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Thank God we've got the Olympics coming here this year so everyone will be able to make a fortune from all the punters but it's annoying that all the cheap tat produced for the Olympics business is going to be made by children in sweatshops in the Far East. Come on Dave, stick up for British workers; surely there's enough children working in sweatshops in the east end to make all this tacky rubbish in the UK.

The other good thing about it all is it has forced the authorities to tidy up London and kick out all these idle untermensch lying around and littering up the place in some squalid camp. Which is what the authorities should be doing considering we've had to pay billions to make Lord Coe and his cronies multi-millionaires, not to mention the social security benefits we'll have to find for all the overseas "visitors" who decide they would prefer to live on benefits in a 5 bedroom house in the UK rather than a mud-hut in the back of beyond.

Now the odd thing about that is that quite often you can read in the papers the story of some dopey woman who gave up a large house left to her by her first husband to live in a mud hut with some bloke she met on holiday often in somewhere like The Gambia. Usually with the tag line, "And then I realised Mswengi didn't marry me for my mind but to get a British passport - and there's no Waitrose in the village either". Surely HMG could instigate a quango to arrange a swop between people like this? It'd save a lot of bother and save the women involved from being made a laughing stock in front of the entire nation.

But wait a minute, maybe we should encourage the mob to lie around permanently at St Paul's as it might put off some of the "visitors to the Games" from wanting to stop.

Too late, the Old Bill have already water-cannoned the rabble off the streets and smashed up their personal belongings. That's probably the first wash most of them have had this year. And why do these people think anyone would take any notice of them in the first place? If you saw a couple of unwashed tramps coming towards you shouting communist slogans, you'd cross the street. Oooh look! A man who lives on lard-burgers, with no sense of personal hygiene and who lives in a tent, I must listen carefully and take notice of what this important person has to say. Did I write important person? I meant impotent nonperson.

I went down to my local supermarket to buy some foie gras and rocket sandwiches when I'm accosted by a number of these grubby placard waving ruffians demanding the "Right To Work". Most of them are unemployable and live in squats, hardly the sort you'd want to spend your coffee break with, are they? Right to Work? Really, young man? Then go and have a good scrub with hot soapy water, short back and sides and shave off that ridiculous looking beard and moustache. Maybe then you'll be able to find gainful employment if you bother to put on a shirt and tie; you'll have to ask your college lecturer what they are. Anyway, I don't know what they're all complaining about, they could always find work as prostitutes and drug dealers I bet.

28 January 2012

Stand at ease, men. That includes all of you dressed up in your wife's clothes too. I don't suppose I can tempt you with another mince pie, can I? Thought not. Well that's Christmas excess over again and all that's left are the numerous presents we've all received from our loved ones; except those amongst you who are social misfits with no friends. This year, as I no longer have Ian to satisfy my every whim, Mahendra stepped into the breach and bought all the items on my Amazon wish list and George and Bob brought enough wine to bathe in; although I preferred to drink it personally.

Not surprisingly, Santa couldn't find my stockings so didn't leave his usual range of materialistic items for me because S'manfa was wearing my stockings - and suspenders, corsetry, dresses, make-up, etc. I'm beginning to wonder if he's (Sam) one of the Neither Sex I've been reading about as he always visits dressed as a man and then dresses up in my clothes; I just wish I knew who he was. You've probably been reading and giggling about that lunatic couple too who've decided to dress their young son up in pink tutus until he becomes a stroppy teenager and won't do as he/she's told so this genetic experiment is doomed to failure. And good luck with that when you're old, feeble and grey and he/she punishes you by taking all your money and sticking you into a nursing home to repay you for all the ridicule, bullying and humiliation he/she suffered as a child at the hands of his/her school friends, teachers, dinner-ladies and general public at large. Now you'll suffer exactly the same sort of torment at the hands of those paid to take care of you but over a much longer timescale.

Sam/S'manfa tells me he's in danger of being sacked by The Home Office because of redundancies, or incompetence to give it its technical term, so I've advised him to go into work dressed up in women's clothes and tell everyone that he's undergoing sex-change therapy and is looking for a boyfriend or girlfriend. Let's see them sack her/him then! Can't you just imagine the strained look of delight and discomfort on the face of the Department Equality and Diversity Obergruppenfuhrer when S'manfa relates the process to her in the Ladies?

One of my Christmas gifts was a copy of "Police Brutality 2". This is a compilation of film clips showing the Old Bill hilariously beating the living daylights out of a dissolute bunch of unwashed rioters, protesters, travellers, mad hippie-women and assorted ne'er-do-wells; none of which you'd want to invite into your home, even if they were a close relative. It's so funny watching them being pushed face first into a fence or hit about the head by a couple of bobbies and then self-pityingly weeping into the camera, usually with a whimpering "We shall not be moved". Ha-ha, oh yes you will you simpleton. Oh and a taser, what great fun they look; boy does this make the monkey dance when they're hit a couple of times.

This was a much better choice than the usual DVD of some left-wing, alternative comedian who thinks it the height of sophisticated comedy to shout swear words repeatedly at the audience.

Poor old Quilp spent his New Year in hospital, not through his usual over-indulgence but due to his implants exploding. This is his belly implant not his breasts; I take it he does have breast and belly implants for what else could explain his comely girth and shapely figure? I'm sure he's not that shape through his own efforts?

Now, what have we got to look forward to in 2012? Well the good news is I'll be keeping my fee at the same level as last year otherwise the only people who'd be able to afford to visit are benefit claimants. I have no qualms about taking money or social security cheques off them but I do have some standards. I will, of course, increase this fee during the fortnight of the Olympics as most visitors to London will be foreigners and probably not understand that 500 Euro/US Dollar/Rouble/Yen notes are only worth about a fiver in the UK. Well the "Games" are going to cost £24 billion and we have to try and defray the costs somehow. I blame you all for this state of affairs.

