Christmas Wish

It’s Christmas time and everybody is having a ball. Throughout the land tidings of great joy are ringing out as even bitter enemies embrace and wish each other a wonderful life. Even in the seat of power, in Parliament itself, coalition and opposition party members are breaking open bottles of seasonal cheer and slapping each other on the back as they prepare for the break and a welcome few days alone with their families. But somebody is missing.

A lone figure sits high above the Thames on the roof of the Palace of Westminster, sobbing quietly and staring down at the cold waters below. After a few minutes he stands and wobbles uncertainly towards the edge. He is a little drunk, but right now sobriety is charging in like a train. He pulls back his shoulders, lifts his head and stares straight ahead as he puts one foot on the low parapet and makes to step up; up and off.

But suddenly a large figure appears beside him and places a gentle, yet firm hand on his shoulder to restrain him. “Oh ho no, son!” he boomed. The younger man took a step back and turned to find a burly gentleman in a red suit trimmed with luxurious white fur to match an impressive full set of bushy, white whiskers. A broad black belt circled his ample tummy and a broad smile brought forth laughter lines around his twinkly eyes. “Father Christmas!” he gasped, “is it really you?”

“Sit down son” said the jolly old man “and tell me what this is all about. And you can call me Santa.”

The pair sat down and gazed out over the Christmas lit spectacle of the capital. The younger man sighed and began his tale…

“My name is Ed Miliband…” He paused as if that was explanation enough, but as Santa remained silent he continued. “It’s all gone so wrong. My job should be easy, opposing the nasty, vile, vicious Tories, with their baby-killing policies and hatred of the poor, but it turns out that people actually approve of what they are doing to the welfare state. Everywhere I turn I think I’m going to find somebody ready to stab me in the back. And every week I have to face up to the coalition bully boys at PMQs; I leave the chamber in tears. I’m a failure and everybody knows it!”

Santa got to his feet and Ed turned round to gaze up at him. “Who am I?” he said.

“Why, you’re Fathe… you’re Santa!” said Ed

“Then you must know I can grant wishes on Christmas Eve!” he laughed. “Come on son, with one wave of my hand I can make everything better. What if I said you will wake up tomorrow with all your troubles gone? What if I said you will go from strength to strength next year and storm to victory in 2015, going on to become one of the nation’s best loved Prime Ministers?”

“Oh, could you?” said Ed, “Would you?”

“Ho ho ho, of course I will!” laughed Santa, “But you must do me a favour in return.” And with that Santa unzipped his trousers and pulled out his tinsel-bedecked penis. “A quick blow job and all your wishes will be granted.”

Ed balked at first then gingerly took hold of Santa, shut his eyes and proceeded to suck off Saint Nick. When Santa was finished and tucked away and Ed had swallowed the lot, the two of them faced each other to say farewell. “Merry Christmas!” said Santa. And “Merry Christmas to you.” Said Ed.

“So now, I can go home for Christmas and in the New Year, when Parliament reconvenes, everybody will respect me and listen to what I have to say? And I’ll go on to win the General Election in 2015? And together with me Labour will make Britain better?”

“How old are you?” asked Santa.

“I’m 43” said Ed.

“Forty-three?” asked Santa. Then he pulled off his beard to reveal the gurning face of Ed McCluskey. “And you still believe in Father Christmas?”

Aladdin Trouble

Well hello girls and boys and how are we today?

You’ll have to do better than that! I can’t hear you!

That’s better. Now, My name is Iain Duncan Smith, but you can call me Wishee-Washee – I’ve been called worse. I work all day here at Widow Twanky’s laundry, where we clean up all the money and make it disappear. What’s that you say, boys and girls? Widow Twanky’s a man? Oh no he isn’t! [Stage whisper] Actually he is – it’s George Osborne in drag! Anyway, it’s my job to keep you all up to date with what’s happening. So, the story so far:

Aladdin Balls has been to the Forty Thieves’ Cave to get an old lamp for the evil sorcerer Big Len McCluskey and his monkey, Miliband. But he escaped from the sorcerer and since then he’s been up all night rubbing at his lamp like crazy… he said he had to rub it just the right way, until something came out the end. But all he got was a big poof…

[FX: Green thunderflash]

“Ooh, hello! I am Chris Bryant, the genie of the lamp! My wish is your command.”

ALADDIN: Blimey!

GENIE: I can give you three wishes. Be careful what you ask for.

ALADDIN: For my first wish, Genie, I wish to be Grade 8 on the piano!

GENIE: You sure? You didn’t want to wish for, you know, peace and prosperity and goodwill to all mankind, or something like that?

ALADDIN: Sod them – they won’t be able to laugh at me when I’m Grade 8! And then I will be able to marry Emperor Cameron’s beautiful daughter…

GENIE: She’s nine, you idiot. And besides, what about Yvette?

ALADDIN: Oh, I wish that wasn’t a problem.

GENIE: As you command, oh Master!

The Genie claps his hands. [FX: Blackout and lightning flash] When the lights come up they are standing in the House of Commons. A piano stands on the floor of the house, and as Aladdin approaches it the shouting mob calms down. He plays a virtuoso piece and finishes to rousing applause, apart from Yvette Cooper who scowls from her seat.

