Home

Bondage

CP

Dressing Up

Dungeon

Mistress

What's New

Contact

Galleries

Links

Stories

Updates

About This Site

Site Map

EXIT

Old things here


2006

2007

2008

2009

2010

2011

2012

2013

2014

2015

2016

 

7 January 2014

Thank God that’s all over again until next year; now I’ve just got to get someone to clean up all the debris and put the empty bottles and rubbish in a bin-bag so it can all be fly-tipped somewhere.

As none of your invitations to spend Christmas lunch took my fancy, and I don’t see why I should want to spend my Christmas with the likes of you, I invited my dear friend Nawashi Murakawa to come over here for Christmas lunch. He brought a really interesting DVD, which we watched after lunch, of a woman fisting herself on stage. Well, I’m fairly open-minded but even I had a look of startled, open-mouthed surprise on my face so I’m not sure what the elderly neighbours, who’d popped in after lunch for a cheering glass of wassail thought of it. They had a dumb-struck look of startled shock and horror on their faces. If only I’d taken a couple of selfies to share on Twitter. What surprises me though is the thought processes that makes someone think, “mmm, what a great idea for a stage show, I’ll fist myself”. I suppose it’s different from a conjuring act and I’d love to see it on Britain’s Got Talent and hear what the judges make of it. Thankfully her hand didn’t re-appear with a turban on it, unlike the large butt-plugs I use on Quilp to penetrate his bottom.

Anyway, now it’s all over, we all start to think about selling unwanted Christmas presents to unsuspecting mugs to earn extra cash and pick up cut-price bargains from feckless women who wanted to give their illegitimate kids every electronic gadget going and are now unable to pay for food and up to their necks in hock to Wonga. Haven’t these women heard of prostitution? Apparently everyone looks on Gumtree for the best pickings, but it all looks fraught with danger to me. How do you know these people are actually going to pay you a couple of hundred for a hooky i-Phone or Kindle and are not there to rob you?  

Let me see, “Single, unattached female would like to purchase expensive electronic gadget; willing to pay top price and travel to secluded spot.” That should do it. Naturally, this may well attract the local scum who think they’ll be able to rob me and probably have a quick feel too. It’s always best to be safe and careful in these situations and this is why you should always carry a loaded gun with you. It’s priceless to see the look on their face change when they come over all gangsta and start to threaten you with a knife demanding you hand over all your cash and get your tits out and then you pull a gun out of the handbag instead.  Especially if you shoot them in the foot or somewhere so they know you’re not kidding and, yes, this is a real gun. This is why you should meet them in a secluded spot, not the local High Street. Then of course you can take their drug money, drug stash and social security benefit payments and any electronic gadgetry they might be carrying.

All I want for Christmas

Is my two front teeth, so I can wish you all a happy Christmas. Although in the case of the Woolwich jihadi who had his teeth kicked out in the Belmarsh Hilton, it’ll have to be his five front teef. And I doubt he’ll be wishing anyone a happy Christmas when he gets them, being an infidel. Still it should make eating and drinking the prison wardens’ body fluids and solids a lot easier for the rest of his natural; no matter how short that will hopefully be. And hey, who’s going to be Mr Popular after lights out for some Vagina Dentata with those front teeth missing?

Still at least he wasn’t imprisoned in Russia; I understand they bury their mad mullahs in pig-fat out there; that’s after shooting them of course. Probably best not to order the pork rillettes for breakfast, I think.  Especially if you’re one of the lunatic green warriors who boarded some ship to stop the Russians drilling for oil in the Arctic. Oh yes, that’s really going to stop them drilling for oil because the Russian military are just as cowardly as the English bobbies when confronted by unwashed, deranged members of the greens and always give in to their demands. I find it hilarious the imbecile who complained he couldn’t get a vegetarian option in prison. "No comrade, you have meat for lunch and supper. Now trousers down for us to give you lots of meat." There's never a human rights lawyer around when you want one, is there? Probably all too busy working the legal aid scam back in Blighty.

 

27 January 2014

What A Swell Party This Is

You know, I quite fancy joining the Libdems as they look a bunch of real wild party animals, don’t they? I always thought the LibDems were all a bunch of unwashed, holier-than-thou, bearded sandal-wearing vegans smelling faintly of urine, scratching their bottoms and worrying over the plight of some poor mis-begotten criminal wretch who has no right to be in the country and fiddling their expenses but now I see they’re really sex-crazed love monkeys.

And that one with the grey beard! Phwoar! Now I know all LibDems have grey beards, including the men, but the honourable weasel for Portsmouth! Wow! How could anyone resist those looks? Sort of a cross between Gandalf and a down and out you’d set the dogs on and the sartorial elegance of someone who lives in a tree.

That’s the sort party we want running the country: one you have to be specially invited to, knock on the door three times and wear the dress code before they let you in. And aren't these LibDems the sort you'd want as house guests? Jeremy Thorpe: arrested for attempted murder of his boyfriend; Paddy Pantsdown: always up for a quick one, Cyril Smiff: kissed the boys and made them cry, the filthy pervert.

And Milord Reynard everyone’s got the hots for: a real love god if ever there was but I have to say he does look as though he goes home and secretly dresses up in his frocks and frillies; probably all bought from Kays catalogue. And he's got a face you just want to slap, again and again and again. I don’t know if one of his lordship’s mates was trying to help but telling the world that most of the members of the Lords have touched up the women there? Mmm, I’m not so sure that was as helpful as the chap who said it might have thought it was. Obviously we all immediately think of Lord Prescott and his secretary but Lord Mandy? He’s a friend of Dorothy’s isn’t he? But I’d vote for anyone who’d goose Hattie Harman; take one for the sisters, eh dear? Or goose Gordon Brown. Just to see the look on their faces and the look on the face of the person who goosed them. I know all these liberal do-gooders are touchy-feely I didn't quite realise touchy feely meant inappropriate touching and having a quick feel.

But there’s an easy way to deal with all this, surely ladies; I always find a swift knee, hard and fast into the testicles usually does the trick. Their hands are engaged on having a grope and their mind is concentrating on the feeling in their penis and so a hard sharp pain in the testicles usually brings them back to their senses very quickly, usually after an hour or so once that nauseous feeling has subsided. Now this is the time to have your video camera handy because the change of expression is priceless; from drooling pervert look to shocked hurt and agony in a split second. Of course, a quick hard knee into the scrotum is always a good laugh even if he’s not touching you and only asked if you know the way to the nearest tube station.

Don’t Mention The War

Why all the soul-searching over some weasel MP dressing up in a Gestapo uniform? Doesn’t everyone do that? Certainly in the privacy of their own home. I know I do to give a judicial every now and then and no-one ever complains even though I do offer to help them fill in a complaint form as they’re usually too shaky after a 72 strokes. And it's not as though he's going to invade Poland or like he hired the outfit on expenses, is it? Or did he?