29 February 2012

Sit up straight children and pay attention. You can have an enjoyable hour of taking dictation and practising your penmanship to take your mind off what I'm going to tell you about the man who came here. In fact, he came 5 times in 80 minutes so you can imagine the floor was a bit sticky afterwards. I have to say it was a large quantity even after five too, although I can't comment on the quality. Thankfully Quilp turned up later so I put him up in a hog-tie and he managed to roll around in it for a while and as he was blindfolded, I used his shirt to mop up the rest. Don't believe it? Well neither did I until I saw it happen. I'm well aware that the likes of you probably masturbates as a hobby but even so, you'll probably be hard pressed, as it were, to ejaculate 5 times in a week so I suggest it best you don't try. I hope. And you know full well that excessive masturbation will make you look and act like a demented chimp and lead to simple-mindedness, which might explain a lot in your case; certainly the dribbling.

As this is a mighty talent, I did suggest to him that he tries to get a booking for a television programme on the Beeb, something like the One Show perhaps, where he can sit in the background banging them off while the host interviews the guest. It'd certainly brighten up the weather forecast to have him on there and would take the edge off all those scare-mongering stories about Global Warming and it wouldn't worry small children because masturbation is taught in schools nowadays. Or maybe an Arts show perhaps? The Turner Prize is always looking zany exhibits pretending it's art so maybe he can become a piece of performance art. In the pose of Rodin's Thinker, perhaps; at least you wouldn't have to wonder what he's thinking about. The only drawback is he was well-spoken and well-mannered so he might not be Beeb material; they prefer to dumb down as much as they can.

So, if you're looking for a challenge and you're too dull to go to university and not fast enough at running to qualify for the Olympics or the Army, this might be just the job opportunity you've been looking for: Masturbator. Put it on your CV for when you go for a n interview.

Call The Doctor

No, call the midwife! At last! The BBC has managed to make a rather good programme for once, this time about midwives in London's East End in the fifties, instead of its usual poisonous mix of socialist propaganda, indoctrination and cant. Could it be because it didn't contain any of the Beeb's ubiquitous sneery right-on metropolitan elite Ack-Tors and "comedians" hamming it up like a packet of Mattesson's? Or maybe because it was set in a better time in the 1950s when people of your ilk knew their place and kept to it with a touch of the forelock, if you please.

How on earth could the Beeb cope with broadcasting a programme set in a time before socialist insanity took over all walks of authority in the UK and demanded we humbly apologise for every thing in the world? Before we'd been brain-washed and re-educated by the Komissars at the Equality Commission racket not to hurt or offend anyone's feelings? This is a time before the east-end was colonised by the sub-continent and turned into a Taliban out-post with a mosque on every corner. As you can see, the re-education programme failed on me because I won't be cowed by these intolerant bullies.

Surely the Beeb would be tempted to throw a couple of mad mullahs into the mix demanding the midwives wear dust-sheets to save all men from being driven mad with desire and lust at the mere sight of a seamed stocking? Or a couple of social workers removing new-born babies from the homes of white working class parents because they are ill-educated Christians and the social workers have to hit their quota of adoptions. And why weren't there any dockland shop-stewards hectoring his union members to occupy the docks for the benefit of the workers and bravely defy the Toffs? No bleached blonde harpies arguing and screaming with each other over each other's husbands in the local pub either. I can proudly say I've never seen an episode of Eastenders but I understand this appears to be the Beeb's idea of life in Poplar today. And the children, well-disciplined and polite street urchins? Heaven's above! Much better to have them join a street gang and have some sort of organisation in their lives than to be afraid of being caned for cheekiness.

Yes, it was a very strange time so well done Auntie Beeb for showing us what a dreadful country the UK was back in the 1950s. Oh, maybe it was some form of indoctrination after all.

21 March 2012

Broadening Your Mind

For those amongst you who haven't had to surrender your passport to the authorities or are only allowed to travel overseas in handcuffs with a police escort, I've added a couple of links on this site to some foreign Dominatrixes. I'll let you find them yourselves. Don't start drooling when you visit their sites because it's not a good look; a bit like wearing a baseball cap askew.


Oh mister Postman look and see, if there's a letter in your bag for me. Because that's what you're paid to do you dunderhead. What is wrong with people these days?

Ah! But what's this, a big thick booklet written in 26 different languages arrives on the doormat from the Olympic Committee instructing us on how to treat old people and women in burkas who're visitors to our capital city for the greatest money making scam on earth. As if London doesn't have enough youth pumped full of drugs already. Let's hope the athletes don't start committing street crime as well otherwise the old Bill will never be able to catch them if they run off. They couldn't catch the lovable rogues who broke into my house 5 years ago so they've got no chance of catching someone who can run a 100 yards in 10 seconds. For those of you who didn't know, like most Londoners, I have been burgled and despite remonstrating with the police regularly for them to capture these thieves and push them down a flight of steps, the malefactors have managed to evade justice. Unfortunately, lovable old Nick was going away next day and the only thing they stole was his travel bag so I wish I could have been there to see their faces when they found his underpants and false teeth. If only to slap them.

Anyway, it's about time we Londoners got something back for all the billions we've poured into this Olympic racket and this guidance manual will the first of many instructions from the Equality and Rasse Gestapo telling us how and what to think, I'm sure. But we all know how to treat old people anyway. You physically and verbally abuse them; that's how care homes and NHS death camps operate, isn't it? It seems so judging from the exposes by undercover reporters we see all the time on the box. They get force-fed a halal chimpanzee burger laced with a liquid cosh or given a slap to keep them quiet while they have their life savings taken off them. That sounds like the treatment most of the visitors coming to London for the Games will receive to me.

But how do you treat a woman in a burka? NO! You don't shoot to kill, you idiot boy. You frisk them for hidden weapons obviously because you never know if they're really a jihadi dressed up in women's clothes. That's not because a lot of jihadis enjoy relaxing in ladies' underwear on their Fridays off. No, it's because these jihadis are very clever and masters of disguise so even if they're about 6' 6" and 25 stone they can don a burka and still get past our eagle-eyed UK Border Guards and police who are not allowed to arrest anyone suspicious, only white middle-class people in case they're going to say something racist.

I understand that Osama was wearing a pretty pink cami-knicker set and stockings from M&S and make-up when he was shot; that's why they dumped his body at sea. I bet all those sat around Obama's desk watching it all unfold had a hard-on when they saw that. Even Hillary.

