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31 January 2013

Settle down children, Christmas is over and you can all look forward to a nice examination at Easter to test your knowledge.

My own Christmas began with Quilp turning up at my door wearing a Santa Claus onesie and his bicycle clips to pester me when I'm busy icing the Christmas cake. You can imagine the shock. He'd brought me a bottle of sparkling Rose Lambrini for the Christmas table, which would go very nicely with the poached salmon, turkey, gammon ham and all the trimmings. What a waste of money buying all those bottles of Sancerre and Chablis when I could have bought a £2 bottle of skull attack for Chavs. Didn't they do an advertisement with women swilling this stuff back, dancing like whirling Dervishes and falling over? Or is that a trailer for "Street Wars - Saturday Night Special"? It's hard to tell the difference.

Christmas always brings about a ton of rubbish to get rid of as well; no not the presents you take down Cash Converters because you don't like them but the waste paper and empty bottles. I'm always mad about re-cycling so I gathered it all up together in a black bag and labelled it "From Santa" and told Quilp to take it, so he was probably expecting a lovely surprise on Christmas morn when he opened the bag. I don't understand all this grumbling about re-cycling; I find it easy enough to re-cycle. Quilp probably fly-tipped the bag onto Clapham Common anyway. Did I write "From Santa"? I might have written From Satan by mistake.

Anyway, it's over now, and as any modern day teacher will tell you lot, "get on with your class-work while I search the Internet for pornography otherwise I'll have you work the answers out in Imperial - without a calculator."

Don't you just want to punch anyone about the head who says "you lot" or "the kids"? Or is it just me?

Mistress Nadine

For those of you allowed out on your own without a social worker or probation officer to accompany you to ensure you don't pester women, I've added a link to Mistress Nadine in Coventry. You can find it here. Her slave wrote to me on her behalf so she seems well established and well worth a visit.

I mention the social worker and probation officers because I know your sort will probably be well-known to these authorities. I've had, myself, dealings with some of you who are forced to wear a tag on the ankle and it's very difficult to put a pair of stockings on over these things. And wearing handcuffs is like wearing comfy slippers to some of you. So don't be so selfish and remove the tags before you visit; you can always explain to the judge later.

Make sure you're on you best behaviour and wash behind your ears if you visit a Dominatrix. But this good advice for you on any occasion and something your mother should have taught you when you were young. I just hope if you do decide to visit a Dominatrix, she doesn't turn out to be your mother.

Burns Night

No, not some homage to the haggis by an incomprehensible, wild-eyed, whisky-sodden Scot babbling on about "yon sonsie face" to the swirl of pibroch, but a public branding. Yes, some Domme is going to publicly brand her slaves with a number: 269. As the men are all volunteers, I can't wait to see what the elf and safety killjoys and compensation lawyers are going to make of all that. Will they have to wear hard hats? The naked volunteers not the H&S spoilsports as they normally wear high-viz jackets, steel-capped boots and hard-hats; well if you're going to walk around and act like a idiot, you might as well dress like one so we can all recognise you and keep well away.

I wonder if they wear their hard hats for having sex?

Will the woman doing the branding be forced to wear goggles and fill in a risk-assessment form? What about the smell of burning flesh on passers-by? This will keep council busy-bodies employed for months. And what about weasel compo-lawyers? Thank heaven most of them are fully employed hounding British squaddies on behalf of arrested Iraqi jihadis otherwise they'll be suing everyone in a 50 foot radius. Anyway, who could they claim compo off if everyone's a volunteer? Probably the local council as they've got loads of taxpayers cash. I hope they're the sort of volunteer you have to drag there kicking and screaming on the end of a dog-lead. That's always great fun.

But then I go and spoil it all by saying something stupid like, "I'm a vegan". What the.... Sigh. I thought it was too good to be true.

I can't believe they're going to spoil this festival with a protest about eating meat. Haven't these people got a badger to save or a tree to hug? It's not as if they're going to roast the participants afterwards is it and serve them up with roast patatoes cooked in duck fat? Although a good roasting might be a great end for the branding volunteers and I know many of you would enjoy being roasted. And no-one's being force-fed horsemeat burgers against their will like in an old people's nursing home, are they? Oh well, if they need any suggestions how to spice up the carrots and parsnips they can give me a call; I've got a few ideas you won't find in Delia's cookbooks.

Won't Get Fooled Again

Oh, yeah? Well how come our PM, David Chameleon promised to give us a say on cutting off foreign aid to Europe and everyone now thinks he's going to give us a vote on whether we continue being slaves in Das vierte Reich? If he wins the election. Yeah, right. As if the Gaulieters in Brussels are going to give up their meal ticket. Didn't he promise that before? How did that turn out because I can't remember what the result was. And a politician wouldn't lie to us, would they? And didn't Tone promise us a referendum too? He must have forgotten to organise it with his civil serpents, probably too busy invading countries so compensation and yuman rights' lawyers can make a fortune representing insurgents. Foul-smelling, slimy, treacherous, renegades out to make a fast buck off the backs of the taxpaying punters, as they are. No, that's the lawyers not the Afghans, Iraqis or Keenyans; that's a given with them. Talking of which, how is Mrs. Blair doing these days? Don't hear much about her since she was evicted from No. 10.

Well let's hope we have the vote before all those Bulgarian and Romanian Gypsies come flooding into the country otherwise they'll all be expecting to enrich our lives with their concertina playing, pick-pocketing, ATM scams, begging and Beeg Ishyou magazines. Not that I have anything against them, you understand, I'm more than happy to re-distribute wealth to the needy by being robbed or scammed and they do make a very nice cup of coffee where they work in the coffee shops. No, it's all the old folk who'll have to be forced out of their homes into Nursing Home Prison Camps or onto the Liverpool Death Pathway by social services who'll be hardest hit. I'm sure the SS will only be doing it for their own good anyway as they know best as they keep telling us. But I'm sure the elderly will be relieved and happy to know, as they shiver in their front rooms, that their taxes will be going towards child benefits for those who have newly arrived here with nothing and making them happy and content in their five bedroom new-build townhouse. The old might even welcome a bit of company as they're starved to death in a modern hospital. Ahh, our NHSS: the envy of the world as politicians never tire of telling us. From the cradle to the grave, and in some cases straight from the cradle to the grave. Maybe they should invest in a conveyor belt.

Nurse Ratchett, more Soma for the patients, in case they start to wake up and realise what's happening.

Pay Up and Look Big

Always the best policy when settling the bill. So you'll be pleased to know that I've kept the fee the same again this year otherwise the only people who'll be able to afford to come here will be benefit claimants with about six children.

