling. Stuffing food into their gaping mouths, pausing only briefly to time their insertion so that mastication need only be interrupted for a fraction of a second and then swilling it all down with over-sized paper cups of ghastly fizzy, sugary shit. And talking, talking, talking… yabbering inanely away about nothing of consequence.

At first I thought it must have been some sort of coach-trip convention composed entirely of society’s rejects, a useless army of the damned; doomed to roam, like broad-beamed Flying Dutchmen from one service station to another, clogging up Britain’s motorway network like slow moving lumps of lard in the nation’s arterial system, occasionally clumping together in clot-inducing gatherings like this. Was I witnessing a rare convocation of the fatty deposits, or was this a genuine snapshot of how British people really are?

Expressionless, saggy-titted, milch-cow mothers, coping with their demanding cuckoos by becoming vending automatons; wiping and feeding, wiping and feeding. Bored, too-young fathers gazing vacantly into mobile phones far their superiors in every possible measure of intelligence and wandering, aimlessly wandering, to and fro and back and forth and achieving the square root of zero-point-fuck-all. And the children – millions of them, to my eyes – everywhere you could see; mewling, squawking, ugly, pointless packets of piss and puke destined to become just like the herd of parents they accompanied and harried and brought low.

And at what point in history did offensiveness of appearance become obligatory for the under forty-fives? Arse clefts gaping from low slung jeans, or underpants hoist like fat spinnakers in Cowes Week. Back fat bulging from vests and blue veins pulsing feebly beneath translucent, over-stretched, pasty-white breast flesh. Pre-pubescent future criminals with insults temporarily razored into thuggish haircuts and everywhere the never-ending declaration of ignorance – tramp stamp, ‘tribal’ tattoos representing no known tribe on earth.

Mass debate
Where's Wally* (Trick question)

This mess, this mass of pulsating flesh, eating, chewing, consuming, using; sucking up and spitting out and wasting precious oxygen; overwhelming the planet’s resources and tearing out the goodness from the earth… and for what? What an insidious parasite the human race is. I sometimes wonder if the islamists have a point.

Friday, 29 August 2014

Hollywood Blues

Ah the Golden Age of Moving Pictures! In lights, the names of the greats shone from every cinema marquee: Mary Pickford, Douglas Fairbanks, Errol Flynn... Donald Duck. How we laughed! How we thrilled! How we left our little lives behind for the so-short span of a movie reel and dreamed of life on Rodeo Drive. But little are we aware of the tortured lives behind the faces of the screen gods and goddesses. Some fared better than others, but many succumbed to the temptations of fame.

Thus it was with Tinsel Town’s most famous couple. The King and Queen of Hollywood; Mickey and Minnie Mouse. Rumours had been surfacing for years about Mickey’s occasional peccadilloes and the philandering ways of many of the original Rodent Pack, long before Dean Martin and Frank Sinatra cleaned it up, changed the name and made it relatively respectful. Mickey, in his wild days was a force of nature, hanging out in the teeming sewers and gutters of Dreamland and it took all the ingenuity of Disney Studios to keep the world’s press sweet.

But in the end there was nothing they could do to keep the news of Mr & Mrs Mouse’s impending divorce from the front page and as surely as encore follows curtain call, the case entered the public consciousness for a few intense weeks in 1954. Presses were held for the latest bulletins from the Los Angeles County Court and finally, sixty years ago to the day, the final arguments were heard.

Judges back then were little different from judges of today – old, slow, hard of hearing and lacking in common worldly experience – and after a long lunch at the Brown Derby, courtesy of Walt Disney himself, Justice McDuckula was in no mood for frivolity. He approached his summing up with a furrowed brow and an air of deep incredulity as he gazed out upon the public gallery, an audience whose noisy bombast he had had to quell on more than one occasion.

He fixed the assembled throng with a gimlet eye and waited for silence before launching into his summing up. “We are assembled here,” he quacked, his voice like an angry hive of high-register bees, “to consider the petition of one Mr M. Mouse of Malibu Beach.” The judge continued: “Having heard the evidence and pleas from both sides I am minded to say that a more frivolous suit it has rarely been my misfortune to hear.”