I always fondly remember dear old Ian got gales of laughter when he used to wear his SS uniform to his office Christmas party, having blacked up and giving his all to an extraordinary rendition of “De Camptown Races”, with his flies undone. They certainly know how to throw a party in the Home Office. Probably all staffed by LibDem supporters.

Shop-lifting As A Career

Now children, I’m sure you’ve all been avidly watching the comedy antics of benefit scroungers on the popular reality game show, Benefits Street. I hope you’ve all learnt something as I understand there was one man showing how to shop-lift. This will be a major help to you as most of you are probably unemployable. As for shop-lifting itself, this is something I would never do as I have far too much self-respect. This is why I send Quilp shop-lifting on my behalf. Naturally, this is only for high-end goods, not a packet of own-brand burgers and a tin of beans; if I ever wanted that sort of stuff, I’ll go to the food bank; or rather send Quilp.

He obviously needs a disguise and what better disguise when committing a criminal act than a full length dust-sheet or burka as the local holy man and fruit-cake, Iman Rsole, calls it. This is perfect and you can have very deep pockets inside so no-one would know you’ve just half-inched a 60 inch television set. And what security guard or police officer would dare stop a woman in a burka even if she is over six foot tall and walks like a bloke and are they really, really sure they saw “her” nick a roll of pork? No, best to let it go and pass the cost on to the paying punters at the till. The Old Bill are not going to stop an escaped jihadi on the run dressed up in a burka leaving the country so what’s the chance they’re going to pull someone in for a bit of shop-lifting. And better to be safe than sorry, the police would never know if she's wearing a suicide vest underneath and we all know the fuss that’s caused when the police shoot to kill these days. Although it seems a perfect method of stop and search to me.

But the worst thing HMG could do is stop benefits to those people who can’t speak English. That’s going to badly affect school leavers as most can barely grunt a sentence in English when they can be bothered to speak as many of them appear to be unable to look up from their smart phone. Who would have thought 20 years ago that mobiles would end up smarter than the imbecile using them?

You see this wouldn’t have happened if teachers had taught properly and used the cane to instil proper discipline and fear into the scholars but I suppose it’s down to the teachers being lazy and ill-educated in the first place. I think a good dozen strokes each for every teacher in the UK to buck their ideas up wouldn’t go amiss. And kids think they're too good to work in a coffee bar! That’s why I’m glad Her Majesty’s Socialist Government has allowed millions of east Europeans into the country as they all seem to make an excellent cup of coffee. Surely teachers could have taught even their dullest pupils this simple, basic task?

Youth and Asia

Soon, the young and foreigners will be the only social groups who will be able to use the NHSS without fear of being put down like an unwanted puppy by the staff. Unfortunately, everyone else, over the age of 35 and honest tax-payers will be regarded as a drain on precious NHSS resources and will be put to sleep for their own good and the good of our over-crowded country. Think I’m joking? Well already people are talking about “assisted dying” so it won’t be long before we’re all being persuaded by lobbyist propaganda into accepting it’ll be good for us. And if there’s one thing that’ll give a doctor a hard-on, it’s the thought of having the power to dispatch someone into the afterlife without any fear of appearing at The Old Bailey on a charge of murder. If only Dr. Shipman had been 20 years younger, he would have been regarded as a farsighted visionary, not a mass murderer.

Anyway, we already abort thousands of unborns every year, many of them just for being the wrong sex although, oddly, Ms Harman’s harpies don’t seem to kick up a fuss over that scandal, probably because it’s their culture, innit. But those people from under different skies are going to look really stupid when there aren’t enough 11 year old girls to marry off to their drooling inbred lunatic sons.

Hasn’t anyone thought of just going around and killing the first born child? That might be a vote-winner for the LibDems.

So if we’re happy to abort, why not start at the other end and work backwards? NHSS death camps already do this on an industrial scale so they’re perfectly set up to offer this treatment to OAPs, free at the point of delivery: usually a needle.

And then the NHSS can concentrate on what’s really important such as breast enlargements followed by breast reductions because the stupid bitch can’t make up her mind, plastic surgery, baby-sitting drunks and drug addicts on Friday night, tummy tucks, gastric band surgery because the slob won’t stop eating lard burgers, buying fat suits so nurses can empathise with fat people, delivering babies to African women who have no intention of paying for the treatment and only just managed to get from Heathrow and can she have a UK passport as well, abortion on demand as birth control, English language translators because most of the staff can barely speak English, collecting patients confidential medical reports to pass onto pharmaceutical companies, prescribing unnecessary, dangerous tablets so doctors can collect extra cash, flu-jabs that don’t work but boost company profits, dosing kids with Ritalin, refusing to give food and water to patients, "cos it ain't my job to.... "   

Nurse, it's a brave new world, bring me a gramme of Soma please....

When abortion was made legal, it was a good thing but now you can kill your unborn because the baby's the wrong sort, or its not going to be perfect or its not going to be a genius or you'd rather go out to parties. Once they give doctors the power to help those with terminal diseases to end their suffering, how long before they start deciding that people who are retired shouldn't be allowed to use precious NHSS resources and should be bumped off. Or they live alone in a 3 bedroom house, when people are homeless? Or they don't pay enough taxes and moan about the cost of heating. Or they get a free television licence. Don't believe me? Well nobody thought abortion would turn out the way it has when it was introduced. And doctors just love the power of God.

But how odd that we are happy to kill unborn children and anyone over 75 because it's not worth saving them, the blameless and the innocent, but we baulk at executing someone who commits a particularly gruesome murder(s) and look after them and cater to their every whim. That’s liberal, socialist compassion in action for you; makes you proud to be British.

I Didn’t Mention The War

How’s this for discipline? Daniel flew all the way from Hannover just to receive a good caning from me and not once, not once did I mention the war, any of them. Although I did briefly touch on the subject of Bismarck’s Mittel Europa policy but bent over my bench, it might not have been conducive to discussion. Still he took 84 strokes, more than Bismarck would have taken I bet. Next day, I thrashed Korky for not knowing about Waitangi Day, the Kola Peninsula, the Battle of Poitiers 788, the date of the first crusade, the siege of Vienna, etc. School kids, eh? Who'd have them? They don't know nuffink, do they? No wonder they can't get a job in Starbux.

Stephane

And I want to mention and thank Stephane from Paris, we've never met but we send Christmas cards to each other. He sent me a box or Ronde Bretonne to cheer me up after losing Nick.

 

24 March 2014

Win Most, Lose Some

Yes, another walker who “left his money in his car”. I’m just too trusting to the likes of you I know; I should demand your fee at the start of the session but I’m not like that. Still two walkers and two other silly grinning idiots who tell me, “I haven’t got the money, heeheehee. Sorry.” They always grin when they say that, as though grinning at me like the local nonce case is going to make me feel a lot better.