But if you think you should pay a bit less because: "it's you and everyone has told you, you're special", might I remind you of my usual thinking on the subject. If Sir feels he's in line for a discount, maybe Sir would like to ask that kind Mr Sainsbury or Mr Tesco for a discount on his weekly shopping bill. Let me know how that pans out for you.

I Have Seen The Future

But it doesn't work on Windows 8 so I'm going to have to change a lot of my software. Great fun, and not only that I'm going to have to learn how to use Dreamweaver to update this website so I suppose it might be a while before I update it again. However, if you're a geek and an expert on Dreamweaver and would like to show me how to use it wearing a frock or slave harness, let me know.

2 April 2013

Oh, look class, over by that hedge, there's a badger. Someone get me my gun so I can shoot it. Well we have to do something now we can't chase foxes to death wearing a red coat. Anything to annoy those toffs, eh "Lord" Prescott? Thank heavens someone has taken it into their own hands to start killing the foxes around here as you can often see a dead mange-coated verminious beast stretched out after eating some poisoned meat. Can we eat badgers? I rather think we cannot as they sound rather disgusting. Not as nice as horsemeat. Never mind, venison will shortly be on the menu as it's going to be culled and we can eat them instead. Mmmm, venison pate, delicious. That should upset a good number of the tree-hugging vegan animal liberationists. My day is not complete unless I have angered these sanctimonious lunatics by eating a veal sandwich or half a pound of foie gras. Funny you never see them campaigning about halal meat.

But what are we to cook game and farmed animals on? We're running out of gas and power stations; and gas is so expensive that only politicians and benefit claimants are able to afford to heat their homes these days. So it's lucky for us our far-sighted politicians have ignored the opinions of those who can spot a con-trick a mile away and have instead adopted the ideas of people who, in the normal run of life would be locked up either for defrauding the UK tax punters or for their own good and the safety of others. For it doesn't matter if the north wind doth blow and we shall have snow for we have covered our beautiful countryside with windmills. This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England. Covered in windmills. Yay. That'll show them silly Germans building new power stations; we will have free electricity from wind power all for about £10,000 extra per year. This is why pensioners should refuse to pay the television tax to the BBC and get banged up in nick for a couple of months until the summer. They'll probably end up enjoying it anyway, a bit of company, 3 meals a day, enforced anal sex, etc. and free telly. What's not to like?

Yet I still have this nagging feeling that something's not quite right with all of this. Twenty years ago, we had plenty of power stations and drove everywhere. Now, we are being persuaded to close down our power stations and travel everywhere by bike whereas the Chinese are building a power station every day and they're all driving around in fancy new motors and handing in their bikes. I'm not sure that's actually progress as we're soon going to be living at the end of the 19th century. I'm pretty sure that when the liberal elite of Islington have their power cut off, they'll be demanding we switch back to coal so they can keep up to date on their Twitter and Facebook accounts.

Oh well, the government knows exactly what it's doing and won't let us down. Again. And, if these windmills don't work as well as they claim, we can always chuck a couple of green zealots on the fire, they'll burn for weeks with all the grease on them; they don't appear to wash very often.

Heaven knows how cold it is in the garden sheds all the Indians and Pakistanis are renting out so you can't blame the Roumanians for squatting. Bit of a nuisance if they're squatting in your house and you're the one living in someone's garden shed though so I can understand if you call on a couple of mates to "evict" the squatters without the aid of the old bill. But why is everyone worried about the Roma gypsies coming here and using the NHS? Once they see how it's run, like a Koncentration Lager, they'll run a mile; after performing a rousing, lively Czadas, and picking a few pockets, not doubt. The benefits of the EU, you see. Anyway, the Romas will like our food as it probably pulled their caravans all the way from Bucharesti. And it's probably been killed halal-style so it can be fed to nursing home inmates too.

Hey, maybe we should run all the Social Services like the SS: kill off the "clients", I mean. "Kill off the clients" might be a bit too strong a phrase to use so perhaps Mr Campbell could spin it a bit, such as "gone to a better place" or "exterminated like council estate vermin". after all, he got us all into going to war for no reason and everyone thought it was right. And didn't they murder that government scientist and nobody questions that, do they? Even though we all know it was wrong.

You want to claim housing benefit? Stand against the wall while these six men take a photograph of you with these cameras with very long lens'.

You're unemployed? No worries, you can work in a government "factory" and it'll be a job for life; no matter how long that is.

You want to claim disability benefit? You'll have to take a shower first.

What? Why should die vierte Reich be any different from die dritte Reich? It's all run on the same lines by the same people and the socialists were all for eugenics when they first started too so they'll probably be all for it again. Anyway, you get the idea and it'll help cut the welfare bill too.

I'm only surprised Her Majesty's Comrades of Parliament haven't thought of this before because, oddly, a lot of government quango thieves, civil serpents and Labour party chiefs are ex-Communist Party members, like that chap who runs the NHSS, no not Himmler, Sir David something or other. Looks a bit like Himmler and acts a lot like him but not him. Funny how all these ex-members of the CPB have taken knighthoods and titles. Why, one would think it's almost as though the Communist Party told their members to give up party membership and infiltrate the Labour Party instead to gain power. But I'm sure they wouldn't be that devious though, would they? Would they?

Stop The Bus, I Want To Get Off

I always advise people to take a taxi from Woolwich Arsenal rather than a bus if they're travelling here by public transport. My friend S'man'fer makes fun of me taking taxis everywhere but now I know why I do it. I took a bus the other day and it was umm, interesting, shall we say. And aren't young children and toddlers adorable when they're screeching their little heads off. No wonder these women spend all their benefits on drink and giant burgers, and why is that woman murdering that child at the back of the bus, juging from its ear-splitting howling? I'm amazed that everyone tries to ignore them and inwardly smile to themselves rather than bellow loudly to "shut that crazed brat up, madam! Before we are all driven insane by its constant wailing" And how funny to see a bored child pull oranges out of a woman's bag to go rolling around the bus for the owner to pick up. Picking up fruit on a moving bus could be the basis for a new Beeb gameshow. It could have the fat and unlovely Joe Brand or petite dyke Sandy Toxic as host, they're both terminally unfunny; it's a perfect match. It's unbelievable how often that Brand woman is on the television nowadays anyway; it just goes to show how thin you can spread talent, especially when you haven't got any. I'm only surprised she hasn't turned up in 1950s drama, Call The Midwife. At least back then you could ride on a bus and children and their mothers knew their place.