“Your honour!” interjected Mickey’s council

“Objection overruled!” growled the judge and settle back into his theme. “As I was saying, I have heard the case and weighed up the circumstances and I cannot find it in my conscience to grant a divorce on the skimpy basis of mere cosmetic appearance. Beauty is more than just skin deep.”

“But, your Honour…”

“Silence in court!” barked McDuckula “You will hear my verdict. I will not – and I repeat – will NOT, grant a divorce on the grounds of the plaintiff’s objection to the fact that his spouse of many years has buck teeth!”

A murmur began and rippled through the assembly. A few titters sprang up and died before the beady gaze of the judge… and then Mickey Mouse himself indicated that he wished to speak. The judge indicated with a weary gesture that he may. Mickey got to his feet, waited for silence then addressed himself to the bench.

“Your honour,” he said, “I bring this action, not on the grounds of Minnie’s dental work, which, by the way, is impeccable for a rodent, but because...” and here he paused a second, taking a deep breath before continuing. “I'm telling you she’s fucking Goofy!”

Thursday, 28 August 2014

What are words worth?

“Lessons have been learned” Where, once, honourable men found wanting would have fallen on their swords, now the catch-all ‘lessons’ serves as a deflection, certain that the attention will soon go away and those culpable, whatever injustice has been perpetrated, will be free to carry on just as before… with higher salaries. In the past few years we’ve learned lessons about immigration, about policing, about ‘institutional racism’ about climate, er ‘thingy’ (nobody knows) and all sorts of fluffery, none of which lessons appear to have been put into practice.

Authorities “deeply regret” without actually making reparation and recognise “failures of leadership” while steadfastly keeping said leadership in post. Rotherham council’s chief executive even acknowledged that child protection services “…fell some way short of today's standards…” I have no doubt they will soon announce an intention to engage in “reviewing our procedures”  This isn’t even Newspeak, it is non-speak; a fear to ever tell the truth, admit blame or lift a damned finger to put things right. It is lying codified; packaged for retail and sold on masquerading as action.

“Unfortunately, on this occasion, you have not been successful” is the trite phrase which greets an inadequate today and the utterly useless “did not achieve” has to do the difficult job that only the word FAIL can properly do. Some people need to be told they are no good at a thing; that they should stop wasting their time and that of others in struggling to master a skill for which they have no aptitude. But no, in the all-must-have-prizes culture, failure is all too often dressed up as partial success and abject failure is pretty much always somebody else’s fault. "Society is to blame."

We no longer have bosses and workers, calling them ‘associates’ instead and the average chain pub now has more ‘assistant managers’ than it has pint glasses. Barrista? Behave; coffee, white, two sugars please… and stop with all the fucking about. The sculpted foam on top of your over-priced indulgence is emblematic of form before function and this Emperor’s New Clothes trick perfectly mirrors the way those who seek office rarely do so for the reasons they say. What you see is not what you get and it is rarely worth the price.

So, you can shove your “misplaced racial sensitivity” and shelve your “mistakes have been made” where the sun don’t shine. Until you stop calling this gruesome invasion ‘multiculturalism’ and convening obfuscating focus groups run by party apparatchiks to prevent yourselves hearing what people have actually been telling you for years in plain English, nobody in Britain will have any faith in anything you have to say. Actions speak louder than words? Prove it.

Wednesday, 27 August 2014

Whose Equality is Best?

Raaaacists! Fear of a word appears to have prevented police and social services and anybody with a duty of care to minors from reporting, warning or even noticing child-rape and trafficking on an industrial scale in Rotherham. The total population of Rotherham (known) is around 260,000. About 35% are under fifteen – that’s 91,000 and in that part of the world a good 50% of school attendees are of the Asian community. Which leaves around 45,000 white kids. If two-thirds of them are under ten, that leaves about 15,000 of both sexes between the ages of ten and fifteen. So, 7,500 white girls, 1400 of whom have been preyed upon by sexual savages.

Okay the numbers are a tad (and deliberately – I can use those tactics too) skewed for effect but come on, 18% of Rotherham’s non-‘ethnic’ girls systematically abused for a decade or more? If this isn’t a primitive and hateful racism you’ll have to go a long way to convince every parent in the area who has been branded a bigot for raising concerns about the deliberate swamping of their region with ‘diversity’. As Allison Pearson said, “Let’s have no more of this coy “Asian males” crap. Muslim men of Pakistani origin…” are responsible for this. And their community is responsible for allowing it.