Anyway, if you’re working as a Domme, and someone called Marj (Marge? Maj?), yes, that’s right, short for Marjorie I think, telephones and says he only wants a very short session of foot worship then be careful. He’s not even a scumbag, he’s just a skinflint; probably can’t afford a full session on his unemployment benefit. Claims he’s a Catholic from the Lebanon (a Maronite) and wears a crucifix; he lives in Plaistow. He has a shaved head and his car number plate is KJ05 JWV although this might be a false number plate because I can’t find it on the usual websites. His mobile number is: 07823 779090.

As lovable old Nick always said about cheapskates like Marj, “Pay up and look big”. And if you’re reading this Marj, then I you should know that your penis is crooked and smelly; just like you really.

Mea Culpa

That’s right, I made a mistake. Can you Adam and Eve it? I wrote the Battle of Poitiers was in 788 when, as we all know, it was actually 732 (above). What could I have been thinking of, I wonder? I’ve even been to the Hall of Battles in The Palace of Versailles and seen the paintings of Charles Martel kicking Abdul’s butt all over the battlefield as well, so I’ve no excuse. This is a great place to visit although The Hall of Battles is a little light on Crecy, Poitiers 1356, Agincourt, Trafalgar and Waterloo for English tastes but it’s much better than taking your sugar-crazed hyper active children to Disneyland Paris.

So, I made a mistake and this can only mean one thing, I’m afraid. Six of the best!  On the bare!

For each and every one of you!

Now Francoise, unfurl the Oriflamme and let’s kick the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred’s bottom all over the battlefield again.

And while we’re on the subject of jihadis, I can’t understand why, if lunatic muslim fanatics want to go to the middle east to be suicide bombers, HMG is trying to stop them? You’d think they’d be glad to get rid of them. And we could always help them practice, “here Mustafa, strap that back-pack on and run to the trees and see what happens”. A dummy run, as it were. Salisbury Plain should be empty this time of year.

But I couldn’t help laughing at the “Grime-scene” rapping jihadi who lives with his family in a £1m house, who went to fight jihad, crying his eyes out on Twitter that some bigger jihadis stole his AK47 and all his money. So, what are you going to fight with now, you cry baby? I suppose you could always start rapping at the Syrian army but they might not appreciate the subtleties of the “Grime rap music scene”. No doubt the Beeb will play it though.

Dapper The Rapper. This is like all the elements of comedy come together in one imbecile. He’s even got his cap on sideways. Classic.  He does know that these mad jihadis don’t allow music, does he? They'll probably tell when they behead him for YouTube. Well rap this:

“Be the first one on your block
To have your boy come home in a box”

Even if it is a matchbox; I understand carrion eat a lot of the remains of suicide bombers.

Run And Get The Fire Brigade

Ahh, that old classic by The Move. Tough on the Domme oop North who got fined for breaching fire regulations; Health and Safety in a dungeon environment, eh? Who would have thought it? So rest assured when I’m nailing your foreskin to a piece of wood and burning your pubes off I shall ensure a fireman is in attendance at all times. He’ll be the one in the gimp suit rolling on the floor. Here’s what I mean. Now, who would like a hot dog?. Please note that no animals were hurt in the making of this film.

Taking A Liberty

Oh, Miss Ha-ha-ha-harman, what a disgusting person you turn out to be. In your haste to destroy everything about Britain you align yourself with kiddy-fiddlers. No good saying you didn’t know at the time. “Vote Labour, have your child abused by a neighbour”. Catchy slogan, Ha-Harriet. Should go down well in the Peckham working-men’s clubs.

I Told You So

I hate to say I told you so, but I told you so. I big fat told you so. HM’s weasels are crawling out from under their stones shortly to vote on legalised murder. Doctors are probably creaming their pants at the mere thought while everyone sleep-walks into a nightmare you won't wake up from. Pentobarbitol will do that to you. Already the National Health ShutzStaffel are withholding drugs if they think you don’t deserve them. Well the likes of you probably don’t and anyway, they have to save money and it doesn’t matter if you’ve paid in all your working life, does it? You’ve had your turn. There's far more deserving people living on the dole who probably pay more in taxes through heavy drinking and smoking. And how are they going to afford cancer treatment drugs when the NHSS have breast enlargements to pay for.

Anyway the alternative is to be deemed mentally unstable by social workers and imprisoned in a nursing home by the secret courts and have your home sequestered by the state to give to homeless foreigners. Caring socialism in action; makes you proud to be British. And now they’re not going to put you in prison for refusing to buy a television licence you’ll have to go and commit a real crime, like refusing to pay your council tax, if you want to be looked after properly in your dotage.

If the government wants to do away with those who are no longer fit or worthy of living in our socialist paradise, why don't they just put everyone they don't want any more into some sort of camp and they can get rid of huge numbers of people at once. I'm surprised no-one's thought of it before.

Oh, wait a minute....

 

13 April 2014

All Good Things

Come to an end I'm afraid and I've lost two bondage toys: John Plimsoll and Lee. John Plimsoll has developed a tumour and sadly will not be partaking in bondage sessions again. Lee used to fly in to the UK from the US and worked for the CIA; he used to rendition jihadis back to the States so they could be "questioned" about their activities. Lee always used to make me laugh with what he told me they did to them and he's the only one who would let me fire his gun. Don't worry, it was only at the urban foxes running about here; as if I'd fire at a body. Anyway, sadly, I don't think I'll be seeing either of them again and they taught me so much about bondage and tying up. It was fun.

Also, I've been aware for some time that all the exits on this site haven't worked properly. This is because they were all aimed at Max Fisch's Site and I had a code for the referral. Unfortunately, Max's referrals haven't been in operation for a few months and this is why the Exits failed. Are you following all this? Because I'll be caning bottoms later and asking questions afterwards. Anyway, I've now made a direct link to the Max Fisch site so they should all work.

Also I've been informed that the Dreamhost Guest Books have called it a day due to the popularity of Facebook. Therefore I've taken the Visitors' Book away but I've managed to download all the messages just in case one of you wins the Lottery and I've got an angle to blackmail you with. One always has to look for the main chance.

I’ve never used Facebook as it appears to enable the rest of the world to see how daft you are:

"Hey, everybody, we’re all on holiday so please break into our house, steal all our possessions and rent the property out to a family of Roma gypsies."

"My parents are away and I’m throwing a party so please tell everybody as they’ll trash the house, take my father’s drugs stash and stab somebody."

"Everyone at work, I enjoy being fisted and used as a toilet in a gay club at weekends. Boss, please sack me."

Beyond me why anyone would want to do that.

Now get back on with working out your Logarithms.

Short Back and Sides

Can anyone believe that dopey looking kid in charge of North Korea? He doesn’t like his photograph being used as an advertisement for bad hair days so his henchmen demand a hair dressing salon stops using his picture. Well maybe you shouldn’t have such a dopey looking hairstyle, sonny. Not only that but he wants all NK students to adopt the same hairstyle. Now I can see just one tiny, little problem with that idea because it appears they’re all called Kim, all have the same haircut and, let’s face it, they do all look the same, how are they going to tell which one’s the real Kim? Is he on Facebook?