Stick It In The Family Album

What a shock the other day to see those two grinning imbeciles, Mr and Mrs Blair staring out of the newspapers; I thought we'd gotten rid of those two. Grey-haired Toe-knee looking every inch the aging Thesp trying to explain why we had to invade numerous countries to make him a very rich man and keep her quiet and now we're on a roll why we should invade other countries. How's that peace envoy job going Tone? Didn't you get a job description with it? And Cherry, the lovely Cherry Blair pretending to do some cooking with a load of Indian women. Yeah like she knocks up curry and chips when Tone comes in from a hard day's peace-mongering. And the manic look of someone who hasn't a clue what she's doing but wants to muck in for the cameras and a photo-opportunity. I hope you washed your hands before Chel. When I first saw the photographs I saw she had a red dot on her forehead, a bindi, I think. I must admit I had rather hoped it was one of those laser sights that snipers use on their rifles to ensure a clean shot.

They must be very upset at that idiotic looking Milliband brother running off to NY in a sulk to earn pots of cash too. Which one was he? They both look as though they should be held in strait-jackets and under medication but I understand he was the great white hope for The Blairs to get back into power but instead he got shafted by his brother. So we have something to thank him for. Isn't it fun when these people turn of each other? Still, now he's gone, it'll save all those awkward silences over Easter lunch at the family mansion. Man of the people? They're hardly likely to regard the likes of you as their sort of people as they only like to pretend they're working class.

I once had some photographs done by a professional photographer in Forum's old offices. These were taken for a magazine they were promoting with my old friend, Mistress Crystale, now sadly deceased. True to form all he kept asking was, "will you take your tits out, love?" No wonder Princess Di got fed up of the paparazzi.

Dreamweaving

You might be wondering why it's taken so long to put a new update on. Well it's because I've been using a new programme, Dreamweaver, and it's so different to what I've been using before. As I'm more inclined to just click something to find out what it does rather than read the instruction manual, it can be a bit hit and miss. Also, lovable old Nick hasn't been too well recently with a number of visits to the Docks and, taking literally our lives in our hands, to the local hospital. He worries I'm going to leave him there to be pathwayed. Vindictive, what me?

Anyway, Dreamweaver. It's not much fun.

15 April 2013

For those of you who have been in a drug-induced stupor or have had your television repossessed by the bailiffs because you haven't repaid your Wonga.com loan due to spending your benefit money on online gambling sites, you will be surprised to learn Maggie Thatcher is dead. For the rest of you, stand at ease.

This is going to be a huge festival of fun. No, I'm not proposing, or organising, one of these grotesque celebratory death parties but this is a great opportunity to see the socialists in all their glory spewing out their bile, hatred and viciousness. The race is already on to see who can be the vilest towards a dead woman. I note two of the leading contenders are teachers, or Marxists to give them their correct name. I'm sure that must be career death once it gets out and the parents learn their children are being indoctrinated by The Marx Brothers so we'd better not mention it. And special needs teachers too, their pupils are going to want special needs after being taught by the likes of them. I think a damned good thrashing on the bare for the pair of them wouldn't go amiss. Oh, and a policeman! Thank heavens he's resigned because you wouldn't want someone who's so stupid as to commit professional suicide by putting his most contemptible thoughts on Twitter investigating anything more serious than an overdue library book. Why do people do that? No, not keep their library books, why do they act stupid. Don't they realise anyone in the world can see it?

Anyway, we've got the rioting, burning and looting to look forward to next; it's funny how all these anti-capitalists always loot high end clothing and electronic shops. Maybe they think stealing a new tablet and top-of-the-range mobile will destroy the face of capitalism, and come in handy if their old ones are no longer fashionably up-to-date. I should have thought by the look of them and the state of their clothing, they'd be looting the local chemists for a bar of soap and some shampoo. And nice to know they're celebrating by spending their benefit money on bottles of champagne to spill everywhere.

This will also give the old bill a good opportunity to practice some head bashing with a truncheon; always funny to watch and, with luck, come Christmas time, they'll release a new DVD compilation of Street Wars. Who couldn't find a 50-something smug Guardian-reading leftie being beaten about the head with blood streaming down her face complaining about police brutality hilarious? I know I do. I enjoy watching it over again in slo-mo to get the full effect.

Oh and let's see that cute little kid from Islington parroting Ding Dong again. Haha. Priceless. Why didn't the dad dress him up as a Hezbollah suicide bomber like they do in Gaza? No need to call the Islington Social Services department to inform them about the brat being mis-treated and at risk, the social workers were probably already there.

And the dear old Beeb can barely contain its glee at the news that Thatcher's dead. It's always laughable to see them "balance" their brainwashing news programmes interviewing "the man in the street". Cue interview with scruffy, unwashed 18 year old student: "I fink it's great Fatcher's dead coz she shut all the mines and starved people to death in concentration camps. My college tutor told me coz I was too young to join er struggle, innit?." Cue late middle-aged college lecturer, "We must turn our society into a revolutionary-syndicalist society and legalise drugs so I can take a lot more of them." Well, here's a funny thing, because if we did open the collieries again I wonder who would want to go down there to work? It couldn't have been very pleasant. I wonder how many college lecturers and students will apply to work down the coalmines, that's if they can be bothered to leave their parents' mansions and Hampstead townhouses to work continental shifts. Still, if that's what all these lunatics want, let's give them a shovel each and send them down pit. Let's start with Harriet, she's all for equality. Personally I prefer superiority but Harriet's never been clever enough to understand the difference as she obviously has an inferiority complex. And heaven help us but I'll be leaving the country when Nissan Maindealer dies because knowing the Beeb, we'll all develop diabetes from the syrupy laments, commiserations and howling that we'll be subjected to.

No doubt my invitation to the funeral at St Paul's is already in the post so I do hope the damned postman doesn't steal it again, like he did with my invitation to William and Kate's wedding. At least with it being Mrs Thatcher's funeral, the likes of Baron Kinnock, Lord Prescott, Viscount Stansgate and the ennobled great and good from the socialist left will be missing. There's always a silver lining, if you look. I just hope I'm not sat next to Cherry Blair; she'll be moaning about Gordon all the way through the ceremony. It is a ceremony, isn't it?

However, you might be surprised to learn that personally, I wasn't a great admirer of Lay-dee Fatcher, (as many of the protesters appear to call her) when she was in office as she made lots of mistakes. Like what? you probably ask yourself. Like listening to the namby-pamby teachers' organisation School Teachers Opposed to Physical Punishment and banning corporal punishment. What a black day for Britain when they banned the thrashing of minors. That's school-children, not colliers you dunce. And anyone with a heart has only to watch daytime TV to realise what harm she did to the unemployable and undeserving poor by making them sit through that drivel everyday until they go down the pub. I bet you're all sorry you've got 50 inch television sets now, aren't you?