Even taking islam out of the equation – and it is about time somebody did just that – this is exactly the sort of thing that was feared by many, decades ago, when it became clear that allowing in one single worker soon opened the floodgates to a multi-generational wave of dependents who came here, failed to integrate and slowly set about seeding their third-world culture on our fertile national petri dish. Nurtured by leftists and feted by Labour, here (they thought) was the answer to people growing up and voting Conservative. All that lovely, progressive diversity.

But you can never have both diversity and equality; it doesn’t work. Even on simple linguistic grounds it makes no sense – one is practically an antonym of the other - if things are different they can’t be the same. Now you may not believe that some people are better than others but that’s nonsense because you definitely know that some are worth so much less. Pick a measure: Wealth, productivity, gregariousness, reason, intellect, muscle, looks, longevity… no matter what your metric we don’t all balance on the fulcrum.

Rotherham’s known problems were ignored or suppressed for the sake, so they said, of ‘social cohesion’; it was deemed racist to protect one culture against the incursion of another. Exactly how much fuck-witted doublethink had to be deployed in deciding which culture was to be neglected? Or was the indigenous Brit so obviously worth much less than the precious new diversity?

Come to Britain - it's a free country!

But here’s the thing; what of the honest immigrant who came to Britain to find a better life? What happened to their dreams of a new beginning away from the grinding poverty and oppressive religious medievalism of their overcrowded homelands? With the shallowness of thought typical of left-wing moralists can they even begin to admit that in pitting one culture against another they have comprehensively fucked it up for both? 

Tuesday, 26 August 2014


Big fleas have little fleas upon their backs to bite ‘em. And little fleas have lesser fleas and so, ad infinitum.” So goes The Siphonaptera and continues: “And the great fleas, themselves, in turn, have greater fleas to go on; While these again have greater still... and greater still, and so on.” The popular children’s version of the verse is based on the wit and wisdom of the satirist Jonathan Swift whose barbed words skewered and continue to prick the pomposity of those who assume positions of great power.

Pretty much wherever you are in the spectrum of humanity you will have fleas to feed upon your blood and the more insignificant the flea, the greater their number and the more voracious their appetite. It’s a cycle repeated since the dawn of time, since dinosaurs stalked the land, and Richard Attenborough was a young man. As John Hammond, in Jurassic Park he recreated ancient life on earth from the blood of the terrible lizards preserved in the stomachs of mosquitoes – themselves really just another kind of flea –suspended forever in amber.

Evolution is often imagined to only produce improvement, but it’s not quite so simple as that. Heritable traits also include parasitic instincts as well as evolutionary dead ends. We may ourselves be nearing the bottom of a hereditary cul-de-sac right now; certainly the sum total of current human development seems to be directed anywhere but towards progress. The nasty biting buggers in the Middle East are bad enough, but we ignore the nibblers among our own numbers at our peril.

There is a growing belief that human evolution can occur over much shorter timescales than previously supposed; possibly within a few generations when it concerns the development of the brain. And evolutionary psychologists suggest a plausible genetic basis for morality. Given that the ultimate success of all genetic mutations depends on their survival and reproduction rates, rather than on any universal sense of right or wrong, it’s a short logical hop to conclude that a moral compass which concludes that ‘work is for mugs’ is on track to conquer the world. If the British welfare system is anything to go by it’s a valid theory.

Fortunately – and fortunately is how I see it – as the underclasses out-breed the working masses they will soon get to a critical volume whereupon all the productivity in the world will be incapable of feeding them and as quickly as they rose up they will become extinct, leaving only the dwindling few with a work ethic to repopulate the planet. In millennia to come the strange Age of the Human Parasites, when Doleysaurs stalked the land, will be mere history and only the scattered, fossilised remains of KFC Bargain Buckets will attest to their former ubiquity.

Look... it's like a tiny Chav, in aspic!

But what goes around, comes around as they say and as Swift’s original words attest: “The vermin only teaze and pinch, their foes superior by an inch. So, naturalists observe, a flea has smaller fleas that on him prey; And these have smaller still to bite 'em… And so proceed ad infinitum.” In a future world we may never see the like of dear Dickie Attenborough again but pray that there is also no future John Hammond to recreate the dominant human life form of the twenty-first century from an amber-preserved bed bug.