ALADDIN: Thank you thank you and on this last day in the house may I wish you all a very merry Christmas! Thank you and goodnight! I love you all!

He gets a standing ovation which slowly fades as the lights dim. The curtain falls to leave Aladdin Balls standing front of stage holding the lamp. He rubs it and the genie appears in a much less impressive flash.

ALADDIN: Where did you go?

GENIE: I’m done here.

ALADDIN: But you said I had three wishes?

GENIE: Yep, you’ve had ‘em. You had Piano, Yvette and Merry Christmas.

ALADDIN: Woah, I thought I’d only used one!

GENIE: It’s a bugger, isn’t it? It’s a bit like what you want to do with the bankers’ bonus tax when you come to think of it. You see, handling a magic lamp is a bit like handling the economy. You can’t always do what you want… Except for a minute there you actually could have done. But you blew it.

ALADDIN: [Sarcastically] Yeah? Just what could I have done? There are millions of starving people relying on food banks. The Tories want to freeze old people to death and evict the disabled to die in the streets. They are dismantling our armed forces and selling off the NHS and surrendering our power supplies to the French. So tell me, oh mighty genie, if you’re so clever, how could I have fixed all that with three measly wishes?

GENIE: Oh, you know, I thought you’d have at least wished for a magic money tree…

Oh Carol!

The Christmas Carol Service season is upon us, where pressed men will gather desultorily in shambling groups to mumble their way through poorly scanning, quasi-religious, lowbrow verses written mostly by the Victorians and bearing little relevance to our times. It's fair enough for the kids, but the tired old carol format is long overdue for revision. So I've made a start for you - you all know the tune:

Oh Little Scrote of Bethnal Green

Oh little scrote of Bethnal Green

We hear thee lie and lie!

While others work you stay asleep,

And work passes you by.

Yet late at night you shi-i-i-i-neth

And talk a load of shite.

We paid your dole for all these years

And still you call us tight.

For Christ is born of Mary,

And Liam and Kaylee, gov.

And Kyle and Jace are off their face,

So wot is not to love?

O-oh, be-ne-fits forever

Assist the yearly birth.

And praises sing to Mervyn King

For printing dosh on earth.

How silently how stealthily

The Christmas gifts are thieved.

Cos Kev is light upon his Nikes

Of presents you’re bereaved.

No ear may hear His coming

But you know he will win.

Where Reebok soles mount window sills,

The burglar enters in.

Oh little scrote of Bethnal Green

Go get a job we pray.

Wash out your sins and empty bins

Or anything for pay.

We hear the Christmas angels

And soon we catch their smell.

They’re all disguised as Santas now

Oh Lord, oh bloody hell!

(Feel free to add your own verses in the comments!)

Slave to the Rhythm

Is it tens? Hundreds? Thousands? TENS of thousands? Nobody tells; nobody knows. But however many slaves are being held in Britain, Theresa May is to ban slavery. Again. I say ‘again’ because I’m pretty sure I heard Tony Blair apologising profusely for it not so many years ago… maybe it was his government that reintroduced it? I lose track – Blair apologised for so many things that were once considered normal, including thinking British thoughts. Whatever the truth of the matter, this recently discovered account of a modern slave may shed some light:

------------------------------------------------------------------------

I awake as usual in the dark; cold and hungry and awaiting my orders. I work every day until I drop and what do I get in return? Nothing. Or maybe, sometimes, a beating. I’m coming to actually look forward to the beatings because at least it’s a form of human contact, a form of truth. The rest of the time I labour under a cold authority; I am a slave, owned by a rapacious master and kept here as a prisoner with no will of my own.

My sparse quarters are shared with an enormous rat. It sits there in the corner, staring at me malevolently as I chew my cold, congealed scraps. I wonder, do others also have their own giant rat guardian? For I know there are many of us, each bound to the common purpose of a master who knows how to drive us to do his bidding. He has many willing subordinates and they have learned their craft in a foreign land. The ways of the Russians are hard to fathom, but very effective.

We are told what words to use and what to not and although I have nothing to say I am made to repeat the same banal phrases until they become meaningless yet instinctive gibberish and then, once a week, they subject me to the two minute hate (although it feels so much longer) where I am in a room flanked by my guards and facing a throng of barking drones who scream at me while I say my lines. I come away battered and torn and I just want to ball-up and cry, but I mustn’t; I dare not relax my defences.

There is a woman – a real harridan – and I think she might have some power. They do talk of Mother Russia all the time - perhaps that is her name. These people talk as if they hold dominion over the country itself and - Oh! - the plans they have. Such power they crave and with an endless supply of money on tap. And yet it is odd that they seem to despise wealthy people, for they dream up ways of robbing from them all the while. I hear their mantras through the thin walls of my cell:

“Being rich causes cancer in poor people, so rich people must pay for private medicine and for the NHS. Being rich makes poor people stupid, so rich people must pay for private schooling and for state schools. Being rich causes poor people to commit more crime, so rich people must pay for private security and for the police. Being rich is intolerable for poor people, so rich people must pay all the tax and ... still more tax. Rich people are evil, so they must be made to pay for everything and then die... so that nobody can be rich ever again.”