Then there are the grammar schools. She didn't open any new ones. That's why your children, if you've managed to find someone to have sex with you without laughing have to attend something probably called The Abu Hamza Comprehensive, designed to hold feral children in dazed ennui until it's time to release them back into society; whether to hang around the streets in gangs or hide away in their bedrooms watching internet porn. That's why, if there'd been more Grammar Schools, maybe yours might have passed the 11+ and gone to a Grammar. But then, if they had, you'd know, in your heart of hearts, those children you feed, clothe and spend a fortune on probably aren't really yours anyway. So look on the bright side. Luckily, politicians don't send their off-spring to these warehouses, well you wouldn't want yours to turn out like the Millibands, would you?

She spoke very nicely though.

Mmmm, "Won 3 elections, beat Marge and Tina, buggered up some things, spoke nicely." Good epitaph.

21 May 2013

I Don't Want A Holiday In The Sun

That's why we're going to Devon again this year. Ahh, the dulcet tones of The Sex Pistols belting out the benefits of holidaying in Belsen concentration camp, it sounds quite "nice", probably like a stay in one of our less efficient NHS hospitals but we don't really fancy being barked at to "schnell, schnell", whatever that is, by some bullet-headed camp guard. I've never really fancied Hi-De-Hi holiday camps anyway. And at least they speak English down in the West Country, I think, and the food is English; well the lamb is not halal like most of the butchers in London. We'll be away 7 - 16 June inclusive.

Why would anyone want to go anywhere else than dear old Britain for a holiday, anyway? We had thought of going to Abbotabad in Pakistan for a fortnight on the Osama Bin Laden death tour but wearing a burka for a couple of weeks would mess my hair up. And I don't fancy getting stoned in Pakistan either; I've never liked Pakistani wine we buy from the corner shop and it tastes a bit "suspect" to me. And probably the sight of dear old Nick changing out of his Y-fronts into a budgie-smuggler on a Pakistani beach will drive the women crazy, they'll shave their legs, and upper-lips. And I don't suppose you'd dare ask for a pork sausage for a breakfast fry-up either in Pakistan. Any chance you could cook it in lard, patron?

So, no, best we stick with Devon. No danger of being misunderstood down in Totnes. Twinned with Hippy Land.com. Don't get me started on the dippy hippie lifestyles of the residents; actually I don't know what would be the worst to eat: halal horsemeat burgers in Pakistan or alfalfa sprouts and tofu quiche in Totnes. They both sound mmmm, delicious but their the sort of thing they get slebs to pretend to enjoy on "Get Me Outta Here - I Wanna Shot My Agent" But at least we'll have lovely weather because all those experts have told us about global warming and it'll be lovely and warm because if it's not, I'll want to know why. I'll be having a special word with that fraudster who claimed we'll never see snow again. Has he been dismissed and imprisoned for fraud, yet? He should be.

Anyway, 7 - 15 June. No emails. Or telephone calls. Or texts. Or messages by pigeon. Or anything else. Or else.

Flying The Flag

I always admire bravery. It takes special courage to join our armed forces and fight the heathen in far-flung outposts of the British Empire such as the North West Frontier. That's why I so admire the mad-woman who demanded, and got! the English flag banned in a village in Somerset. Doubtless the good people of Radstock will throw her, no, not a party but will throw the stupid interfering old biddy into the village midden and then burn her at the stake as a witch. Rightly so. What sort of person lives in a country and is ashamed of the flag? Yes, yes, children, obviously she's a dribbling, rabid socialist wearing Tena-Lady pants because of a weak bladder. You can imagine a native being ashamed of some tin-pot dictatorship south of the equator with triangular stamps and a flag of multi-coloured hues and a star or two placed willy-nilly, can't you? But not Britain! No! No! Not Australia or NZ; they're the same as Britain. Idiot boy!

And why, one asks? Why ban the flag? Oh, naturally the old chestnut that it would offend the islamists. Why are these people so easily offended? Good heavens, if I wanted to offend the muslims I'm sure I can think of more insulting things to do than fly a flag off the town hall. And all she's done is invite thousands of gallant EDF lads from all over the country to turn up in the village and fly the flag of St George in protest. So if the local islamic community weren't insulted before, they are now. And let's have a look, ah yes, a Labour councillor (tick), university lecturer (tick) and teacher (tick). Would you want your child to be taught by a lunatic and spouting rabid socialism like this? Well too late, they probably already are. Just wait until you come home one day and find your computer savvy brat has sold your property and donated the proceeds to some African confidence trickster posing as a charity because your child's tutor had said we have a duty to help those not as well off as ourselves. Anyway love, you won't be a councillor after the next council elections as you'll probably be voted out so you can go back to picking oakum and teaching children the benefits of living in North Korea; while your career will be going south.

It's not the same teacher who's a gypsy with the implanted false tits and who tried to organise Mrs Fatcher's funeral party, is she? We haven't heard from her for a while and she's probably missing being in the spotlight. Well you've had your 15 minutes of shame, dear, get back to corrupting kids with your gypsy dancing and crashing tambourines. A woman who earns a living teaching children to resolve conflict through the art of dance, would you believe? Absolute nonsense. I would have though six of the best with the cane would have been a lot cheaper and a lot more effective. I always find it so.

Next we'll have people being evicted for displaying the St George's flag. Oh, wait, they already are. Another dopey cow who claims the flag is offensive on behalf of people who haven't taken offence. What does she think is going to happen, that we're going to invade the Holy Land? Hey, that's not a bad idea, someone tell the PM and we can send a task force.

Would You Like To Swing On A Star

Well not quite a star but I've bought some new suspension equipment, not a hangman's gibbet I hasten to add in case you thought I was doing the government's work for them and executing those who deserve it. Well there is an election sometime soon and they'll promise us anything to get our vote. I think it would be better to have the candidates perform a turn like the mis-guided and mentally insane do on Britain's Got Talent. Then we can telephone vote for our favourites and those who entertain us the best and make us laugh. It would be great fun to watch them cry when they're being voted (booted) out. The only alteration I would like to see is a big trap door open up for the losers. A big trap door on top of metal spikes.

Anyway, enough idle fantasy, I haven't bought a scaffold but rather a couple of suspension harnesses comprising of two leather swings, all a bit of a palaver to put up. Luckily I had willing volunteers to try them out just to make sure they were safe and you didn't come crashing down to the floor with a bang. i wouldn't want you to break anything, like a couple of canes or something. So thank you to Malcolm and William who were bravely told to get on the damned thing or else. I will say that William Brown was the driving force for these devices otherwise I wouldn't have bothered so it's only fair William was the first on one of them. I'm sure he'll recover in the fullness of time.