Ahh the Americanos. I like Americans; they're a little bitter that they never ruled the rest of the world, unlike us British, but it's great to make fun of them nevertheless. I had a visit from my old bondage toy, Lee who flew in from California. He works for the CIA so he was probably here to take a couple of Asian born "Brits" back to Leavenworth for a bit of waterboarding. Hey, why don't they make waterboarding an Olympic sport? At last there's something the jihadis would be good at and they get the chance to win a medal.

You can have that idea free of charge Lord Seb, I'll just take a cut of the TV rights and any repeats the BBC show over and over and over and over again.

Beyond Our Ken

Also on my doormat is canvassing literature exhorting me to vote for comrade Livingstone as London Mayor; they probably think we have very short attention spans if they think we'll vote for a Jew-baiter again.

This time I'm going to vote for the mad-woman from the Green Party for London Mayor because I want it to be made compulsory for everyone to live in a tent city, stop shaving,wear corduroy clothing and eat tofu beans. Do you think that's a vote winner? What about throwing in a couple of film clips of polar bears shot in summertime. That's shot on camera, not with a rifle. And a class of schoolchildren holding candles, singing in whispery voices something like "Imagine". If they can get that past elf'n'safety there won't be a dry eye in the house. Priceless.

Ooh, that reminds me to contact Red Ken to see if he can explain to me a way to avoid paying the full amount of income tax on my earnings. I'm sure he'll know a way of dodging the higher rate tax band. Anyway, only the downright honest get caught paying the full amount of tax so why should Red Ken pay 50 percent of their earnings over to the taxman when all they do is waste it on feather-bedding the underdeserving poor.

They just don't get it, do they Ken? Not with a tax loophole they won't.


One of the lovelier aspects of forcing the likes of you onto your knees and forcing the buttock cheeks apart to insert a large butt-plug inside your bottom is the diverse people who overcome their nerves and turn up. Around 2004 I met a chap called Mark who told me he would talk constantly and tell me how to dominate him. So I gagged him and told him, "from now on you'll be Silent". So Silent he became. Unfortunately, I've just heard Silent passed away near the end of February.

19 May 2012

Sit up straight class and pay attention, I have some good news for you; well those of you who can read English - no, not the fact that you will be able to fill in your unemployment benefits claim form without the need for assistance - we've got a new story from Axyloid, which I'll be uploading soon. That's right, even though he's held in a Super Max prison in Colorado, he's managed to smuggle out his story written on toilet paper but try not to imagine what he wiped his bottom on during this process. And thankfully I managed to get Quilp to unravel the paper and transcribe the story on to computer disc. He should be out of hospital soon having recovered from a bout of dysentery.

Poor Quilp, with his hospital stays and the weather, he hasn't been able to hold his regular "Burn A Koran" barbeques with his EDL mates this year in Romford. And with the dreadful showery weather, he's not been able to douse the burning Koran in his time-honoured way after a gallon of Bombardier Ale. He's sooooo annoyed with these water companies with their drought warnings.

Five Go Down To The Sea

Well, actually there's going to be three of us going down to the sea in Devon between 9 and 16 June so if it's not sunny weather, as there's supposed to be global warming, I'll be straight on to the Met Office and ask them why they're still unable to forecast the weather 5 days in advance but claim they can forecast the weather 50 years down the line. I see another Climate Change zealot has recanted his madcap beliefs and admitted he might have exaggerated his wild-eyed claims and made a mistake in his data. Well, that's all right then, no harm done; just pay back all the money you've received from government subsidies and close the door on your way out, Professor. Yes, you lunatic, climate change: it's what the weather does all the time. So I'm going on holiday in June and I expect some traditional English summertime weather: wet, windy with some sunny showers i.e. changeable.

Stair Lift To Heaven

Damn the politically correct Equality Racketeers! They've inspected these premises and demanded I install a stair lift for those unable to manage the stairs. Even the lame, sick and weary have the yuman right to be caned on the bare apparently and I have to make it inclusive to each and every miscreant. I tried to explain that I normally drag everyone upstairs by their scrotum but that only brought raised eyebrows from the overpaid council jobsworths. So now I can offer a session whereby you're dressed in a gimp suit and tied into the stair lift and sent up and down until you're sick. I have to tie you in because elf un safety won't allow me to send anyone up on it without being secured. So if you want a damned good thrashing and can't manage the stairs, just let me know and I'll book you on the council's two day Stair lift Safety course and get you to fill in the risk assessment form.

Just don't trip over the rail at the top of the stairs and fall down them.


Great news about 2012! No, not the Olympics, idiot. The end of the world has been postponed, hopefully for another 5 billion years. Ha, I bet the Mayans didn't see that coming. End of the world? They'll be predicting that every computer will crash at the millennium or the ozone layer will disappear and we'll all die from sunburn next. Oh that's right, they already did; how's that hole in the ozone layer going nowadays, experts? If there's anything to learn from all of this it's never believe someone who claims to be an expert. Anyway, what simpleton puts their faith in to a 1,000 year old almanac produced by a primitive society that couldn't invent the wheel? A global warming fanatic maybe but then they'll believe anything they're told by men in white coats. It's just a shame all those mugs invested in spending Armageddon in a survival chamber for $30,000. And no, you can't have your money back.

But now the end of the world has been averted by British ingenuity and the world has yet another reason to be thankful to Britain, I can offer another great deal for the many people who do not wish to spend 5 hours a day on the tube travelling to work while the IOC Board Members are whisked around London in the lap of taxpayer funded luxury. Where do you apply to become a member, I wonder? Oh and thanks to the International Olympic Committee for the snub regarding my suggestion that we make Waterboarding an Olympic sport; no doubt it'll be a highlight in 20 years time when the Olympic Games are held in Islamabad or some other God-forsaken place. Oh well, at least we've still got Fox-hunting and Badger-baiting and other great sporting traditions in this country to enjoy.

For a cost of $30,000 I can offer an exclusive spa retreat in a cage from all the incessant babble of excitable TV presenters pretending they care a toss if one drugs cheat has run a split second faster than all the other drugs cheats. Don't worry, there won't be any British drug cheats because most of the British team are foreigners. Imagine that, three weeks without having to watch the BBC; bliss. And don't even dream of trying to go abroad because you'll never get back into the country with the hold-ups at passport control. I don't understand passport control; surely anyone entering the country not wearing socks must be a foreigner and therefore should go to the back of the queue. Well they won't complain, most of them are only coming here to receive treatment from the NHS. Anyway, you might come back home and find your house has been squatted by Occupy London or a tribe of Roma.