Today I overheard welcome news on the radio: Theresa May is to free the slaves. I would like that. Should anybody find these words – maybe my last words, my enemies are everywhere – I beg of you to inform Saint Theresa, for she may be my only salvation. I long for the day when I can once again say that I am NOT a number; my name is Ed Miliband and I am a free man. 

The vengeance of the little muzzie sod.

Over the weekend Anjem Choudary held an anti-alcohol rally in Brick Lane, threatening business owners with 40 lashes if they failed to bend to his will. This open threat of extreme violence in the name of sharia law has been steadfastly ignored by police, who continue to allow Choudary to spread his hateful dogma unmolested. Choudary is beyond the law now and will continue until all non-muslims have abandoned the region and he gets to establish his caliphate.

So, I thought I'd loosely adapt The Green Eye of the Little Yellow God, by J. Milton Hayes, because that monologue was written about another mad bastard. I hope you can forgive me. (By the way, I don't capitalise islamic references as I don't regard islam as a proper noun.)

There's a swivel-eyed, idle beardy to the north of The O2,

There's a bunch of hating muzzies in the town;

There's a broken-down society in the hands of Andy Choo,

And the crazy bearded bastard gazes down.

He was known as "Andy Choo" by the subs at Wapping News,

He was madder than they felt inclined to tell;

But for all his foolish pranks, he was praised on taxi ranks,

And by the ginger convert mongy ones as well. 

The ginger convert mong had worshipped Andy all along,

And his man-love yearning crush was plain to all.

He was nearly twenty-one and arrangements had begun

To clean up Tower Hamlets; kill them all. 

He wrote to ask Mad Andy if there was anything he could do

They met next day as he dismissed a squad;

And jestingly he told him then that nothing else would do

But the assistance of the Tower Hamlets Plod. 

On the night before the demo, Choudary seemed in quite a trance,

And they chaffed him as he puffed at his cigar:

But for once he failed to smile, and he sat alone awhile,

Then went out into the night to find a bar. 

He returned before the dawn, with his shirt and tunic torn,

And a gash across his temple dripping red;

He was patched up right away, and he slept through all the day, 

And the ginger convert watched beside his bed. 

He woke at last and asked if they could send his tunic through;

They brought it, and he thanked them with a nod;

He bade ginger search the pocket saying "That's from Andy Choo,"

And he found the note from Tower Hamlets Plod. 

It read “Do what you like, we’re not looking for a fight”;

And ginger’s eyes were strangely hot and wet;

He lead the sharia patrol and reinforced the muslim zone 

With the permission Anjem drunk all night to get. 

So if you go to Brick Lane now, you’ll find the offies all closed down;

And female faces banished from the street;

You’ll see filth and you’ll see squalor, it will make you want to holler,

But you’ll never find a copper on the beat. 

Because the place is Choudary’s now and to allah they all bow;

While treating ‘Andy’ as a prophet to that god;

An ugly stain has fallen on the heart of London Town,

And it’s the vengeance of the Little muslim sod.

Anjem "Mad Carew" Choudary,on the piss.

There's a swivel-eyed, idle beardy to the north of The O2,

There's a bunch of hating muzzies in the town;

There's a broken-down society in the hands of Andy Choo,

And that crazy bearded bastard gazes down.

In Memoriam

As we enter the deep midwinter, with our longest night but a mere week away I am reminded of the story of a couple of elderly Yorkshire parishioners and the fate that so often awaits the old and frail as the cold penetrates their bones and lifts them gently, compassionately, from this veil of tears we call life.

John and Mary were a gentle old pair, raised in the Methodist traditions of thrift and charity and lead a simple, wholesome life together until, sadly, Mary was taken from John’s side one recent winter. Married less than a decade after the Second World War and mindful of the sacrifices others had made that they should be free to do so, they had placed themselves at the service of the parish they had been too young to fight for.

Christmas, Easter, the Harvest Festival; for these celebrations a small army of church-goers helped out with the decorations and swelled the congregation, but week-in, week-out for the rest of many years the simple flower arrangements, bringing god’s bounty into the Wesleyan hall were all the work of Mary, with many of the floral tributes grown in John’s little, lovingly tended back garden.

When Mary passed away a collection was held to help out with the funeral expenses and thus it was that John was visiting the local memorial stonemason. He wanted a simple marble headstone but, what with the casket and the undertaker’s fees, his remaining funds were meagre. Fortunately the stone mason made him an offer that was just within his means; he could have her name and four words of dedication for the money he had available.

John thought for a moment of her devotion to the parish and to the church and to the Lord God himself and decided. “I would like it to read” he paused a moment and gathered himself as his voice caught in his throat… “Lord, she was Thine”. The mason scribbled down the valediction and taking a deposit from John, promised to have the stone ready by Monday. John shook his hand, put on his cap and trudged back home, alone through the snow. The weekend was hard.

Eventually Monday came around and John wrapped himself as warm as he could to make his way back down the lane, past the chapel and onto the little High Street. His old bones felt the cold wind as it tore through him, but he was warmed by knowing that it would not be long before he joined Mary at the Lord’s table. Entering the mason’s showroom he brushed off the few flakes of snow that had clung to his coat sleeves and got out his wallet to pay the balance. The mason removed a cloth cover from the headstone with what John felt was an unnecessarily showy flourish. He gazed at the work.