I Have Seen The Future

And it's called Windows 8. Isn't it brilliant? Everything is hidden so you can't find anything. The perfect PC. This is a great way to stop hackers as I doubt they'll be able to find out where anything is hidden; although if they did, they could charge you a fee to tell you where all the useful stuff is you need to do your job and hopefully stay gainfully employed. A bit like a helpdesk in a way. What a shame that a number of these young lovable rogues were arrested and sent to trial for their criminal activities of hacking into the CIA. Not the brains of the outfit this lot then obviously. You see this is why you should never allow your children to play in their bedroom for hours on end because you know they're getting up to mischief. And anyway, if they're upstairs out of sight, how do you know they're not dressing up in their sister's clothes? Much better to let them find and watch your own collection of internet porn on the family computer. And what better way for them to find out their mum is a star of Reddit Gone Wild; or you for that matter. And they'll probably bunk off school for the day if they want to dress up in their sister's best party frock anyway.

Anyway, Windows 8? It's appalling, I've gone back to XP.

Okay, since writing this part, you've all been made aware of the dreadful murder of a young soldier in Woolwich. It was about 5 minutes walk away from where I am. I have had miliatary men here in the past and I've always found them funny, intelligent, and charming to talk to. I've also had a couple of men who were muslims and I've found them the same, one especially was very funny. There's nothing to be flippant about so I'm going to end it here for now.

4 June 2013

Earwigo, Earwigo, Earwigo

Yes, to the chirpy anthem of football fans the country over, we're off on holidays. Anywhere nice? you ask. Well what do you think? Do you honestly think anyone would want to go "anyway nice" on holiday? Think I'm going to holiday in Syria? We're going to Devon again so I'll let you decide if it's nice or not. And if I see another cup, tee-shirt, tube advertisement telling me to "Keep Calm and Carry On" I'll scream.

It's a bit of good timing because we'll be in time for the badger cull in the west country. I wonder if they'll let us take part? We've already contacted our favourite butcher in Totnes to order some succulent French milk veal chops for a barbeque during the festivities. I'm sure there'll be quite a crowd turning up and I bet they'll be green with envy when they see us enjoying ourselves feasting on a delicious supper of calf meat. Is that why they call them Greens? No doubt they'll be turning up from cities all over the UK trying to disrupt country pursuits. What about the poor cattle? At least they're useful in that they roast deliciously and are just made to go with Yorkshire puddings and gravy. If cattle could talk, they'd probably say it's what they would have wanted. You couldn't say that about a badger, could you?

We better get in quick too as HMG think we should only eat meat on special occasions, probably like Christmas, although they'll probably ban Xmas in case it offends, so sorry no meat for anyone. They'll be stealing the foie gras of our toast to give to the undeserving poor next. This is nothing more than creeping socialism. Yeah, well I'll give up eating meat when MPs give up their perks and benefits.

So, back to these mange-ridden, verminous creatures living underground trying to save the badgers: let me see if I've got this perfectly straight. A group of farmers armed with high-powered rifles are going to cull badgers and to stop them doing this, a group of protesters are going to confront these farmers by waving sticks, shouting at them and wearing masks that resemble - badgers?

Umm, great idea but I can see one major drawback with shouting at men armed with rifles; it might have escaped their attention but they might, just might, be mistaken for Brock and get shot themselves. Obviously these protesters are idealistic college students probably wearing a tee-shirt with Che Guevara on the front. I often say these people aren't usually the brains of the outfit, just easily led but I think they've exceeded themselves on this one. The brains are obviously sat safely in the comfort of their home while they get these useful dupes to take the flak; quite literally in this case. Act like wildfowl and duck, boys and girls.

Oh well, at least their nearest and dearest will get the opportunity to appear on telly crying over the loss of their idiot spawn for our entertainment. I suppose it's a form of natural selection. Hey, Simon, this could be a great idea for Saturday evening television.

We're Only In It For The Money

Yes, I know, Frank Zappa's hilarious parody of Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts that is just as dreadful today as it ever was. But surely this is our Lords' a-leaping theme tune for they've been caught, yet again, with their hands in the till. Who would have believed it? Well anyone still drawing breath would, I suppose. Don't these people ever learn? Or do they think we have the attention span of a budgerigar and forget what they've been up to in the past? What's that slogan they all mouth to the electorate? "We're all in it together". Oh yes, everyone knows you're all in it together all right, right up to your necks. Never mind the badgers, can't we have a weasel cull? We can start with Her Majesty's thieves and then work out to local government. Oooh, and then lawyers, circus judges and injury lawyers. I wonder if the tree-hugging Greens will turn up to protest, dressed as a weasel, or a badger? Remember the rousing speech Lt. Chard gave at Rorke's Drift? Fire at will and shoot to kill. Bags me in the front rank.

Fan Mail

I've received a well written and lucid email from Peter in Canada who wrote a very appreciative and complimentary email on my ability to dispense discipline to all and sundry. It's always nice to receive praise for doing the right thing, and giving a miscreant 36 of the best is always the right thing. Peter feels if he ever comes back to London, probably in handcuffs and with a police escort, he'll be straight on the 10.48 from Charing Cross to Woolwich. Should he be found not guilty. I meant to ask him too how the Stills are in Quebec. Stills? Yes, they're still part of Canada.

Also on the Visitors' Book there are some very nice entries from Gramps, Florida Joe and Cringer; you should have a look at them and sign the book but only if you're sober or not high on mind-bending drugs. Anyway, Cringer disagrees with my most of opinions which makes me suspect he's some sort of dangerous socialist lunatic in desperate need of incarceration at HM's pleasure or electric shock treatment but I'm all in favour of free speech so I'm happy to listen to his points of view and then 72 of the best for that boy. I'm sure he'll see the error of his ways. I wonder if he's really Tony Blair? Probably not, Blair was just a dangerous lunatic.

Also, Axyloid has managed to tunnel his way to freedom using a teaspoon fashioned from his body waste and is now on the run in Alabama. Do they still lynch 'em in 'bama? I hope not I've told a firm of bounty hunters where he's hiding. And Inmate 31 has written to say he's begun a new series of writing tasks based on The Story of T. You can join Inmate 31 on http://writeforme.org

That should while away the long lonely evenings in your cell until your cell-mate comes back from evening prayers and he begins to try and convince you to convert you to Islam. Never mind, it'll be lights out soon after and that desperate fumbling will begin again.