Easter

As it's Easter, I thought I'd give you all an Easter card to enjoy with your Hot Cross Buns on Good Friday. See what you think of it here.

Happy Easter.

 

8 June 2014

Don't forget, I have a new email address at angela@miss-spiteful.com Do try and use it and not the old email address otherwise you won't get through to me. I know some of you are a little slow getting to grips with technology, that's why you have to be caned.

Lovable Old Nick

Nick was never involved in BDSM or that interested in it really. He had his own pursuits, he was a transvestite, and proud of it, and he loved cross-dressing. In the past he was quite famous, or infamous, as he would have preferred to be called. Not only was he a very accomplished TV but he had an encyclopaedic knowledge of cross-dressing, was a great raconteur and he could keep people amused with tales of his past adventures. During the 70s, 80s and 90s he ran a number of clubs and once worked for Axfords corset shop in Vauxhall. He was a sarf Londoner and he bleedin’ spoke like a sarf Londoner all the time and I loved him dearly.

He pretended to be a thickie but he was very well read and loved reading books on all sorts of subjects. In the early 80s he wrote a number of stories for a magazine and, as I now own the copyright of these stories, I have decided to publish them on my site. You can find them on the Stories Page here under the name Yvonne Sinclair. One of them concerns two Victorian TVs called Stella and Fanny (Boulton and Park) and I know someone has recently written a book about these two characters but Nick’s story was written around 1984.

Another story Nick wrote was The Bisley Boy. Although this was based on a story in Bram Stoker’s book Famous Imposters about Queen Elizabeth I and recently another book has been been written on this subject by another author.

Like most people, Nick wrote as he spoke so re-reading them today, I can hear his voice in my head speaking the words. I hope you enjoy them as lovable old Nick enjoyed writing them and, in actual fact, they're really rather good stories.

This is, of course, in line with the new rules to make schoolchildren read English authors rather than US ones. After all, why do they all go crazy over Of Mice and Men because didn't Lenny and George make fun of poor old Crooks, the black guy? And he was called Crooks! What a dreadful calumny. And that good old American classic Huckleberry Finn, calling the runaway slave the N-word. Heavens to Betsy. I think we should ban any word in the English language beginning with the letter N. Just to be on the safe side. In fact, ban the letter N all together. That way nobody would ever be offended or have their feelings hurt ever again. Gosh, I'm getting all misty-eyed and feel a chorus of Kumbaya coming on. Please excuse me while I piously show off my PC credentials

And the BBC sacking some poor hapless DJ for not knowing a song he was playing contained the satanic N-word in it. Somewhere. A bit of a niggardly response by the Beeb but what can you expect, the Beeb is a tough employer who demands everyone is treated equally. Why, just imagine what they'd do if one of their star DJs and presenters did something really wicked like sexually abuse children, for instance.

So, no more words beginning with the letter N, if you please. Now get on and read something wholesome like Enid Blyton's Noddy stories. Or Nick's stories about dressing up in women's clothes.

It's nearly a year now since Nick died, 6 August, and this time last year, we were on holiday in Devon. I'm not going for a proper holiday this year as I wouldn't feel right but I am taking a few days off in August.

Yes I know not all of the Exit links go anywhere but I'm fixing all of that in time.

All Good Things

One of the best things about what I do, well apart from the fisting of course, is meeting all the different people who I'd never meet in a general walk of life. Recently, I've meet very nice Irishmen, Michael who’s waited 10 years to visit me so I hope he found the visit worth waiting for. And also Sean, who took a tremendous spanking and slippering; I don’t think he was quite prepared for it but he took it in good part and he was very cheeky so he deserved what he got.

Also, I've sessioned with a number of Dommes lately, Mistresses Vashty, MarieAngela and Thunder. And the recipient of all this attention?  Poor Howard. Who had to take a tremendous caning in front of these ladies. Rightly so.

 

9 July 2014

Different Folks Different Strokes

Imagine my surprise. An appointment with a new chap called Dennis booked for a bit of ritual humiliation, when blow me down with a feather he turns up to be a Nigerian. I had to get him in quick before the neighbours saw him and called the old bill, thinking he’s a burglar. You’ve no idea the number of times I’ve had to telephone and berate some hapless desk sergeant at the local nick to explain the suspicious looking individual caught lurking around the area is in fact coming here to see me for a good caning and this will undoubtedly cure him of any untoward criminal activity he might be engaged in.

Anyway, back to Dennis. Then I have to quickly rub his face all over to make sure he’s not blacked up for a joke or something. Well you know what those lunatics at the Equality Haupampt are like; always banging on about being inclusive. See, Ms Ha-ha-harman, like you, I can do diverse as well as perverse. I well remember dear old Ian would often black up and wear a spangled suit when he went off to the theatre of an evening. Oh, how he missed those Black and White Minstrels’ Shows that he used to enjoy so much. What a shame the BBC stopped broadcasting them; and the Beeb is so hideously white too.

I thankfully got Dennis in through the door pronto but he must have left his spear outside somewhere. And a good session; I enjoyed it and I hope he did too. When I found out he was a Nigerian I naturally quizzed him on whether he was one of those Procul Harum crowd causing all that trouble out there and had come to murder me in my own home but thankfully he was from the south, so not a problem. And he, thoughtfully, brought me a box of chocolates, which I ate afterwards. See, they’re not all Khat-chewing, AK47 wielding madmen; he was quite nice and very polite.

The only problem was when I was taking off the nipple clamps, which one first? "Eeny, Meeny, Miney Mo..." 

Not so John, who came the same week. John took one look at the place, took fright and ran off, telling me he thought it was a “bad idea”. I hadn’t even given him six of the best; and after I’d done him a favour because he couldn’t afford the fee. In future, John, try asking Mr Sainsbury’s if they’ll knock 40 quid off as you can’t afford your shopping. See how far that gets you. And really, a baseball cap? That’s so not a good look on a man in his 60s.

Oh well, it takes all sorts.

The World At War

The world has been at war for the past month and I’ve apparently missed it. Thank heavens. The football’s almost over and I’ve missed every single match. It wasn’t easy, I really had to try hard to dodge endless pundits talk about 3-3-4 and 1-2-5-2 and can you believe it, there are tactics? I thought the players just ran after the ball whoever’s nearest but actually there’s some sort of plan involved. Surely it doesn’t matter that much does it? I thought it was all fixed anyway by Asian bookmakers, like cricket.

Did England win? Did they play? Oh, well, we’ve still got the Falklands and Gibraltar; that'll rub their noses in it. And it looks like it's going to be between Marge and Tina and Germany. Gosh, that's going to be a difficult one deciding who to support for England.