For a few seconds his silence dominated the room. Then John felt himself tremble, at first with disbelief and then with a rising anger. “Nay lad!” he cried “Ist tha mocking me in my grief? You’ve missed off the ‘e’ you fool” The stonemason blanched as he looked at the polished face of the stone. Sure enough, it read ‘Lord she was thin”. John turned away and fought back tears as the mason, embarrassed, took out his chisel and mallet and set to work. After a few minutes, he tapped John’s shoulder.

RIP, 'H', from Steps

John turned around to inspect the altered engraving. There before him, scored indelibly into the hard granite face of the headstone was the inscription “eeh, she was thin”

Stake Out

The Internet. CCTV. ANPR. I’ve seen the movies and I know the resources at the police’s disposal to track the waking (and sleeping) moments of each and every one of us. On a whim they can download files showing our every movement with transcripts of every telephone call or face to face conversation. Short of being individually tagged (and who says we’re not?) our lives are an open book to the authorities. Every email we send, every penny we earn, every journey we make. And if Hollywood were to be believed they can rain down pinpoint-accurate, laser-assisted smart bombs to take us out at will, guided by unerringly accurate three-dimensional computer representations of every building in the land. There is no hiding place.

Except for a master criminal with the resources, agility and intellectual prowess to circumvent their sophisticated weaponry nobody is immune to the surveillance state; we could be under the microscope at any – or all – times. Which is why I was a little concerned, a few weeks ago, to be told by my elderly neighbours that police had been banging on my door several times over a weekend while I was away. The Thought Squad! Of course, they must follow me on Twitter and read my blog. Damn; I thought that was a secret!

But no, I was wrong; it wasn’t me they were after, but the crafty, aforementioned and cranially equipped master criminal. Some things come back to haunt you. In this case it was the son of my former tenant, whose exploits I wrote about over a year ago - here. They moved out – errant tenant and her troublesome son – in October last year, after which I moved back in and set about eradicating their spoor for good. Electoral roll, council tax, utilities, etc… all back in my name and mine alone.

I never had a forwarding address for the tenants, but given that they have lived their entire lives dependent on state handouts and everybody around here knows the family I could probably find out where they live with a couple of enquiries. But apparently not the police, because I was visited twice, about three weeks ago. The first time was one evening when two cars and three coppers showed, hammered impatiently on the door and quite brusquely demanded to know the whereabouts of the lad. They were reluctant to accept that I didn’t know.

Then a couple of days later – a nice cop this time - who seemed to want to know much more about me than the kid they were apparently expending so many resources on finding. And then yesterday, I learned from my neighbours that plain clothed police had staked out the row of houses last weekend (when I was away again) and even climbed over my back fence (I assumed it was the wind that had broken the panel) to try the back door. After several hours my neighbour had challenged the surly character sitting on the wall opposite and he had reluctantly admitted his mission and that she’d broken his cover as unknown-bloke-sitting-on-a-wall-for-several-hours-in-a-not-suspicious-way-at-all. They must spend DAYS working on their legends.

“Well, he’s not in, next door, you know” said Margaret.

“Oh?” replied the seasoned detective, “and how would YOU know?”

“Well...” replied Margaret, “his car’s not there.”

I have no idea if they’ve found him yet. I don’t know, nor do I want to know what he’s done. He’s a fourteen year old kid whose greatest feat of spy craft is probably to never spell his relatively simple name the same way twice; he’s a little twat, not a criminal mastermind. Yet despite that, despite the fact he lives in a council house and is supported by welfare and has ‘special educational needs’ – presumably the need never to attend school - and is regularly in one sort of trouble or another, he has managed to evade capture by school, social worker, probation officer and the long arm of the law for at least fourteen months.

So, there you are, there’s my little story of Keystone Koppery. I dread to think how much that would have cost in police time and resources yet how revealing it is of our supposedly advanced world? How is it that people can be kept their entire lives on welfare yet nobody knows where they are? Or is it that inter-agency cooperation just doesn’t work; surely the police could just have asked the local authority? Or, given the several visits to my house, asked each other?

So, next time you hear news reports of the number of claimants there are, or the number of illegal immigrants in the country, or read about some enormous fraudulent welfare scam and shake your head, wondering  how it could happen… Or listen to the apologists who say how hard it is to get benefits without jumping through a thousand hoops and how hard it is to live on them and nobody chooses to do so… Or one side says they will help industry and another side says they will help the consumer and yet another side says they will stop global warming, the advance of the EU, the tide of immigration, the cost of living, etc, just bear one thing in mind.

Here's looking at you, kid...

If the combined might of the police, the courts, social services and the local authority can’t track down a thinking-impaired little shit, what is the possibility that anything you ever hear from on high is even remotely based on fact, rather than partisan fiction? Now have a lovely day and watch out for them spy cameras. 

Get a Grip!

Well the last few days have been a pain in the arse for we mere mortals and he hasn’t yet risen from the grave, so after back-to-back insincere eulogising and preening in the International Grief Olympics by politicians so mired in their countries’ grave economic troubles yet who were nevertheless available at the drop of a hat to fly thousands of miles to take selfies, the newspapers return to normal. That’s right, we’re back to being concerned about miracle diets, spying on the neighbours and wondering how obesity and poverty can be comfortable bedfellows. And Kim Kardashian's arse.