October 2013

The Fateful Day

6 August 2013. That was the day my partner, lover, mentor, friend, protector, soulmate, eminence grise, lovable old Nick died in the local death camp.

Nick and I were together for 32 years. When I first meet him, he was like a character out of the Sweeney and he scared me to death. He was a very raucous sarf east Londoner, when he wanted to be, and he was very forthright in his views and very strong-willed but he was also loving, kind and gentle. And he wasn't the "thickie" he made himself out to be at times; to many people's surprise he'd won a scholarship to the Central School of Art when he was a teenager but dropped out. And he was great fun to be with; I wouldn't have missed any of it for the world and I wouldn't have changed a thing. He always gave me encouragement, and never held me back. No matter what stupid idea I came up with, he always supported me and helped me where he could.

Why "lovable old Nick"? Well many years ago Nick attended some trannie do at the seaside; I can't remember where now, but it was usual for him to bring home a little present for me. This time, he handed me two pebbles he'd found on the beach: "because I couldn't see anything you'd like and I thought you'd like these because they're unusual". After the ensuing silence, he looked at me and said, "Lovable old Nick?"

So lovable old Nick, he remained. I still have those pebbles. They're with the steam iron he bought me one Christmas for a present; but not just any old iron, ohh no. This was the exact same model as the iron we already had but as Nick explained to me, I'll always have a spare one to do some ironing if the first iron breaks down. That was my Christmas present.

As you can imagine, life here was bizarre and fun living with Nick and we lived a life less ordinary than most couples. And I still wouldn't have changed any of it for the world.

He was a transvestite and a very good one; but he didn't dress up for the past three years as his emphysema took hold. But because he loved "floating around in a nightie", as he put it, I had him cremated wearing this favourite nightdress and negligee, wig and make-up.

He was so kind and generous of spirit and would often give someone a personal belonging or item of clothing if they said they liked it. We would often have 8 or 10 people here for "Sunday lunch" or Bank Holidays, because he didn't like to see anyone on their own, especially at Christmas. He always did the shopping and cooking for those events and he loved doing it up until he suffered a stroke in 2004. He always answered the telephone for me in those days too, sometimes double-booking me or forgetting the name of the caller, but we muddled through. One caller, William, fell in love with Nick, thinking he was the maid; you can imagine his face when he actually met "Yvonne".

And Oh, I'm going to miss him being here with me.

I took his ashes down to Devon to scatter them in a favourite spot. He was evacuated to a village called Rattery during the war, when he was five and he told me that there was a children's party but he wasn't allowed to go, probably because he was too young or maybe he'd been caught dressing up in girl's clothes, I don't know. However, he and this girl sat on a bench and she started brushing his hair and he loved it. We often returned to that spot when we were on holiday and he told me he wanted his ashes scattered there; and that's the last thing I did for him.

Unfortunately, the standard of nursing in our local "hospital" was appalling and chaotic and I can only say Nick, and other patients, were treated with a wilful neglect and a callous indifference. And yes, I did shout but you never know what these people do when you leave and I will never trust a doctor, nurse or "health-care professional" again. And if you think the NHS is "the envy of the world" as government propaganda keeps informing us, tell me who would envy the Mid-Staffordshire Hospital or Morecombe Bay Hospital or Basildon Hospital or Dr Shipman or the Liverpool Care Pathway or NICE or NHS Wales or Winterbourne Care Home for the handicapped or Orchid View Home for the elderly or Merok Park Home for the elderly or drug-addict Dr Colin Ferrie or foul-mouthed Dr Sommer of Charing Cross Hospital or butcher surgeon Dr Jayne Cockburn or South London HealthCare Trust or Colchester Hospital or The Care Quality Commission or local GPs or Hospital food or 41,000 patients dying of thirst in British hospitals every year (NHS figures) or tax evading Leicester GP Doc Michael Summer?

Who would envy that? Nazi Germany?

Not Only... But Also

And about two weeks after Nick died, a good friend of ours, Big Mick, passed away too, from a brain tumour. We'd known him for about 26 years. He was always here on the Bank Holiday lunches. Mick was well known on the London BDSM scene and was a regular visitor to Club Domina. There are photographs on my site of him tied up, wearing his socks. He was called Big Mick because he was a body builder, not for any other attribute that might have been big; not that I'm aware anyway.

So I've had my fill of funerals for now and although it was good to catch up with old friends I hope that's the last for a while.

2 November 2013

Firstly, Let me thank everyone who wrote, telephoned, texted, sent a card or turned up and consoled me on the loss of Nick, You're all very nice people, despite you all deserving and getting a good thrashing. And also those who turned up and supported me either at the funeral or afterwards, in whatever way you could. A number of SMers, trannies and his family turned up and he would have loved it had he been there.

Today would have been Nick's burfday, as he always called it so it's the first one without him. He always gave the first mention of his burfday when we were on holiday and we used to joke it was like hearing the first cuckoo of spring. He's gone from me now but Nick immeasurably enriched my life and left me with memories beyond price and made me a better person for having known him.

Is That What I Think It Is?

As you've read here before, I'm very particular about my food and as I'm now on my own, I find a great way to economise and have great-tasting food is to go to a food bank. This is a brilliant idea where you can get free food donated by the daft and gullible as the undeserving poor call them; although they see themselves as the great and good. Naturally, I wouldn't go to one around here as all you'll be able to get are tins of own-brand baked beans, pizza and packets of out-of-date meat labelled "chicken". Far better to travel up to Islington or Highgate by taxi to search out the best food bargains. I understand it's very fashionable to know where your food comes from and I'm sure those donating in Highgate don't buy their food from the Allan Akbar Food Mart in Woolwich so no danger of being given a load of foreign hallal muck; as lovable old Nick used to call it. And all the food is donated by smug left-wing Guardian readers to make themselves feel good; you just have to tell them you're allergic to tofu and lentils to get all the good stuff. I wonder if they're going to do Fortnum and Mason food hampers for Christmas. Mmmm yummy! Christmas is saved!

So you can imagine my surprise, to say the least, when unpacking my slab of duck foie gras, fresh sea-bass, artisan loaf and veal chops to find a jar of brown sauce with a label marked Shito. Yes, I kid you not, a jar of Shito. Apparently some hot chilli sauce from Ghana has the endearing name of Shito. It obviously loses something in the translation; and probably the taste too. I can just imagine the do-good liberals of Islington, tucking into a dollop of Shito and singing Kumbuya thinking they're having it off being at one with the poor, down-trodden African. I bet the only African they see is the one they and their children buy recreational drugs from at The Angel. Ms Harman, you're all for a multi-culti UK, aren't you? Eat up a delicious double helping of Shito, my dear, I can get plenty more where that came from, don't you worry!