Your other option is to jump in the river and end it all. The only problem with that is you'll have about 25 fireman turn up to watch you drown who have only been trained to wade through a puddle; and most of them will be filming you on their smart phones to upload your undignified death on YouTube for all their "friends" to laugh at.

Far better to bring me the keys to your house and I'll instruct Quilp to house sit for you while you're spending 3 weeks in perfect peace in a rubber bondage bag. Just make sure your fridge and freezer are well-stocked. Think of it as sheltered accommodation that we put old folk into when they're no longer of any use: you'll be isolated from the rest of the world with nobody to talk to and only a quick fleeting visit once a day for you to be fed and perform your ablutions. I'll sell all your belongings on eBay and take your life savings to pay for your board and lodgings. This is the socialist welfare state in action! But hey! don't moan, at least when you've been released back into society it won't be the end of the world, just the Olympics. And I doubt if the estate agents will be able to sell your house in three weeks so you should be okay. Did I say the rest of your belongings are in the garage? I meant in the garbage.

They Think It's All Over

It is it all over now isn't it? This London Mayor's job, which only seems to attract the most dissolute characters imaginable all hand-picked from the criminal classes, lunatic asylums and lawyers. I don't think I can bear reading about what the Socialist Alliance will do with my tax dollars if they get elected as I'll wet myself with laughter, or any of the other lying politicians promising anything just to get a vote. I especially loved Red Ken's desire to make London a beacon of Islam; that's a big vote-winner Ken if ever there was one. Of course, one should always be suspicious and sceptical of anyone who wants to serve in high office as most of them only want to serve themselves. I don't know why we bother to vote; we've lived in a one party state since 1997. You don't think it's a conspiracy? Blair, Brown, Cameron: BBC.

I always pop along to the post-election celebration parties to fill up on the free booze and food on offer. You should always go to the socialist campaign parties as they have the most expensive wines and the finest foods although I suppose those things would be wasted on the likes of you. I often wear a pair of sunglasses and pretend to be blind from birth at these affairs as you can insult everyone, especially the women by calling them Dave. It's great to run my fingers all over someone's face and then ask if they've got any toilet paper. I also twist the old Stevie Wonder joke on them and tell them I've suffered a hard life being blind and black too because of all you damned evil whiteys: that's always a jaw-dropper. And they simply accept it because they think they're being inclusive; no one would dare tell me I'm white as they're all afraid of being called racialist. You want white liberal guilt, I'll lay it on you with a trowel.

Don't bother with the Green Party though as you'll only get some vomit-inducing bean curd and halloumi quiche and they'll never win anything so you'll be surrounded by miserable hippies belly-aching that it should be law that everybody lives under a hedge "for the good of the environment". No wonder they're all so flatulent and you'd think the women would shave. Losers.

And poor old Red Ken! Crying! Soooo funny to watch him in tears over a scripted eulogy from paid actors to his many worthy attributes; never mind Ken you can go home and cry over all the money you've saved by tax-efficient accounting now you've lost; or join the House of Lords. No wonder they don't want to abolish it. We can all cry over the ones that got elected as they're all the same.

I always love to see weasel politicians crying, especially when they've been collared by the rozzers like that thieving old girl who managed to get off fiddling her expenses because she didn't feel well and wasn't up to being publicly humiliated in court. You ought to remember that ruse when you get pulled up in front of the beak for stealing women's underwear or such like. You can say you're not feeling very well and they'll let you off. Works for ex-MPs. Probably best not to pretend you've got terminal prostate cancer though otherwise they might ship you off to Libya to see if you can be cured, like that murdering Arab.

High court judges are so gullible anyway they'll believe anything a barrister tells them, such as it would infringe the defendant's yuman right to destroy western society and their ability to sponge off tax-payers if they were deported, m'lud. But we shouldn't make fun of our hard-working judiciary as apparently its contempt of court but all those who make a living from criminal activity like judges, barristers, lawyers and such are perfectly capable of being contemptible without any help from the great unwashed what so ever. I didn't realise judges were so sensitive anyway; I just thought the court usher popped down to the local lunatic asylum and picked an imbecile at random, dressed him in a wig and gown and made him sit dribbling and drooling on the bench. It makes as much sense as employing a learned judge when you consider the idiotic sentencing.

4 June 2012

Stop fidgeting with yourselves and pay attention at the back! You can have an enjoyable hour of practising algebra later. You'll be delighted to know that I've uploaded Axyloid's latest serial, The Convict for you. You should get mummy or your social worker to read these stories to you as they might just prevent you from following a life of crime and ending up in prison guarded by sadistic wardresses. And you wouldn't want that, would you?

I shall be away on holiday from 9 - 16 June inclusive so please no emails although I accept that Mr Faisal Obongo is going to write to tell me important information about my lottery win that I didn't buy a ticket for. This year we'll be reprising 2011's successful tour of Devon. Time to dig out the burkhini; I wonder if black is still this year's in-colour. I don't want to look a fool on the beach; not in front of all those well-groomed Devon folk anyway.

This Happy Breed

Oh, isn't it great to be British? Especially when there's a great celebration on, like this Jubilee weekend. I do pity all those from inferior nations who have never had a great Empire to control, or been part of the British Empire, or whose nation has never experienced such great glory as us Brits or are a republic. Still think you can control us and make us Europeans, Angular? No wonder everyone wants to come here to live. How lovely to see everyone enjoying themselves without worrying if they're offending anyone by waving the Union Jack. But then, maybe, all the council jobsworths and Equality Gauleiters thought it healthier and safer to just let everyone get on with it and stay at home instead of poking their noses in.

It was reassuring however to see the obligatory bunch of grubby, unkempt protesters grunting their chants to overthrow the country and instal some Leninist collective to rule over us. These chants appeared to be a bit half-hearted so I don't know if they regretted missing out on the party or were frightened that, for once, their bullying wasn't going to work as there were lots of Guardsmen walking around with loaded rifles. And oddly, we didn't have any benefit scrounging jihadis burning the flag this weekend. They usually do that to try and annoy everyone as it's their yuman right. How's the plan to turn the UK into an Islamic republic going lads? On track, is it?