And what is going on with all these bearded imbeciles running off to the Middle East to live a life of jihad for about 2 weeks. Let me see if I’ve got this right, boys: give up my fat job, car, friends, family, lifestyle and join you all in some foreign hell-hole where there’s no alcohol, cigarettes, music, dancing, night-life, no running water, no football, no roast pork for lunch, pray with your arse up in the air five times a day, get shot at by soldiers/armed militia. Living the dream, boys, living the dream. Is that the sound of drone overhead?

I know, we’d all prefer to see the police stop them leaving the country in the first place and have them fall out of a sixth floor window while trying to escape or sectioned under the Mental Health Act and placed in a lunatic asylum to be hit with a big stick until their brain starts running down their nose. I know I would, for one. For their own good obviously.

Sunni and Shiite? I thought they were a pair of dippy hippy singers; what went wrong? And good luck trying to persuade the Jews to give up Israel.

And young women going out there too? I hope they didn’t all waste their money on return tickets because they’ll be married off to some feckless, slack-jawed jihadi suicide bomber from Birmingham before they know it. Till death us do part? That should be until tomorrow evening, Fatima. What’s wrong with drinking yourself into a stupor on a Friday night like English girls? I don’t think we should be too worried about these people coming back to Britain; this appears to be Darwin’s natural selection in real time. If they do make it back it'll probably be to sign on.

Now, more football great.

 

1 August 2014

There's One Born Every Minute

No, not islamic jihadis wanting to become suicide bombers, you dunce, suckers. The answer is suckers. Although it's the same thing I suppose but no, I mean a Rube or a dupe.

Imagine my delight at receiving an email from US domiciled, Aussie ex-pat David Dixon, who wants to exgage me for a month! Ask my own price, he'll pay it. A whole month! Just one thing, he's working in Nigeria and involved in illegally exporting oil. So I'm now waiting for the pleading email to request I send him money for him to get out of jail because he's been arrested by the Nigerian plod, which no doubt he'll naturally refund when we meet.

Of course, I don't suppose it helped that I informed the Nigerian old bill that "David Dixon" was involved in illegal activity. And I know this is a scam because I've been writing complete nonsense back to him yet always got sensible replies. And when he asked for a photograph of me wearing "cloths", yes, cloths, not clothes, I sent him an old photograph of late, lamented Ian, dressed up in women's clothes. And he thought I looked lovely and fell in love with my picture. Bless him.

I replied to him as a Nancy-boy kaffir and I told him I would call him slave Nonce; upon which he requested my telephone number. I duly replied with the telephone number of Scotland Yard and told him to phone up and say he needs to be punished because he's a Nonce.

As I said, one born every minute.

Holiday

As you may be aware, I shall be away most of next week on holiday. Normally, we always went to Devon as we loved to meet foreigners and lead a different lifestyle, you know, people who speak English as a first and only language, people who smile politely and say “Good morning” rather than ignore you or hand you a piece of paper begging you for money with a pleading look on their face because they need to feed five children. All of whom are trying to steal your purse.

Ah the joys and benefits of our multi-culti socialist paradise.

And do things like pop into Ye Olde Tea Shoppe where an aged genteel spinster serves you a proper cup of English tea with tea-cakes and we gasp in amazement that a cup of tea costs 15 shillings in old money. That’s much nicer than a double Frappuccino skinny latte and a factory made pastry tasting of candle wax sitting in what looks like a film set from Friends. 

People who smile knowingly when you jokingly say the village inn is going to be turned into a mosque; that sort of quintessential English humour.

How do I know they taste like candle wax? I once exfoliated Quilp’s pubes by pouring melting beeswax over him and then ripped it off for him to eat. Said it tasted like a Danish. And what about you Ms Ha-ha-harman, would you like some more PIE, dear? No?

Yes, it’s always enjoyable taking a foreign holiday. Especially in England as it’s easy to get to without a lot of travelling. But this year, I’m alone so it’s not going to be much fun on holiday. But then I saw the chance of a lifetime! A sight-seeing coach trip across northern Iraq and the chance to be the bride of some bearded jihardi. What’s not to like? I suppose the wedding dress will have to be a black burka, which will be handy for widow’s weeds at the funeral too as I don’t suppose the groom will be around for too long as he’s probably employed as a suicide bomber. Better take out a hefty wodge on life insurance too; help pay for the funeral expenses if they ever find any body parts.

Might be a good idea to leave the booze, singing, dancing and general making merry alone too as that will mean a ritual beheading for anyone daft enough to engage in such frivolity at a wedding.

This might be why the Americans are always drone bombing wedding parties in Afghanistan: because no-one’s drunk and dancing like imbeciles with St Vitus’s Dance so it doesn’t look like a wedding.

And don’t even think of eating a bacon sandwich or the in-laws will never stop moaning and bewailing and calling for you to be stoned; which is probably the state the brides were in when they agreed to marry their slack-jawed off-spring in the first place. And an interminable best man’s speech about the evils of the Great Satan, but he still enjoys watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer on his 60 inch TV and driving his Cadillac stroke Technical. This is where everyone starts to stare mindlessly into space, wishing they were Christians so they could have a drink.

Still, there’ll be a local Waitrose in the village, won’t there?

I suppose they have to advertise for women now as they probably don’t have any sisters or nieces to marry; well these people do prefer to abort girl children in favour of boys so there’s bound to be a disconnect. Anyway, if by some mis-chance you are female and, somehow by accident you manage to get to full-term you’re probably about the fourteenth child after the first thirteen boys. And you wouldn’t be able to outrun all your male relatives traipsing around in a burka, so not much chance of being a virgin on the wedding night.

You see this is a much better way to get a husband than going to Tunisia and wasting your entire life savings on some 20 year old waiter who only loves you for your passport. I can fully understand some women are stupid enough to believe a young man would be madly in love with an old trout in her fifties but what I can’t understand is why, why in the name of God, they would want to go to the newspapers and tell the entire nation that they are the most gullible old fool in the land.

Maybe David Dixon in Nigeria should give them a call.

I know, you’ll all be saying Miss you mustn’t make fun of these people or they will get very upset and be very angry with you. But surely, simple lad, all our sneering left-wing comedians from the BBC are making fun of these people on their well-scripted, spontaneous panel shows, aren’t they? Aren’t they? Anyway, I don’t have to make them look stupid and foolish; they’re more than capable of that without any help from me.

Naw, all things considered, I think I'd prefer to go down to Devon again this year.

 

22 August 2014

Home, Home Again

I like to be here when I can. Yes, I’m back home from Totnes after a few days away enjoying myself with good food and wine. A bit like the English football team at one of the very many football tournaments they take part in, I suppose; they’re only away for a couple of days. Does Scotland have a football team? They never seem to partake in any competitions. I guess once they’ve become independent of the rest of us they’ll form a team and jolly well show us all how it’s done. In the meantime we can all enjoy another ten months of soccer.  