Of course, I'll be donating this to Woolwich Food Bank as the poor will eat anything and it'll make me feel good. Now if only I could bring myself to read the Guardian.

This reminds me of a session I did some 11 - 12 years ago, just before Christmas, whereby he told me he enjoyed eating his own faeces. Personally, I'd prefer a fillet steak, but okay, I suppose it's cheaper and in plentiful supply so I'm not going to criticise. Anyway, he pulled out a small jar and took the top off what looked like his last night's dinner. I did crib at giving him one of my teaspoons to ladle turds into his mouth but luckily he had his own little plastic spoon with him whereupon he sat cross-legged and gamely spooned the jar's contents down his throat. It looked like Shito but it could have been chocolate sauce for all I know and anyway, I wasn't going to put my finger in to taste it and make sure it wasn't chocolate sauce. Bizarrely for some reason, we invited him to Christmas lunch that year although Nick drew the line at forcing a couple of bad boys out onto a plate at the dinner table so our guest had to put up with turkey with all the trimmings, like the rest of us. And of course, there was Jellybean Jeff, who hid two giant Mars Bars about his naked person; then ate them once they'd been made to "reappear". Waste not, want not, eh? This would have been a great trick for a children's party to keep the kids quiet, or shocked speechless and very scared, and with the added bonus of putting them off eating chocolate too. Thereby helping to stop the the ridiculously so-called obesity "epidemic".

Some Other Things

Cassie Canes

Hard. Very hard. I have continued to work since August 27 and I was lucky to be invited to a double session with Cassie Hunter and thankfully she organised everything as I wasn't fully with it at the time. We did the session in a very well-equipped dungeon in Grafton Way and afterwards had a glass of wine with the lady who runs the place, Trish. My friend Nawashi Murakawa (Jon Blake) turned up after the session and we had a good chat. Great fun. And Jon brought me a bunch of flowers too. This was just before his 4th Festival of the Art of Japanese Bondage.

Do-dah

I also had an appointment with Jay, who told me he was black; oh dear, I thought, I hoped he wasn't going to turn up with his posse but he was very well spoken and his trousers were pulled up properly and he wanted a session of racial abuse. I asked him if he was a muslim as well but he said no, so I knew he hadn't been in prison, which is always a good point when meeting someone new. Now I'm always one to call a spade a spade so I have no difficulty with this type of session and it's years since I last saw Paki Paul, as he called himself, for some white supremacy so a bit of racial abuse in the dungeon makes a change from shouting it on the train or underground after too much white wine. And no danger of being secretly filmed and having it shown on YouTube either. Anyway, he was a delight to abuse and took it rather well. I do hope Ms Harman doesn't read this as she'll have forty fits with her legs in the air; although that would be really funny to watch and would look great on YouTube.

What amused me though, was Jay foolishly admitted he had contacted others before me and no-one would do his session because they were all too politically correct. That's right: a PC dominatrix. Um, girls, you've slightly missed the rationale behind your chosen career, I'm afraid. You shouldn't be afraid to humiliate and abuse someone in case it hurts their feelings - that's the reason you should be doing it! So, in future, if you get the chance to racially abuse someone, you should take it!

14 December 2013

The Holly And The Ivy

When they are both full grown.... are really nice but not much good for CP so I'm going to be buying some more canes in the New Year. Ahh Christmas. How does that lovely old hymn go now? “And I wish it could be Christmas every day”. Just to annoy those who don’t celebrate it.

Who in the world wouldn’t want 12 days of feasting and drinking to excess. And all the presents too. Oh, wait a minute these lunatic jihadis don’t celebrate Christmas, do they? A grubby, straggly looking beard (never a good look at the best of times), no alcohol, no Christmas, no roast pork and crackling, a wife who probably farts a lot wearing a dust sheet and a propensity to get shot at and killed by British troops; no wonder they’re all so miserable. Convert to Christianity boys and learn to enjoy life.

As it’s Christmas time and poor lovable old Nick is no longer with me, I’ll be expecting to get an invitation from most of you to Christmas lunch so I’ll choose which is probably the best and ignore the rest of you. If you have kids, I suggest Ritalin in their orange juice before I arrive would be a good idea; we don’t want to spend the day listening to idiot spawn screaming with excitement, do we? And tell your wife I’m not the sort who volunteers to help out with the washing up. I’ll bring my maid Dorothy for that. She can eat in the kitchen with the rest of the staff.

You should also tell your kids all the presents they’re going to get and how expensive they all were. Then, when they open them on Christmas Day and find you’ve only bought them a pen and pencil set and some text books for school you can record their little faces streaming with tears on your brand new i-phone, you’ll make a fortune with advertising on YouTube as everyone will enjoy watching it. Aww, cute kids crying, always a winner. And you can also show the footage to any prospective girlfriends/boyfriends in years to come during a hilarious fun evening. Just don’t be surprised when they consign you to die in madness and agony in a filthy nursing home and steal your home and sell your belongings.

Just Another Dead Terrorist

No, you idiot boy, not Nissan Maindealer! He wasn’t a terrorist; he was classed as a freedom fighter according to our smug, right-on lefties so he must have been okay. Even though he sounds like a dangerous communist party agitator, that was okay, that was fine; we don’t have to worry about him being a card-carrying member of the Communist Party intent on bringing down Western civilisation. Now let’s all sing a moving chorus of Kumbaya with a tear in our eyes and a faraway look denoting hope for the human race to show off our PC credentials before the Old Bill come and kick the bleeding door in and cart us all off to The Yard for the hate-crime of questioning the wisdom of left-wing BBC orthodoxy and we’ll all feel a whole lot better. Is that right the BBC regard Maindealer as the new Christ? It’s at times like these I’m glad I don’t watch television.

No, the dead terrorist is some Afghani dispatched by Marine A. I’m sorry, I just don’t understand: we send troops out to see someone called Afghani Stan with guns and weaponry to shoot these terrorists and then grumble when it’s not done by the rules? These will be the same rules the Taliban use, I suppose.

What more can the man want? He was put out of his misery, he’s now got his 72 virgins, all virgin men eating pork sausages one hopes, and Marine A even quoted Shakespeare as he shot him for heaven’s sake: “Shuffle off this mortal coil, you c***.” I can’t wait to hear Sir Kenneth reciting that at The Globe. You can’t imagine a jihadi quoting the bard, can you? Anyway, it’s how he would have wanted to go, I’m sure. I wonder if they’ll make a Christmas DVD of these terrorists being despatched; who wouldn't want that in their Christmas stocking? Well, I’d much rather have Marine A on my side than the self-righteous, pompous General who sentenced him to 10 years in chokey. How many Islamic terrorists has this donkey shot, I wonder?

