The Circle of Life?

The view from the left – as exemplified by the cosy huddle at the end of the also-rans debate last Thursday night – is that 'the rich' can stand to be squeezed as much as is necessary to pretend that the failed experiment of perpetual welfare can be extended forever. Parasites don’t kill their hosts quickly, they just use them until they need them no more, then hatch from their pupal state and fly off from the desiccated and dying husk to lay their eggs on another unsuspecting source of protein for their ravening offspring. But of course all this presupposes that the host will remain in one place long enough to facilitate the lifestyle of the blood-sucking little grubs.

It is a simple matter to divide the national wealth by the number of inhabitants and declare jam for all, but that calculus totally ignores the way in which that wealth is created. As Dominic Sandbrook writes: Those on the left have been ramping up the anti-austerity rhetoric as if all we need to do is “blame the bankers, soak the rich, promise billions for all and pay homage at the shrine of the NHS” The trouble is this form of left-wing, fiscally innumerate bollockry is attractive  only to those who have no ambition to create value, employ people or take responsibility into their own hands. While those brought up to expect Mother State to provide believe that we all deserve better, those who do the providing don’t take kindly to being labelled as the bad guys.

A little fable:

A vicious, uncaring ‘far-right’ scummer takes £200 out of his current account to go shopping. He pays for everything in cash, watching his pocketed liquid assets dwindle as he makes his purchases and mindful of his intent to go for a drink with friends later makes sure he has enough left to cover the evening and his busfare. This is their occasional treat and they spend a happy few hours catching up with each other’s news.

On the same day a lovely, caring, socialist credit to society cashes in her Jobseeker’s Allowance and manages – with the aid of her several maxed-out cards – to buy several new outfits for summer, a PlayStation 4 for her nine-year old and still has enough cash at the end of the day to go out on the lash with friends. At three in the morning, after a raucous night of it they are skint and have to do have to a runner from the taxi driver who takes them home but that’s okay as he ought to have insurance to cover it.

The next day they have a well-deserved lie-in to recover as the boring old Nazi brownshirt goes to his dreary job in order to help cover the cost of the glorious workers’ revolutionary welfare state machinery. 

The End

Vote Labour, SNP, Plaid Cymru, TUSC, Green Party...

This – and many variants - is how magic money works and we are wading through a trillion and a half of it as a nation. But our worker has a wry smile on his face as he trudges to his workplace because he has been grafting for years and saving his money and he intends to step off the UK productivity map as soon as he can. Workers retire, or leave, or become ill, or just stop working. The response of socialism? We need more drones, from anywhere we can find them and we need to tax them harder because to the parasites the host is a mere resource and not an equal. Well listen up lefties, the host is not only dying but becoming extinct.

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.

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.

The problem with families

I see the experts have been at it again with this report into criminality in so-called 'feckless families'. You have to love an expert; they pour millions of pounds and years of research time into discovering what most of us have known all along.

Over the years experts have revealed some 'startling' correlations:

• Children educated at grammar schools go to better universities.
• People who work harder usually earn more money.
• If you pay more in benefits than for work, people will choose benefits.
• Flooding a region with immigrants increases racist attitudes.
• The bigger the government the greater the cluster-fuck
• The European Onion[sic] - see above. And now,
• Problem families are, ahem, 'a problem'

The 1942 Beveridge Report identified five "Giant Evils" in society. (How much better if that had been 'Five Giant Elvises'?) These were named as squalor, ignorance, want, idleness and disease. And Louise Casey's £448million, three-year study has discovered what the neighbors would have told her in minutes - the five giant evils have proved to be more resilient than all the misguided efforts to eradicate them.

Charles Darwin posited the principle of natural selection, in which nature favours the survival of those mutations most suited to exploit their environment. In this case the environment is the welfare state and it seems the fittest mutations are the very same incestuous, abusive, criminal scum themselves. Many of nature's most successful species are parasites, which not only manufacture more copies of themselves, but do it at a faster rate than anything else. (Is this starting to sound familiar yet?)

For years governments have engaged in sticking plaster policies - treating the symptoms, not the disease - in the hope that the ailment might clear up on its own. (Or sometimes in the certain knowledge that they'd only be in the job for a couple more years, so sod it.) But after decades of increasingly expensive treatments it's clear the cancer has spread. 

The only way to get rid of many parasites is to destroy the host and even the Labour Party experts are now catching onto the fact that society as a whole is no longer willing to foot the bill. But the host has grown too big and, as the Eagles once said, "They stab it with their steely knives but they just can't kill the beast."

Maybe not. But isn't it about time we starved the fucker to death?