Ohhh, dear old Auntie Beeb, surely you missed a trick and could have produced a two-hour documentary on the benefits on being a republic with a President-for-life Blair and his First Lady, Cherry? In the name of "balance", obviously. But where was the dear leader Blair on the day? Surely he was invited? Oh, that's right, Tone, you scrapped the Queen's yacht, didn't you; maybe that's why you weren't invited.

And great that the Beeb aimed their commentary at infants to 10 year olds too, I don't know what everyone's complaining about. Why do we need stuffy old historians telling us boring facts when we can have pretty Children's TV presenters telling us how amaaaazin' everyfing is. But the Queen didn't blub her eyes out at all and tell Matt and Alex that she really, really wanted this cos is amaaaazin', innit? So perhaps everyone else can now follow the Queen's lead and stop all the faux sorrow when the cameras are rolling.

I painted Quilp's face in red, white and blue in honour of the jubilee but I think I might have used indelible inks as now he's complaining he can't wash it off. Thank heaven I painted his face in the pattern of the Union Jack and not some bizarre psychedelic pattern otherwise he would have looked really stupid. This is reminiscent of the time I boot-blacked the inside of his leather head mask with Kiwi polish and when he took it off, after the session, looked like Mammy from Gone With The Wind. I don't know what all the other drivers thought when he drove home as I didn't bother to tell him about the boot polish before he left.

I bet even Sheikh "Andy" Hamza joined in the celebration too although this might have been the prison warders decking him out in bunting for a laugh. He wouldn't be able to take it off as he hasn't got any arms below the elbows. If fact, they could place all sorts of zany things on his head and he wouldn't be able to take whatever they placed on his head off. Or string him up and say he committed suicide. That'd be good. I'd like to have that as a screen-saver; it'd replace the video of a couple of jihadis blown up by US drone.

4 July 2012

Me: “So this is sunny Cornwall, is it?”

Exasperated Yokel: “No, this is Devon!”

Me: “Well it isn’t sunny either, is it?”

Just the same as last year! But last year the weather cleared up and we had lovely sunny weather. This year we suffered a tempest of gale force winds and driving rain so I blame you all for this. You should all have been re-cycling harder to improve the weather conditions even though those madcap climate change fraudsters now admit they’ve been exaggerating their data all along to receive benefits from the government and it might all be down to that big yellow thing in the sky after all. Who would have thought it? Well not those who fell hook, line and sinker for another “We’re doooooomed!” scare-story. They'll be fooling you that the Maldives are sinking into the sea next. Better send them some Foreign Aid money; that'll help.

Anyway, holidays. Who wants them? Ours was so bad we’ve decided to take another one in the same place in Devon next September; it's funny but it all seemed to make perfect sense when we said it.

Still, at least we won’t have to suffer a football tournament this time; almost every holiday we have, there seems to be a football tournament being played somewhere in the world. Thank God the Poles and Ukraines didn’t have those appalling African trumpets like the last lot. And what, exactly, is the point of Africans blasting out a monotone wail on their damned Vuvuzelas anyway? Apart from being target practice, that is.

And how refreshing it is to see the stout yeomen of England walking the streets of foreign lands dressed in full Crusader regalia with Christian Red Cross emblazoned on their tabards without the fear of being attacked by some demented, swivel-eyed left-wing harpy aghast and screeching about hurting the feelings of foreigners. What a strange country this has become when the English flag offends those who live in England.

I was also delighted with the high standard of education in history exhibited by the east Europeans too as the mere sight of rival football supporters brought out all ancient hatreds from past tournaments; or invasions as the Russians and Germans call them.  

Cooking Fat

Always use a Spoonerism when you can’t think of a pun. Yes, I’m going to get a cat primarily to keep lovable old Nick company while I’m thrashing someone’s bottom to make them see the error of their ways. I just hope I don’t turn into one of those deranged old girls who live with about 30 rescue cats and the neighbourhood kids make fun of; and six of the best for anyone who makes any references to Mrs Slocombe’s pussy.

I didn’t have a cat as a child so I’m not sure how to take care of it but I suppose I’ll have hours of enjoyment pulling its tail and tying things to it like balloons to annoy and frustrate the poor puss-cat. Of course, I whiled away many hours of fun torturing small animals but then, didn’t we all as children? I suppose this is why I enjoy hare-coursing so much and I’ve written to Lord Seb to request a couple of tickets for the final at London 2012 but I haven’t heard back yet so I suppose he’s busy counting all the money he’s made from organising everything.

News from America!

Steve, from Ohio has written to tell me his bottom is still marked from his visit to me in September; that’s nine months. Why, oh why, won’t the Lympix Committee make caning a Lympic sport? We’d win hands down and bag loads of gold medals at this as no-one in the world canes as hard and accurately as British Dommes. And don’t moan about it not being a Lympic sport, more people would turn up to watch a good old caning than most of the recognised “sports”. How many people follow BMX Cycling or Handball during the rest of the year, I wonder? “Oooh! I’ve got a ticket for the Trampoline heats; I’ve got no idea what happens and I'm not really interested in it but I’ve paid a week’s wages for the tickets when I could have gone to Miss Spiteful’s and had a damned hard caning instead. Oh good, here's another man jumping up and down on a trampoline”.

This is not sport, it’s big business; why do you think it costs £12 billion? And what on earth are all those “ordinary” people doing walking around with the torch? We ought to have celebs carrying it - that would bring the crowds in, if only to throw rotten tomatoes at most of them. And don’t have a band playing national anthems, get the athletes to sing their respective anthems and we can vote for our favourites on a premium rate hot-line. 100 yard sprint? No Anton and Usain will be dancing the Quickstep together. Classic TV.

Anyway, never mind the Lympix, think of Steve’s buttocks; stop thinking of your own enjoyment and being so selfish. 

Doctor In The House

Are there any more doctors’ strikes coming up? I imagine not having doctors in the NHS death camps probably saved the lives of many of the older inmates which is not so great if you’re expecting to inherit from your elderly relatives. Still there are always a couple of “nurses” and care-workers you can pay to refuse them food and water. You might be able to claim the expense on your tax bill if you’ve got a good accountant.