And don’t say it’s not the done thing and we must be better than that. Who do you think shot most of the IRA during the 70s and 80s, if not undercover SAS and RUC? No doubt Novak and Good Injury Lawyers will be crawling all over the land to try and get that poor man’s extended family and livestock settled in a five-bedroom mansion in Chelsea and a pampered life on tax-payer funded benefits; that’ll be Mohammed the Jihadi’s family, not Marine A. Thank God they did shoot him otherwise we’d be forced to watch the spectacle of Mo suing the British Army for hurting his feelings by calling him a c***.   At the moment, two of Britain's finest are engaged in suing the army for shouting at prisoners. That's right, it's not a typo, it's not SHOOTING at prisoners, it's shouting. Aw, bless those poor sensitive jihadis, being shouted at by the nasty men. Still, drinks all round for the lawyers, eh lads.

Thank heavens I didn’t get an invitation to the funeral – that’ll be Maindealer’s not Mohammed’s; knowing my luck I’d have been stuck between Cherry Blair, whining on about some Chinese bint and Winnie waiting for the police to arrest her for unsolved murders. Oh and a selfie, how decorous at a funeral, but at least they didn’t start twerking. Can you imagine the look on the Archbishop's face if Dave had started twerking him during the eulogy. Would have made a great selfie for Facebook though.  Oh and that guy pretending to do sign language, that was hilarious. I’ve always imagined these signers were saying something completely different from what the dignitary is actually saying and now we know it. It wasn't part of the Monty Python comeback was it? I know they were all white, middle-class Englishmen so maybe they've had to be more diverse and employ a token, like all other organisations.

Anyway, dead terrorists; brings a tear to your eye, doesn’t it?

Lost And Found

You know what it’s like when you lose your keys, well imagine what it’s like losing a vibrator. There are not many places it can go so imagine my surprise when during a session with William Brown the vibrator I was using was nowhere to be found! He stood up and there it was – gone! Like a magician’s vanishing trick although I don’t think David Nixon ever used a vibrator as a prop. It was nowhere to be seen, but I could hear a faint buzzing coming from – William? On the premise that the last place you saw the object is where you’ll find it, that’s where it was: right up inside of William although he couldn’t feel it; he’d managed to enclose himself around the object. Thankfully a trip to the lavatory saved a trip to A&E and that’s never a good place to end up after a bit of domination. And there it was, caught in the U-bend still vibrating. Well I know the first place I’m going to look next time I mislay my keys.

Happy Christmas. Here's a Christmas Card for you. You can print it out and send it to your social worker; she'll enjoy it. It's an old one but I don't care.

24 December 2013

Have A Holly Jolly Christmas; It’s The Best Time Of The Year.

Be off with you! Humbug! Damned carol singers! Are there no prisons? Are there no workhouses for these people?

Yes, it’s Christmas again. I know this because Christmas decorations have only today gone up in the shops, Christmas Carols, like Frosty the Snowman are blasting out all over town and everyone has gone certifiably mad buying enough food to survive the siege of Mafeking.

Ahh, but where would we be without Christmas marketing? probably enjoying a Christmas without being exhorted to buy the idiot offspring the latest must-have electronic phone tablet. Oh well, I don’t mind being carried along with the insanity provided I’m supplied with bottles of Sancerre. And at this time of over-indulgence and selfishness we should all get on our knees to pray to the all-knowing, all powerful God, Amazon for deliverance; preferably before Christmas Eve and we should all remember those whose menial job means they have to work over the Christmas period. This is why you should pay attention at school and learn to read otherwise you’ll end up working in a low-level job with no respect. No, not prostitutes and policemen you dunce!

Raise a glass to all those nurses who, probably at this very moment, are drunkenly taking photographs of each other physically abusing your elderly relatives, unlucky enough to be in hospital, to upload onto Facebook for a giggle. Ohh, how loudly they all scream! Still it drowns out the cries of help from the patients. And then there’s the fun to be had denying them what passes for liquidised halal Christmas lunch. Dose ‘em all with a Zopiclone and then they can leave them all in charge of some 25 stone African woman who practises witchcraft at the local Pentecostal Church while everyone else goes off to party at the nearest pub. Yay! That’ll teach your elderly parents they shouldn’t have sent you to boarding school to be buggered senseless by the Arts Master. Nowadays, of course, your sexually aware brat is probably rogering the Arts Teacher, or will be until she tells the world what a slut she is on Facebook and gets sacked.

Doctors? You don’t get doctors working on the weekend, what chance is there of a qualified doctor being sober enough at Christmas?

And don’t forget the hardworking employees of the BBC. As they’re all communists and left-wing agitators they won’t celebrate in Christmas. Let’s thank them for giving us three weeks of uninterrupted coverage of Nissan Maindealer’s funeral. Who needs the World Cup when we can watch that? No, seriously, do we really need the World Cup? Don’t the players take performance-enhancing drugs or bribes like they do in other sports?

And why do we always get Christmas specials of Eastenders, repeats of Only Fools and Call the Midwife?  Because this is what the Beeb think the working class are really like, I suppose.
Don’t tell me they really are like that? I’m not surprised they all take drugs; BBC employees and the working class. Idiot boy!

And then we have social workers. Their work never stops; they’re always on guard for the slightest hint of child abuse so they can place the errant child into “care” and also at the beck and call of a gang of Asian curry house workers. It’ll also boost their bonus too, the more kids they can snatch from loving homes; I think the official term is "foster".

And our boys out fighting heathen jihadis, making sure they shuffle off this mortal coil, you c***s. Why, it’s unbelievable I know, but these jihadis don’t even believe in Father Christmas. What sort of madman doesn’t believe in a white-haired old man dressed in a red romper suit giving presents to children? Let’s all thank the Lord God, Amazon, he doesn’t smoke a cigar and have a northern accent as well; Christmas would never be the same. Anyway, just make sure you turn the cameras off lads, you don’t want it to end up on Facebook like some nurse dragging a dementia patient by the hair before mercifully dispatching them, do you?  You know what happened about Marine A and you don’t want to be subjected to open justice; you're not social workers in the family courts, are you?

So where would we be without Christmas, I wonder? Probably all wearing a burkha or djellaba, and eating a halal plate of Shito with a glass of camel's milk.

As Tiny Tim might have said, “God help us, everyone”.

Merry Christmas