There have been millions of cubic metres of hot air expended in complaining about who was and who wasn’t allowed to compare themselves to you-know-who but one thing hasn’t changed – we all know that if there’s enough huffing and puffing, sooner or later the little piggies’ houses will be blown down. Or should that be blown up? Because I can tell you categorically that, for all the fine words, one thing will not have changed one tiny little bit and that is human nature. Remember, a hundred years ago we had the war to end all wars? Well, I just checked and it didn’t work. Not even slightly.

While you claim to hold up The Long Walk to Freedom to be the guide to the indomitability of human nature - a Zen-like acceptance of fate and a quiet determination to bring about peaceful change - the truth is more succinctly to be found in Lord of the Flies. If you don’t believe me, just watch. Watch your children in school fall under the thrall of influential troublemakers. Watch as they squabble over the most insubstantial of status trophies. Listen to the clamour for every faddish Christmas present and every stupid distraction from applying themselves to betterment. And then show me a successful parent who hasn’t been firm but fair. Or rich.

Because unless there is plenty – and there isn’t - you can only successfully lead by good example if you also have a bad example held in reserve. See my restraint as I resist the lure of the last bun on the plate, but be in no doubt I have a slap all ready for you in my other hand if you give in to temptation. Kindness alone rarely results in realistic expectations and Boris was right, some have less in their intellectual armoury; a bit of cruelty needs to be held in reserve and there’s nothing so cruel as the cold, hard truth.

While you look to the vanishingly few examples of sainthood on earth to change our world you can only ever be part of the problem unless you act. And if you don’t take control early on it gets out of hand; have you ever known a time when there were so many countries at war and so many populations rioting? You want to change all that? The answer is in your hands and there is no better time than the season of goodwill to make a start. So, get a grip and slap your kids silly for Christmas!

The Future is...

So much for friends, eh? The latest YouTube viral, with five million hits overnight, revolves around concerned friends convincing a drunk that he has been in a coma for ten years. Imagine doing that? Imagine waking up in a hospital bed, having been asleep for ten long years and then going out for your first encounter with the new world. I did:

So, big day today. Ten years? How much could things really have changed? The last I remember was stepping out into traffic and then… nothing. Just a fuzzy head when I woke up this morning. Everything seems to be working, although my legs feel a bit wobbly. Anyway, here goes. They say the past is a foreign country so logically the future must be too.

I’m outside and first impressions are… Wow, it’s busy. And there seems to have been some building done; it’s all so much denser than I remember. Both buildings and people - it’s so crowded. And people are so rude, bumping into me. And so alien-looking and strangely dressed. I feel a bit threatened, actually; there are groups of sullen young men staring openly at me in a challenging way.

Wait, I’ve got it. I remember I was on holiday when I had the accident and I must be still here, although I can’t entirely remember where that is. Of course, that would explain why all the signs are in scripts I can’t read and all the chatter on smart phones in tongues I don’t understand. It didn’t seem so odd in the hospital because the NHS is almost entirely staffed by foreigners anyway. Now I know I’m still in… where? My memory is still vague; I’ll see if I can work it out.

Most of the signs seem to be in Arabic, but there are other alphabets here too. That looks a bit Russian, over there, and there are a few in what looks like Chinese – but I suppose you get that everywhere. Oh, hang on, those young men are pointing my way. What have I done? Don’t you hate it when you don’t know the local ways? I would hate to cause offence just because I don’t understand the customs of the host country. How shameful to get deported for a breach of etiquette. Oh, god, they’re walking towards me.

I’m picking up my pace now and walking away; if in doubt, clear out, I say. But I can hear the clamour behind me and I think they are catching up. This could get messy. I’m lost now and I think I’m walking further away from the hospital. I’m the only white face on the street and I stick out a mile; pale and sweaty and flushed and afraid. There’s a barrier up ahead and beyond it I can see things are different; if I can just get past that.

Travel broadens horizons...

And suddenly I feel safer. I’m still the stranger in the crowd but the milling throng has thinned a little and I feel I can breathe again. Dare I turn around? For a few seconds I just stand still and control my breathing and then I slowly look back over my shoulder. My tormenters have stayed behind the barrier, draped across which is a banner written, at last, in English. I turn to get a better look. "Muslim area, it says, Sharia Law Here". And then it dawns: Bollocks. This isn't the future, I’ve just woken up in Tower Fucking Hamlets. 

Mandy & Me

Day four and he still hasn’t risen from the grave; they don’t make Messiah’s like they used to. As the Mandela Grievy Train ambles down the track, flanked by acolytes spouting fawning eulogies, left and right each claiming him as their own, you would be forgiven for thinking that the world economy, climate change and the sum total of global human happiness itself depended entirely on finding the right words to praise him; Hosannas in the highest. And every single commentator appears to have had a deep, personal and beatific relationship with Saint Madiba. My, the old boy must have put it about a bit.

Obnoxio the Clown put it all rather well in his blog on Friday. Me? I’m not much moved. Actually that’s an overstatement; I am as underwhelmed by all of this as I was for Marc Bolan, John Lennon, Kurt Cobain, Dozy Diana, Michael Jackson and all the other false idols worshipped by people who, frankly,  just haven’t thought it through. Because no matter what you think, no matter what flimsy fictional connection you believe you had, not one of them is coming back with the solution to mankind’s selfish, self-made problems. You have to do it for yourselves.