I pop up to the local Totenlager now and again wearing a white coat and walk around writing Liverpool Care Pathway (euthanasia) on patients’ notes. Hopefully someone notices before the Almoner calls for a priest. 

Give Me An O

At last someone in power has seen sense and listened to me about being tough on education and the causes of education. Hopefully, once they’ve re-introduced O levels, they’ll bring back the cane to show these little brats who’s in charge. I don’t see what’s so difficult about teaching anyway. Like any parent, you simply pick your favourites and admonish the rest. The teacher’s pet should be a child from a rich family so their parents can bung you a few quid to improve their child’s exam results and fill in the answers yourself. That gives the child an inflated sense of their own worth and should give you lots of enjoyment in the years to come when they get their comeuppance. Also, the kid should be clever as it’s so exasperating trying to drum knowledge into the head of a dunce.

After that, you pick the pupil who you’re going to pick on to be the butt of your humiliating put-downs and criticisms and for the rest of the class to laugh at, known as the class clown, and then the boy who’s to take the blame for everything that goes wrong and receive the cane. If there’s any pupil you don’t particularly like, you can praise their musical ability and encourage them to participate in the X Factor so they make a complete fool of themselves in front of a braying mob and the rest of the nation. After that, you give the rest of the idiot spawn a book on trigonometry or some such nonsense to study while you surf the internet; and all with 20 weeks holiday a year. What’s not to like?

But of course, the minute the cane’s re-introduced you can guarantee that an assortment of screeching harpies and hand-wringing do-gooders will be up in arms about cruelty to children but at this point you can carry out a scientific experiment.

Now class, pay attention, this is a test to see if my ideas are right regarding discipline or the soppy namby-pambies running the Home Office and Social Services.

You are a smug, right-on left-wing liberal with crazy hippie ideas that everyone should live in peace and harmony and all are equal. Aum!

Sigh! You are attacked and robbed by a street gang of 13 – 14 year old thugs whilst they’re high on drugs knowing full well that they won’t get caught or punished if they are caught.

What do you do?

a: Call the police to report the assault in the hope that they can be bothered to stop their car to look at you with a blank expression and pretend to be interested or able to solve this crime?

b: Run home and change your sodden underwear and begin soul-searching and tell everyone that they’re the disenfranchised victims of society and need love and understanding and we must all try to help them out of poverty?

c: Demand the return of hanging and flogging for these feral louts and insist that the slattern of a single mother who raised them have her benefits stopped immediately now it’s you who’s been a victim of crime and you’ve now realised that these criminals are nothing more than scum who need birching?

Six of the best for anyone who gives an incorrect answer.

1 August 2012

On your marks, get set, GO! Hey, no! Wait! That doesn't mean you run off and claim asylum! You're here to run a race. Oh dear, the first of many who would like to live in Britain at the expense of the taxpayers, discounting BBC presenters of course. But wait a minute, this is great news, if all the competitors do this think, of the Lympic team we'd have; we'll win every medal.

Is it over yet? oh, no, it's just starting. How much longer are these Lympix going on for? It's been on the BBC non-stop for the past two weeks. Oh well, we'll just have to grin and bear it, I suppose.

Now, I realise a number of you are probably caught up in the mass-hysteria of the whole affair but, I'm very sorry, I simply find sport a bore. I would much prefer to have someone for the high jump than watch it on the mind-altering idiot box in the corner.

Thank heavens we've got the opening ceremony out of the way now so we don't have to listen to all-knowing Beeb presenters teasing us with clues about who will light the flame, who will ring the bell, who will make the tea. Why couldn't they just get the Queen to cut a ribbon? Did they really make her jump out of a helicopter? These damned republicans will always take a liberty. I didn't see it myself (out) but I have read about it. I'm not surprised they turned it into some left-wing, multi-culti diatribe, I just hope they didn't show Britain in a true light otherwise we'll be the laughing stock of the world. And showcasing the NHS? What, did they starve a pensioner to death? All to a soundtrack of rap and hip-hop and fireworks at the end to keep the great unwashed happy.

Why didn't they enact something about the British Empire? The battle of Rourke's Drift featuring Lts. Wenlock and Mandelson perhaps? Or the D-Day landings? And to tie in the last Lympix in Peking, they could have featured the Glorious Glosters holding off the Chinese in Korea. But that would probably upset our Equality Gauleiters and nobody under the age of 40 would understand it anyway.

There must have been slebs involved though surely? We can't have any celebration nowadays without a sprinkling of slebs and politicals waxing false sincerity, inanity and sentimentality. Oh, and tears! Please tell me the audience were crying for the benefit of the cameras.

And why is that MP complaining about the ceremony being left-wing multicultural nonsense? It was only the opening ceremony; if you want to complain, do it about the left-wing multicultural cr*p we've forced to endure in real life. It might have been forced upon us without our consent but it doesn't mean we have to like it.

Glad I missed it.

Is it over yet?

30 August 2012

Is it over yet? Ohh, don't tell me there's more Lympix to come? How was it up to now? I managed to miss most of it, well all of it actually except the closing ceremony, which I found rather embarrassing. Did we really need all those old pop stars miming and a bizarre display from George Michael cavorting in a leather outfit? Sooooo 1980s. What was wrong with the massed bands of Scottish pipers with the swirl of pibroch or a re-enactment of the 2010 election results? Or Disgraced ex-PM Phoney Blair telling us he's pretty straight kinda guy. Yea, we know what kinda guy you are Tone. Amaaaazin'

Still it must have all been amaaaazin' because everyone said it was, in fact everyone used the word amaaaazin' so often I thought they'd been told to say it by the Beeb. In fact, almost everyone said "Bringing communities together," "Inspire a generation" and "Amaaaazin'" so often that sports people must be incredibly dull and boring individuals with little or no imagination or they're afraid if they don't obey orders from the Poliltburo and do as they're told, they won't get on the idiot box. But then, aren't you all?

Anyway, I'm never one to miss out on gloating over lesser nations or unsuccessful competitors and rivals to Brits, so Yay TeamGB. Oh, I hate that name; can't we be Great Britain? Never mind, we can't have everything we want, can we? Even if we did win most things.