Totnes is an odd place, a bit like the hippie festival Woodstock 45 years ago only nobody’s ever left but they’ve all got older and they’re wearing the same clothes. There’s something rather sad about ageing hippies with their dirty, unkempt, long hair, beards and sandals. In any other context, such as knocking on your door for alms, you’d set the dogs on them to see them off, I suppose.

But at least in situations where you stumble across them, when they’ve been let out of their hostel for the day, they do provide some entertainment value I suppose. You know the sort of thing: lying on the pavements begging, free-form dancing, wild-eyed in the market squares to Jethro Tull music only they hear, introducing themselves as your son’s teacher or protesting against something on the other side of the world no-one’s ever heard of and has no possible detriment to this country.

And of course when they’re working in some wacky organic environmental restaurant/New Age coffee bar trying to get you to order a tofu quiche with bean sprout salad and you ask for some goose foie gras; that usually brings on apoplexy. 

Well they’re either like that in Totnes or they’re quintessential, genteel English ladies and gentlemen enjoying cream teas in one of the very many tea rooms to be found there. I like it, you wouldn’t find anything like it in any other country in the world; it’s typically oddball English.

Well, now that you’ve recovered from your fit, Gar Con, how about a bottle of Sancerre with the veal chop?

6 August. This was the anniversary of Nick’s death and I went to Rattery. This is a small village in Devon where Nick spent some years growing up and he loved it there. I placed some orchids where we scattered his ashes and sat on a wall contemplating our time together. After a while, a woman and her son came out of the house where the flowers were and picked most of them up and took them indoors. Nick would have smiled at the irony of it. His spirit’s probably roufing (rummaging) through her underwear drawers and walking around in her best undies. South London slang: Nick always said rouf (rofe? Roaf?) for going through something with the intent to steal.

 

Coming To A Town Near You

One place it’s very doubtful you’ll find a town like Totnes is, of course, in the Imbecilic SISI State of lunatic jihadis, or whatever they’ve called themselves this week. Maybe they’re now called the In A State of Death. Sons of the Desert?  Soon to be buried under the desert more like. And, yes, they’re funny with their clothes and straggly Shenandoah’s but Laurel and Hardy they ain’t.

But how odd that none of the legal-aid legal profession have made an appearance out in Iraq trying to drum up business by suing the SISIes for human rights violations. They were out in force in Iraq searching for victims of the Army. But I suppose it’s easier and more lucrative to bring British squaddies to court on trumped up charges of hurting the feelings of the Arabs by blowing raspberries at them.

And Shammy from Liberty, she’s very quiet about it all and Hahaha-Harriet too, not a peep out of either of them about human rights and religious discrimination. Maybe it’s only discriminatory when it’s Christians doing the discrimination and they’ve probably both still got their mouths stuffed full of PIE to squeak up.

Still, the Not In My Name brigade and all peace-loving muslims will be marching across the length and breadth of the country this weekend to protest about the merciless killing in the Levant, I shouldn’t wonder. That’ll stop these homicidal maniacs in their tracks, I bet.

Never mind boys, when you find out that Call Of Duty was only a game where a drone didn’t actually  land a bomb on your heads and you didn’t get killed and then you find out there are no 72 virgins waiting for you in Hell, cheer up, as the song goes, “Forever's not so long”. I guess we all know How It Ends. But I suppose those who manage to run away from the debris and avoid the SAS and make it back to Blighty will soon be up to their tricks and claiming benefits again with the blessing of our dear metropolitan liberals and BBC.

Now some of you might be a little worried and concerned about murderous lunatics let loose on the streets of the UK by our weasel, cowardly government and all those who’ve remained silent because they’re really in sympathy with SISI and support them, but there’s no need to worry.

Take comfort from the wise, re-assuring words of James Gerard. That's right, the very same James Gerard we all know as US ambassador to Germany during WW1, who, upon being told, there were “500,000 German reservists, in America, ready to rise up if the US declared war on Germany” blithely replied “Yes, and there are 500,001 lamp posts to hang them from if they dare try”.

I offer rope bondage so I have plenty of rope.

And I suspect that will be the fate of any returning jihadis should they make it back. HMG and the Old Bill might be cowards but the British public have had enough of this nonsense. Well, son, your left-wing, liberal legal-aid brief isn’t going to be there to hold your hand all the time, is he? You’re going to have to go out on your own sooner or later so, “You already know how this will end.”

Now children, open your exercise books to page 143 and we’ll do some algebra to take our minds off these dreadful creatures. Oh dear, that boy at the back who’s wet himself, out the front for six of the best. In fact, six of the best for all of you, I think.

Jihadi John? My money’s on the rapper. But it doesn’t matter as the three of them will probably be dead by next month.  Nice idea of the security services though, naming three known dim-wit deadbeats; they’ll probably shi-ite themselves and tell MI5 who really is Jihadi John. Probably by Twitter. Enjoy meeting the SAS, boys.

Winners and Losers

I received an email the other day from Adam who asked for something I don’t really offer. He told me he was 24 and inexperienced. During the email exchange he told me a number of Dommes he’d contacted were not very welcoming because of his youth. I arranged to see him and he turned out to be a very presentable and likeable young man. Which made me think, why did they blow him out just because he was young and inexperienced? After all, everyone’s got to start somewhere, even Dommes; which goes to show they were the losers as he was very pleasant company. Anyway, I enjoyed the session and I hope he enjoyed it and goes to enjoy many more over the years, with whosoever he chooses, and he remembers all those who turned him down.

Next day, waiting for that idiot Quilp to turn up and pick me up from Charing Cross Road, I went into a pub; I’m not really a pub person so this was very unusual for me. Quilp drove me up to Regulation as I’m keen to buy another e-stim machine. Imagine my horror when I found I’d lost my purse. Then I realised I must have left it in the pub! Imagine my relief when I phoned up and was told someone had handed it in over the counter, without relieving me of a few promissory notes. So you see, there are good people in the world. How could the SISI dogs even think they can win against us?

22 August 2013

It's a year ago today of Lovable Old Nick's funeral and I still get upset and miss him lots. If anyone says to me, "Time is a great healer", I'll rip their testicles off. It doesn't heal, it doesn't feel better and I still blame the callousness, ineptitude and indifference of the medical staff on wards 14 and 15 at The Queen Elizabeth Hospital Woolwich for his death. Envy of the world? Only if the world were full of ISIS jihadi scum.

 

17 September 2014

A momentous day approaches, 18 September.

No, I’m not talking about the Scottish Yes No Interlude; 18 September was the day I moved in with lovable old Nick: 18 September 1981. It was also the day, last year that I scattered his ashes in Rattery, a place he loved.  18. 9. 1981. It’s also a palindromic number 1891981 or 1891981 backwards so it must have been a bit special.