Tony Parsons wrote in The Sun about how Mandela made racism unacceptable. Palpable bollocks, of course because among some sectors of our supposed ‘community’ racism has gone from strength to strength, the likes of Diane Abbott and Lee Jasper proclaiming that black people cannot be racist while simultaneously spouting poison about the vile whites. In South Africa itself the race-inspired killings of white farmers continues unabated. So you’ll forgive me, Tony, if I don’t share your misty-eyed yearnings.

In Blighty, the criminalisation of the perfectly normal recognition of difference has made racism an industry – so I suppose you could say, in a way, that Mandela has done something for the British economy, although to be perfectly honest we did it to ourselves. We used to be a model of civilisation. Migrants came here to BECOME British - it was a worthy ambition. Now they aren’t allowed to integrate. No, they must form into ghettoes and occasionally foment sporadic violence on our streets. And not just here but all over Europe, although the UK establishment prefers to preserve the idea that racism is a uniquely British evil.

So, what did Mandela do for me? Well I have reappraised my life and decided I should no longer hide my real feelings. I should reach out to the wider world and embrace my deep inner humanity. I’m going to become a massive racist - you know, proper like; go professional. After all, having given up on productive activities it is one of the few growth industries left in the UK and lest you think I have taken leave of my senses, don’t worry, there is method to my madness.

You see, my ‘condition’ will be treated with disbelief and in this world of the so-called expert – the most gullible in the land being psychiatrists, diversity champions and race relations lawyers  – I will be diagnosed as having a treatable mental aberration.  They will conclude that my grief over Mandy (That’s what I called him, we had a special bond) has unhinged me and as racism no longer exists I must therefore be delusional. After a few months of treatment and re-education in the new secure psychiatric facility in Somerset I will be released and tell my story to the press in a public show of humility

Christmas - we celebrate the birth of Mandela

Then I can write a book – the Long Walk to Frome, or something - and so complete will be my redemption that I will become an advisor on race affairs. In fact, to finalise my transformation and show my deep empathy I will have my skin died a deep ebony... get the lips blown up… nose job – the lot. Then, when I’ve made my fortune I can retire to be with ‘my people’ on a Caribbean island where, in a show of solidarity I will only employ poor black folk on minimum wage to do my bidding. I’ll be heralded as a fucking Saint! 

Hard Graft

Medical expertise continues to astound as new procedures are pioneered and trialled and pass into operating theatre repertoire and few areas are so impressive as the art and science of the oft-maligned plastic surgeon. While subcutaneous organ repair and replacement saves lives, the more correctly termed reconstructive surgery preserves dignity. And neither is it new; despite people associating ‘plastic’ with the superficiality of the Swinging Sixties there is documentary evidence of a much more than skin-deep heritage.

In 'plastic' surgery the adjective denotes sculpting or reshaping and derives from the Greek πλαστική (τέχνη), plastikē (tekhnē), “the art of modelling” of malleable flesh. Documentary evidence describes medical treatment for facial injuries being carried out more than 4,000 years ago and physicians in ancient India are known to have used skin grafts for reconstructive work as early as 800 B.C. Of course, as in so many areas, progress was slow and not until the 19th and 20th centuries did techniques truly begin to advance; America's first plastic surgeon of note was Dr. John Peter Mettauer, born in Virginia in 1787. It was he who performed the first cleft palate operation in the New World in 1827 with instruments of his own design.

In medicine as in science and technology, it was war which provided the true motivation for improvement and it was the "War to End All Wars," that propelled plastic surgery into a new and more urgent prominence. Shattered jaws, blown-off noses and lips and gaping skull wounds caused by modern weapons required imaginative restorative procedures. Some of the best medical talent in Britain, France, Germany, Russia and Austria-Hungary devoted themselves to restoring the faces and lives of their countrymen during and after the war and modern surgeons have those pioneers to thank for their careers.

I was reminded of all this when I saw the recent graduation photograph of the son of a friend of mine. In the picture, young James stands so proud, grinning out of the frame as he clutches the fake diploma scroll and sports his hired mortar board and gown. But it could have all turned out so differently; James was born prematurely and with no eyelids and he may have faced a life of misery and ridicule had surgeons not acted so decisively.

Still in the incubator and with gauze covering his eyes and keeping them moist, the surgeon elected to try an innovative new therapy utilizing a graft of delicate and flexible foreskin to shape the eyelids themselves with tendons constructed from a medically neutral elastic fibre composite to allow the child to blink. Despite the frail constitution of young James after some long, sleepless nights he began to respond and grew up pretty much as any other child.

Viagra eye drops - make you look hard.

By the time he reached school age the scars were faint and in High School hardly anybody noticed the very slight differences in the shape of his eyes as they began to be obscured by the perfectly natural asymmetry of his face. He is, as his proud parents love to say, a miracle of modern medical science. And they have much to be proud of. Only to those in the know and even then only if you look very closely, can you tell that he is still a cock-eyed little fucker.