But what happened to the "All must have prizes" ideal? Teachers have been trying for years to save the hurt feelings of their more awkward and ungainly pupils by banning competitiveness in sport and now the Lympix comes along with only Gold, Silver and Bronze medals to be won. And it's inspired a generation too. Oh dear, another one of your ridiculous egalitarian philosophies bites the dust Harriet; you really are much more trouble than you're worth, you know dear.

Still it was very well-organised considering it was the British authorities handling everything. For who can forget, or would want to forget, the Millennium Dome fiasco with Cherry Blair lustily singing "Auld Lang's Syne" like a drunken slapper at midnight, next to the Queen. So it's just as well they bribed the tube, train and bus drivers to turn up and work after all. And it was comforting to be ordered about and told where to go by a 14 year old uniformed Pimpf, even if I wasn't going to any of the events whilst the security guards looked as though they'd be more at home with a machete and an AK47. Thank God the army were available to help out and keep order, inbetween fighting a war.

Yes, there was meant to be an F on the end of that word.

It was very quiet here when the Games were on so I blame you all for that. And you will all be punished for it too. Thankfully it's picked up a lot since the ending ceremony, which saves me from becoming a shop-girl or someone who annoys you in a call-centre. Damn these Equality Gaulieters and they're crazy demands, I have no desire to be the equal of some skivvy; I'm their superior!

Oh God, it's started all over again so what's on the idiot box? What? A comedy about Muslims? I know they're funny with the way they dress and we all laugh at them but a TV programme? Has the Beeb gone mad? How soon before the first fatwa? Communities coming together? Probably in a civil war sort of way.


Some of you may have received emails purporting to have come from me. Rest assured I probably wouldn't write to the likes of you but if you do receive an email, it will show my full name, not my email address. And I certainly won't be offering you a job opportunity as some of these emails lead you to believe. So if you receive an email like that, don't open it but delete it because it's spam. Then write to me and request I give you a thrashing.


Yes, I'm going on holiday again, this time to Devon. Same as last time. Hopefully the won't be as bad as last time. 15 - 23 September.

13 November 2012

Okay children, sit up straight and pay attention. I'm glad to tell you all that I've returned from holiday and I'm now going to give you all six of the best just in case you've been up to mischief. The holiday was really lovely but I caught a stomach bug and had to take another week off afterwards. Don't snigger!

Since then I've seen my old friend Ricky; the boy who turns up in a naval uniform, this time complete an orange steel helmet. God knows what the neighbours thought. His bottom still blisters and bruises like a ripe peach when I hit him; but hey he deserves it, he threw an egg at someone. Also, a message from Steve of Ohio, who's still marked on his bottom after a year.

Crime and Punishment

First the good news, now we're being allowed to beat burglars to death should we come across them at home. I've been on the blower to the Yard to demand the names and addresses of all the local tea-leaves so I can send Quilp around to sit on their faces until they croak. I've not heard anything yet but they did say they'd send a couple of bobbies around early next week to have a quiet word with me. Hopefully I'll be able to publish a list on here soon so we can all go around their homes and give them a damned good beating. Who wouldn't want to do that? They do mean we can beat them to death in their home, don't they? Not wait for them to be caught in the act.

Whilst on holiday, I did read that prisoners were now going to be treated on the NHS when they get sick. That's got to be a cruel and unusual punishment, surely? They might only have been sent down for being a mass murderer or posting insulting tweets on the Internet but killing them off in a death camp is a bit strong, isn't it? you'll have a yuman rights weasel after you, Home Secretary.

But when you think of it, it's a brilliant idea to let the Elf Service take over the Prisons. After all, the inmates of the NHS are already wearing pyjama suits so it wouldn't be that big a change and most inmates can wander about to have a fag outside or buy some real food in the restaurant so it's a bit like a high security prison already. And they could make the inmates work for their board and lodge too; sewing mailbags and such as they're only lying about in bed all day. If they don't work, then they don't get their medical treatment or any hospital food. And once they're worn out, they can go straight on the Liverpool Care Pathway. What a funny country we've become that treats its respectable OAPs like death camp prisoners and vice versa. Welcome to the 21st century socialist utopia of Britain.

Auntie's Knickers In A Twist

Isn't it delicious to watch the liberal left tie itself up in knots over something of their own making? Like the right-on BBC being found out procuring youngsters for their over-rated top stars. What is it the BBC stands for? Bolsheviks, Buggerers and, - what does the C stand for, I wonder? But it's the Beeb's own fault; they really should have known better. If you're going to defame and bully someone you really must make sure it's someone who can't fight back; like calling some old woman a bigot or ejecting and old man heckling Jack-al Straw at a Labour conference. Not some rich, powerful millionaire with a speed dial button to Novak and Good, compensation lawyers to the rich and famous. The Beeb must have been so relieved for Obama to have won the US election to try and deflect public interest from the Uncle Jimmy scandal when, whoops they did it again! What were they thinking? Oh, right, they weren't.

And all the liberal great and good tweeting their disgust at rich toffs taking advantage of impressionable youngsters. No not Lord Prescott poking his secretary; he's paid the price for his infidelities with the humiliation that we now all know he's hung like a cocktail sausage. No, it's got to be Tory Toffs to suit the Beeb's left-wing prejudice; have they blamed the Thatcher government yet? They will. But what on earth is wrong with the UKs intelligentsia tweeting their most inane thoughts for everyone in the world to read and see how stupid they are. And, as it turns out, wrong. I hope they'll be tweeting from their libel hearings, that should be worth following. It's not as if these tweets are worth reading anyway but hey ho, airing one's lofty opinions and wise thoughts for the benefit of the untermensch are a great source of pleasure to them while they make a complete fool of themselves in front of the rest of the country. This is why you should visit a Dominatrix and not bother tweeting, you can keep secret the fact that you're an abject imbecile who can't be expected to eat a jam sandwich unsupervised.

And while all this hunting for nonces was airing in public it was an interesting eye-opener and jaw-dropper to find out that socialists Harriet Harman and Pat Hewitt once campaigned for incest and paedophilia to be made legal in the early 1980s with their Civil Liberties Council. That's not something you speak about these days, Harriet, is it? I've never been more relieved that I'm not related to either of them.

Talk about taking a liberty. What do you have to say about it all, Shami?