As for the sweaty socks, well they’ll probably vote Yes just to spite the English whether they want independence or not. And who’s responsible for this nonsense, Braveheart, you might think? Why, no, it’s none other than that world renowned peace envoy and all round Mr Popular, Toe Knee Blair. Everything you touch, Tone, everything you touch, mate. Although I can’t see you getting a knighthood off the old baked bean for this though.

Me? I can’t help thinking they should all vote Yes because I think England would be a lot better off on our own. But no matter who wins, half of Scotland is going to end up angry, bitter, miserable and disappointed with the way things have turned out. Which is a bit of a result really because usually all the Sweaties are angry, bitter, miserable and disappointed with the way things have turned out. And it’ll all be the fault of the English not matter how it turns out.

I’m afraid, like all businesses, I shall have to charge double any foreigners coming from Scotland too. There’s no reason for it but everyone else is doing it so why not? You will be expect to pay in UK pounds and not bawbees, or whatever Monopoly currency you decide on. Please ensure you have your Scottish passport ready at the front door please. And get up off your knees Cameron, it's so unbecoming; you're looking like a lovelorn suitor pining for his sweetheart who turns out to be the town bike.

Do we really want the Sweaties anyway? We’re not going to invade anywhere, are we? So we don’t need a brigade of the forlorn hope to lead the charge; the Scots were always useful for that and who could forget Piper Bill leading the way at the D-Day landings with only his bagpipes? If any soldiers do go in these days, it’s more likely to be the SAS and I doubt they’d be too pleased at “Highland Laddie” blasted out in pibroch giving the game away.

And if they become a separate country, we can dump all our nuclear waste up there, and our criminals and socialists, there’s plenty of open countryside up there so they’ll never notice; and a few more criminals and socialists…? Come on; they’re one or the other and often both up there.

Gordon’s Alive!

No, not Gordon, Gareth. Slave Gareth’s alive! I’d lost touch with Gareth sometime in 2010 and I always suspected he’d been found dead after a couple of months decomposing in some bizarre rubber bondage suit when his bodily fluids had started to pour through the ceiling of the downstairs flat below his. But no, it wasn’t to be. He’s alive!

I was just about to dive into Clone Zone to buy another large butt plug for naughty school-boy William Brown, when there he was, coming out with a black 17 inch “Tonguebiter” dildo and a couple of douche bags. Well he hasn’t changed much. Obviously, I suspect he was touting for a bit of rough trade as I found out later he been dismissed from his job, possibly caught out by putting some of his many vile photographs on Facebook for all to see. I bought him a coffee as he was probably living on the streets. And he no doubt didn’t get in touch because prisoners aren’t allowed to use PCs in prison, are they? Are they? I thought it was all rum, bum and baccy in prison; or is that the Royal Navy?

And I forgot to ask him if the swastika is still burnt into his back. What a night that was. I still remember Ian and Ossimandus constantly lighting cigarettes for me to burn the pattern into his back and the lovely Sally holding him down. Unfortunately, Gareth had to go to South Africa a month or so later and had to keep his vest on to stop the swastika bleeding through his shirt. Not the best place to have a swastika burnt into your back, I suppose. Happy days. After I’d finished, I called over one of the smug, right-on select few of the SM scene to ask if he was okay with Gareth because a week or so before he’d upbraided dear old Ian for wearing Nazi insignia. He didn’t say a dickie to me.

Killing An Arab

These jihadis, why are they all pointing upwards? Is that where they think the bombs are going to come from?

So, let me get this right. They wear black balaclavas, fly black flags with scribble over it and carry an automatic rifle. Do you think our brave, incorruptible police are going to have any great difficulty spotting them coming back into the country? But then they did have difficulty spotting paedophile rings in Rotherham and Rochdale but I suppose they were told not to upset the enrichers of our multi-cultural paradise on the orders of the left-wing liberals who run the local councils and social services. Ah, the benefits of socialist utopia, where it’s better to be a paedophile than thought a racist. No wonder Ms HahahahaHarman and her mates all cosied up to the PIE in the 70s.

Maybe the liberals will just try and let the matter of mass-murder and crimes against humanity go, after all they don't want to rock the boat, do they? Offer them a life on benefits and no questions asked if they just behave themselves and keep quiet for a bit.

So let’s hope the SAS get to them before they decide jihad’s not so cool after all and they want to come back home. No boys and girls, that's not a set of bagpipes you can hear, more likely a laser-guided missile.

All Souls Day

2 November. Loveable Old Nick's burfday as he used to call it. I shall be raising a glass or three to him and all the happy days we had.

2 November 2014

Trust Me I’m A Doctor

Well who wouldn’t trust a doctor? Especially one works for the NHSS and has your life in his hands. So great news that we’re all going to contribute towards doctors diagnosing dementia to earn an extra 55 quid a skull; this is going to be huge money spinner for them and they probably need a couple of pounds to tide them over; well it must be exhausting working a couple of hours a week and trying to stay sober.

Just think, you go in asking for a repeat prescription of your Viagra or medicine for an STD you caught from a bit of kerb-crawling and the doc tells you unless you pay £200 immediately he’ll have you diagnosed with dementia and you’ll be in a nursing home being physically and sexually abused by the nursing staff before Sunday. Some people would pay good money for that.  It’s the envy of the world.

But it also has its advantages as you can bung the doc a couple of grand to have your old folks placed in a laughingly entitled Nursing Home (who says the Social Services doesn’t have a sense of humour) and sell their house and belongings. Help pay for a fortnight’s stay in Turkey, which seems a very popular holiday destination with jihadis at the moment. And don’t worry, you can always install a hidden camera in Nan and Grandad’s room so the kids can keep an eye on them, while you’re down the pub, and the kids can watch them having sex. You’ll probably see it yourself when you view the clip on YouTube your kids have helpfully loaded on the site for all their mates to snigger at.

So everyone’s a winner. And with Nursing Homes installing their own hidden cameras I can’t wait for the release of a Christmas DVD featuring all the hilarious antics of low-paid African “nurses” restraining the sick and the elderly with the back of their hand to a sardonic voice over by some unknown northern comedian and a soundtrack of “UKIP Calypso”. That should knock Street Wars Vol 13 off the DVD chart top spot this Christmas. I mean, there are only so many times you can watch and laugh at the old Bill hitting some hapless environmental protester senseless before you begin to crave some new outrage.

I know, I know, watching a, liberal, hand-wringing middle-aged woman hippie campaigning for the rights of Roma gypsies being beaten senseless around the head in a baton charge is always funny but hey, everyone needs a bit of variety.

I hope Santa will also leave me a couple of comedy DVDs in my stockings again this year. I do enjoy listening to a good comedian telling jokes to make me laugh, especially those left-wing comics so beloved by the BBC. Who couldn’t fail to burst their sides laughing and wet their pants at Tony Wedgwood Benn spending his entire life sanctimously preaching to all and sundry about the evils of privilege and inherited wealth in his self-righteous way, only to ensure his off-spring didn’t pay inheritance tax on the millions he left them in his will. Haha, classic champagne socialist humour; and the joke’s on us. Very witty, Wilde, very witty.