A Question of Trust

I’d like to trust people, I really would. But it seems that whenever I’ve tried, whenever I’ve taken people at their word, little if anything is ever forthcoming from their end of the deal. And if I don’t trust people in general, people I have actually met and shaken hands with, what on earth would convince me to trust any organisation whose main aim in life is to hold the reins of power over the entire country? I certainly wouldn’t rely on any government that claimed to operate in my personal interests; that would be very stupid and naïve indeed.

In today’s Autumn Statement there were no surprises and George Osborne pulled no gimmicky flowers out of any worn out sleeves. Unlike the opposition who are frantically trying to both sound tougher on welfare and be Father Christmas all at the same time, the coalition, from the empty begging bowl of The Treasury, are promising to do precisely nothing for me… or you, which is exactly what I want to hear. No tax cuts until at least 2020? Good. I can work with that. At least it’s honest.

On the other side of The House, while the gasping beached whale of Labour’s bloated welfare state coughs up its dying, blood-flecked sputum; while their left-wing purse strings are held so strangly-tight by their Marxist paymasters in Unite and Common Purpose; while the abject failure of their multicultural sabotage threatens to foment open revolt in Britain’s sink estates, they stick doggedly and unapologetically to their ultraviolent horrorshow* script. (*And yes, Nadsat and all it signifies is already here.)

Labour’s only electoral card is the emotive ‘cost of living crisis’, a meaningless rallying cry which they are daily flogging to death in the absence of any real policy or power. Relying on dependency, relying on people taking them at their word because they have done nothing else all their lives, Labour are openly promising to continue the ruin they have for so long wreaked on our economy. People who have never been independent of state subsistence will cling to that rock; the only permanent thing in their life so far. But nothing lasts forever... except the lies.

At least now we know that anybody who is a net contributor to the state will not see a penny back for their efforts as long as the Conservatives are in power. That’s better than it might be though, because if you listen to Labour’s rhetoric, the more you pay in the less you are expected to complain about it and they want even more yet. Given that the outcome of the next general election is by no means settled, the mere possibility of a return to Labour’s profligate idiocy and envy politics should signal a move, for those who are able, to leave this economy in whatever way they can.

More work for accountants as cash-strapped sole traders decide to minimise their exposure to income tax. More work for accountants as fewer and fewer limited companies declare any significant operating profits. More work for accountants and tax lawyers as every loophole in the code is exploited to the full. Lest you think it is all happy days for accountants, expect to see more and more cash-in-hand, under-the-counter dealings as taxable transactions go unrecorded and watch the black economy flourish as never before.

But whether it’s Labour or Conservative, either are powerless to resist the rule of the EU, and only real difference is how long it will take before the inevitable happens and British Socialism finally runs out of other people’s money. And you really don’t want to be here when that happens. I don’t see Greece and Spain clubbing together to bail you out when the government raids your savings.

A lot of people say they would vote for the party which tells them the truth. But you won’t. I don’t believe that. Only one party is telling the truth about Europe and that is UKIP, who you say don’t trust. But at least they have raised the debate, raised awareness and made it clear how futile the talk of reform is. You do have a choice, but you probably won’t exercise it wisely.

BRExit - one way or another

So, despite saying you despise them all you will still end up voting for the party that you think is most likely to put a pound or two a week in your own pocket – yes, it really is as petty as that. And if you do that, if you vote for same-old-same-old, you know what we’ll get? Conservative or Labour, the balance of power will end up in the hands of the LibDems. Do you really want that on your conscience? 

Bonkers Broadcasting Corporation

Needs must when the devil drives, as they say and times is hard. I’ve decided my not inconsiderable talents are wasted in the private sector so I might chance my arm and put in my CV for this job at the BBC.

Job Introduction

“BBC Television aims to be the most creative broadcast organisation in the world, bringing our audiences distinctive and high quality content in current affairs, factual, comedy, drama, film, entertainment and sport through our four television channels and multi-media services.

We are currently recruiting for an inspiring, persuasive and passionate Diversity Lead to play a leading role in delivering our ambition to become a pioneering industry leader on diversity, inclusion and equality.”

What do you think? Right up my street, yes? I may have ‘edited’ the following just a tiny wee bit, in order to make the language more accessible and the true purpose of role itself a little clearer:

Role Responsibility

Reporting directly to Big Brother Central, you will have an undercover role responsible for driving the BBC’s agenda, leading attitude change and inspiring other senior leaders to perform their patriotic duty, embrace the project and build it into everything they do.

You will work closely with the Talent Network and BBC Academy to ensure our diversity projects such as My Dear Ol’ Mammy Yoot, The Stephen Lawrence Trust & Anyone-but-English Apprenticeships deliver successful outcomes for Big Brother. Working with colleagues you will drive the longer term success of a range of activities focused on defeating the oppressive white influences of our shameful history.

Working with the senior leadership team and TV Change team, you will lead the glorious revolution towards a culture of regular review of delivery against politically corrected audience objectives, both at ethnic and ideological level. You will also work with insight teams to alter perceptions of the needs of audiences which make up minuscule percentages of our population, developing our diversity plan to decrease our market penetration and relevance to insignificant.

The Ideal Candidate

You will be a passionate advocate for multicultural mediocrity on all platforms with the enthusiasm, energy and commitment to ensure equality and diversity creates programmes unpalatable to a traditional British audience.