The Cat

Yes, I'm not quite sure how but we've ended up owning a cat. This is not a cat I can use across your back to beat you with whilst your strapped to the St Andrew's. Although, maybe....

No, this is a real cat, well a kitten really, with only one tail and any double entendes about pussies and you can enjoy the contents of the cat's litter tray. At no extra cost. It is quite useful though. It's really good for wiping things on, like my hands after eating a deliciously buttery foie gras sandwich; you know how greasy those things can be. It should also be good for wiping a blood-stained cane on too although rest assured that all canes are thoroughly bleached and cleaned properly after a sound caning. Only a fool would consider a cursory wipe on a cat sufficient before giving someone else 144 strokes with a cane.

It's also handy to practice rope bondage on too. I love the way it looks at me trustingly before I wrap it in inescapable rope. Oh, how it struggles, it's so funny. And the tail is great to attach it to things like chains, balloons and heavy weights. And you can pull the cat backwards by it too.

So what dread, foul name have we called the little puss-cat? I wanted to call it Death-Fang or Hell-cat but as it's lovable old Nick's cat, he's called it Binky. Yes, Binky. I once had Sam act like a cat for a bit of frottage (with a whip sticking out of his bottom to imitate a tail) and called him Binty so not far off. However, Binky is sometimes changed to Stinky and, at the moment, called Pooh; as in Pooh, you dirty kitten. For those of you who are interested in cats, ours is a Felix cat.

17 December 2012

Settle down all of you, it's not Christmas yet and I'm going to give some algebra to solve. That's much better than dreaming of Christmas, isn't it?

Cat Woman

For those of you waiting for news of the adventures of Binky the cat and imagining I'm sat here wearing a pair of comfy slippers with the cat on my lap and a bottle of gin, I'm afraid you're going to be a little disappointed. I'm sorry to tell you that Binky passed away a couple of weeks ago; no, not from being tied up and put into a sack and thrown into the canal. Or by being swung in a small room. Of course, he might have died from embarrassment at being called Binky but that was loveable old Nick who chose that name. The vet told me that some kittens are born with a kidney disease and this is what saw off Binky; he was very lethagic and dehydrated at the end. We'd only had him about 10 days and spent about £300 on him.

I did take a couple of photographs of him and you can see a picture of Binky here. As you can see, he appeared to be possessed by Beelzebub so it might have been for the best otherwise the Satanic cat might have ripped out our hearts as we slept in our beds.

Anyway, RIP Binky


A few of you are aware that I often walk up to Borough Market from my house in Woolwich, a distance of around eight and a half miles. Don't ask me what that is in kilometers, I wouldn't know. If I lived in France, I would be able to tell you how far I walk in kilometers but I don't, I live in England so I will tell you in miles. I just wish the BBC would understand that simple premise and speak in mileage rather than in tongues.

Anyway, a couple of weeks ago, I noticed a Middle-Eastern chap about 20 years old, walk around the corner wearing sweat-pants. Then I noticed he had his penis in his hand. Naturally although I've seen rather a lot of these, I had to do a double take to make sure it was what I thought it was. He looked rather smug about his member until I swung a punch at him.

Yes, I took a swing at him! It might have been a weak, girly slap, but it still wiped the stupid grin off his face. What did he expect? He didn't pay me

So let this be a lesson to you all. You can get your organ out in front of me and you can have some violence, but you've got to pay the fee.

I bet he won't be trying that again in a hurry; not with me anyway.


As it's Christmas, I thought it was time to take loveable old Nick into the local NHSS death camp for a check-up and this is always a good time to visit the lame, sick and weary in hospital; to cheer them up of course. I do this by regaling them with all the food and Christmas treats we're going to enjoy over the holiday; well I doubt if they'll have much Christmas cheer especially after we've written LCP on their notes, for a giggle. There are always plenty of free lunches about on the geriatric wards too as the hospital guards place their patients' meals out of reach so waste not, want not. And it's the same gunk you have to spend a fortune on in the laughingly entitled hospital "restaurant", so win win all around. And it's always fun to walk around the clincially obese fatties' ward and write Nil By Mouth on their clinical notes.

On The First Day Of Christmas

My true love gave to me
A partridge in a pear.... what the fu... ?

You have bought me what? A what? I treat you as badly as you deserve to be treated and you think I'm going to be happy with a present like that?

So the world is going to end on 21 December and you have bought me a partridge in a bloody pear tree. That's providing of course that these native South American indians were able to accurately foretell the end of the world but somehow failed to foresee the arrival of many white devils in floating houses from across the sea and armed with rifles intent on stealing their gold.


Well at least I can suggest a place to plant the damned pear tree.

Yes, it's Christmas Winterval with all the hell that entails so please feel free to make me happier by buying me presents. I'm afraid I haven't bought any myself as I'm using the excuse that the end of the world is going to happen to avoid spending any cash. This is the wonderful time of the year when you get to watch your children excitingly rip open the presents you carefully chose for them and then you can enjoy the look of disappointment on their faces because you haven't bought the latest computer game to run on their brand new i-Pad. This is the ideal time to tell them that you're going to put them into care and buy yourself a new motor instead. That'll teach them to be so self-centred and to appreciate you a lot more.

This year, like you I suppose, we'll be feasting on a nut cutlet, sprouts, halloumi quiche and to finish off: bean curd pudding with a small dollop of tinned cream. Luxury! But as they say, "Exercise often, eat wisely, die anyway". So I'm going to throw all that muck into the bin and enjoy a traditional Christmas by indulging in the seven deadly sins: Avarice, Lust, Greed, Sloth, Gluttony, Wrath and Pride. What a wonderful celebration we Christians have when you can experience all those things in one day, and sometimes, all at once! No wonder all those jihadis are angry and screaming to behead someone; they need to calm down a bit and become Christians. That way they can begin to enjoy life a bit more. Cheers!

'Stralian Sam has begged me for the past four years to use him as my Christmas card and just to hurt his feelings, I usually ignore his requests and use someone else. However, as this is the season to be jolly, I thought I'd jolly well relent and use him on this occasion. This year I've decided to go all traditional, just don't ask what I did the holly.

So to wish you all a happy Christmas, here's this year's Christmas card.

Old things here