Outstanding stakeholder, change leadership and soft brainwashing skills are a pre-requisite and you will have the ability to engage senior leaders in the war against history and engender a passion for diversity ahead of quality in these leaders.

A politically motivated editorial understanding is essential along with extensive practical knowledge and experience of how diversity can be rubbed in the noses of the right within the TV production environment.

You will be unnaturally enthusiastic when addressing sensitive diversity issues and will be fluent in the use of synergistic, atavistic, automatic, systematic and hydromatic strategies to drive the diversity agenda forward like greased lightning.

Finally, you will possess the communication skills to freely engage in the clandestine promulgation of meaningless, aphoristic and trite sound bites gleaned freely and irrelevantly from the very worst of current, in-vogue, leading edge management claptrap… going forward.

Coming soon - 1066, the True Story

Oh yes. Get ready for the all-inclusive new Winterlude extravaganza, to be screened next May in a culturally sensitive green monotone to celebrate the 1927 liberation of Gumbogia: “It’s a Wonderful, Multicultural, Bongo-Bongo-Land Life!”

Thumbs up?

Over the weekend I was involved in an intriguing, if sometimes wayward, discussion on the nature of human development, which strayed –as it always must – into the taboo areas of evolution, genes and inevitably (whisper it only) eugenics. No consideration of the worth of humanity can be complete without at least lip service being paid to the possibility of mankind being consciously or unconsciously involved with shaping its own future form. Or are we solely at the mercy of our selfish genes?

Then I came across an intriguing report about child development and how it may be harmed by the too early adoption of unproven educational fads; I’ve warned you repeatedly about this – but did you ever listen? You may have seen the YouTube clip of the baby with the iPad and thought “Aw, sweet” as you watched her try to manipulate a magazine like a screen. Well apparently children are now growing up without developing some of the very early motor skills that allowed us to use our uniquely big brains to dominate the planet. Where will we end up? I bring you a short tale from the future...

------------------------------

So, here we are again, just three weeks to Christmas and so much to do. Fortunately the lights were switched on a month ago, as per tradition, because it’s part of our benefits package, innit? The tech department spent half of October getting the displays ready and programming them in, so now I can control ‘em from my iPad. I can make Santy climb the chimney (whatever that is) while Rudy circles overhead, nose glowing bright red – like in the traditional religious song I remember from when I was a kid, all those years ago. I’m fifteen now, so I am old enough and wise enough to know that the story of the birth of baby Santa is only partly true, but is it always wise to worship him if you want presents.

Years ago, so my ancestors told me, not only would I have had to wait until eighteen to vote, I would have had to put the lights up myself. Sod that for a lark. My Great, Great, Great Grandmother – she’s 82 you know – tells us some wild tales about how they used to just keep them up all year, but that’s just stoopid; I mean with all the other mandatory celebration light shows where would you find the space? We need at least six sets of illuminations to please all the important gods - Argos, Amazon, Apple and all that lot. But the techies seem to have it under control and it does keep them out of mischief.

I call them techies, but they’re more like slaves really, poor dears. They seem ever so human at times – they even speak a form of English. But they’re not like us and their language is far too complicated to convey subtle meaning the way we do with just a few basic grunts. To do their jobs they have to use pieces of metal which they grip in their claw-like fists. I can never remember what they call them but it sort of rhymes with ‘jewels’. Quite skilful really; I mean, if you’ve ever seen monkeys I always think they have a lot in common, especially when you see them climbing. And sometimes, I swear, they really do seem to understand the orders we give them!

The next stage of evolution

It’s the same with them ones on the telly- the scientists and the weathermen and the ones who talk about how everything works. How boring their lives must be though, having to work all the time, and – I shudder at the thought – having to actually pick things up in the ugly way they do. Really though, as human as they look, they are no better than simple animals, falling short of the highest pinnacle of human development. For all that money spent on their education they will never be as advanced as me. Thank goodness nobody in my family was ever born with opposable thumbs.

If Only

Well, who would have thought that Tony Blair would keep on cropping up in the news? Wendi Deng Murdoch, indeed? And that damned Chilcot Inquiry just keeps on keeping on. What's to be made of it all - surely we can accept the words of  senior politician? If only.

With my sincere apologies to Rudyard Kipling:

IF you can keep your lies when all about you 

Are changing theirs and blaming it on you,

If you can trust your vote when all men doubt you,

But make allowance for their voting too;

If you can spend and not be tired by spending,

Or being lied about, spread still more lies,

Or being hated, don't give way to hating,

And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can spin - and not make spin your master;

If you can promise - and not make deeds your aim;

If you can meet with Nissan and Mercedes

And treat those different trade blocks just the same;

If you can bear to hear the crap you've spoken

Twisted by knaves to make more crap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,

And stoop and sell 'em up to worn-out fools: 

If you can make one heap of your expenses 

And risk it on one turn of bribe-and-graft,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

And never breathe a word about your craft;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

To serve your turn long after honour’s gone,

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

Except the lie which says to them: 'Hold on!'

If you can talk with crowds and keep your secrets,

Or oligarchs - nor lose the common touch,

If neither foes nor loving friends can fleece you,

If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

With sixty seconds' worth of falsehood spun,

Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,

And - which is more - you'll be a politician, my son!