Or RedKen, with his side-splitting catch phrase, “They just don’t get it” Well they won’t with a tax efficient personal company to employ you Ken and Mrs RedKen, that’s for sure. Hahaha. Why pay tax when you can avoid it? Only ordinary people pay tax. And his zany, madcap side-kick, Harriet Harm Them and her, “Anyone fancy PIE, Sir?” Where do they find these jokers? You've just got to laugh at them, haven't you?

Or Toe-Knee Blair’s straight man and socialist stooge, “Lord” Prezza, spending all those years pretending he wants to abolish the House of Lords only to end up there; what a comedian. Another classic “custard pie in the face” sketch for all the paying punters. And the best part is people fall for it time and time and time again. Hilarious!

Who said slapstick is dead? Who wouldn't want to slap these people with a big stick? I know I do.

That’s why I can’t understand why simpletons listen to and believe Russel Brand; do you think Jonafun Woss calls him Wuss? I don’t suppose he minds getting laughed at all the time calling himself a “comedian” and all but he’s not even funny! I would have thought being funny was the essence of comedy. I do find his father, Jo, is funny though; in both looks and dress sense so I suppose they're funny in a way Charlie Cairoli was funny: they're both clowns.

It must be the very young, naïve and easily-led who accept such nonsense but then I suppose they’ll listen to anybody who talks their own language: adolescent drivel. And when they say, “He talks a lot of sense” and they keep a straight face, you know full well you’re talking to a certifiable imbecile and you should be calling for men in white coats to cart them off to a lunatic asylum.

Yeah, come on let’s have a revolution, eat the rich and then we’ll all be equal. No more individual wealth, everyone takes an equal share. That means giving up all your millions too, Wuss, and digging coal like everybody else for the good of our Marxist utopia. Not so funny now, are you?

Ah, Marx - now they were funny.

Doctoring The House

To help counteract this dreadful disease Ebola, I’ve decided to do all sessions wearing protective clothing, mask and rubber gloves; but don’t worry, it’ll all be made of rubber so you’ll still get that fetish sensation of rubber clothing. You, however, will be naked so if I suspect you’re infected with anything, I can offer you three weeks quarantine in my isolation chamber. Naturally, if you look or sound as though you’re from Africa, then it’s obligatory to stay in isolation until I’ve decided you don’t pose a risk; could be a while. And don’t try blacking up and pretending you’re an African so you can enjoy a couple of weeks in a prison cell. I always rub the faces of black people in case they’re wearing stage make up and only pretending to be black; I’ve been caught out like that before. You won’t believe the trouble I got into getting Quilp to black up pretending he’s part of my diversity quota.

And you won’t be alone down there as I’ve still got 2 left from the Mayan End of the World scam. Where idiots believed the end of the world was going to happen on 12 December 2012 according to some Mayan Book of the Dead nonsense and we offered them sanctuary for a couple of grand. Probably better let them go now and explain nothing happened. Still better safe than sorry eh, lads?

Which reminds me, I haven’t heard from Axyloid for some time now so he’s probably incarcerated in some dungeon like a modern day Man In an Iron Mask. Some people would pay good money for that.

It’s probably also a good idea not to buy bush “meat” from any local market; you wouldn’t want to eat infected fruit bat, would you? Although I suppose you could cover the meat in a dollop of delicious Shito; that should keep you safe. However, a recipe of fruit bat in Shito sauce might start you off vomiting anyway so you’ll end up in an NHSS death camp for a couple of weeks, and if the Ebola doesn’t finish you, so called hospital food probably will.

This is why I always eat foie gras, veal, rib-eye steaks and hand-reared meat. And stop smirking you idiot boy, that doesn’t mean the same as The Hand-Reared Boy.

Anyway, Ebola, don’t catch it. And if you do, don’t come here.

Lady Pandora Canes

Yes very severely. And also sells canes. So if you want to buy a couple of rattans to instil some good old fashioned discipline into your lazy, malingering and ill-mannered off-spring with six of the best, you can contact Lady Pandora and buy canes.

You might also need a good lawyer too as Die Sozialen Dienste Einsatzgruppen will probably want to know why you’re beating your children. Tell them you want to get your retaliation in first as once they grow up, they’ll pay you back. Anyway, if the SS do take your children into care I'm sure they'll be able to place them with some Asian kebab shop owners or taxi drivers to take care of them. And now that someone has finally recognised that trendy teaching methods don’t work, I hope we’ll see a return to school discipline.  

In the meantime, you'll probably enjoy visiting Lady Pandora's site

and if you want to buy the canes, paddles, tawses, straps, etc you need to visit The English Cane Company. And my apologies to Lady Pandora for taking so long to place this on my site.

 

Twitter

Yes, I’ve finally succumbed to Twitter and it’s driving me crazy.

No, I don’t mean that mindlessly moronic medium so beloved by imbeciles and that obnoxiously smug Fry character who constantly informs his infantile followers on his latest bowel movement; I am not, I am so glad to say, on Twitter. It’s just that I’ve bought myself a budgerigar for Christmas. I’ve named him Johnson. I know there’s not much meat on them so I’ll still have to buy a capon as well I suppose. Everyone told me to get a cat but I don’t fancy cooking one of those for Christmas and I’ve never been that keen on Vietnamese pho, as this is where most cats end up, I’m led to believe.

Is it really pronounced “pooh”? Maybe I should embrace multi-culturalism and sit and eat a bowl of pooh with Shito sauce. Then again I think I’ll stick with rib of beef and leave the pooh to those who enjoy it like Harriet Harm-Them.

So, Johnson the budgie’s a pet and Colin the capon can go in the oven, with a nice chestnut stuffing. Another good thing with a budgie is if you get bored with it, as they’re not that entertaining after a couple of weeks or so, you can simply open the window and let it fly away; none that walking along the canal with a weighted sack business and a struggling kitten mewing trying to draw the attention of passers-by. Anyway, Johnson, the budgie twitters away to himself at the moment, little realising what mummy does for a living.

Do these food banks give out capons for Christmas? I’ve already been to the local one and put my Christmas order in but I haven’t heard when they’re going to deliver it. It’s a bit like Ocado I suppose. I don’t want to pick it up personally as I try not to have contact with the undeserving poor. I understand The Gruinard has some chap called Jack who writes in the paper advising ne’er-do-wells on how to cook cheap food. That should be relatively easy surely? “Open Tin, Heat, Eat.”

That’s why I never buy the Gruinard newspaper. I always go into the local mini-mart when they open at 7.00, after a four mile walk (I kid you not) and hear poor people say, “Errr, 40 Benson’s, 4 cans of Super Brew, The Racing Post and today’s copy of the Gruinard, please Mr Patel”. I suppose they enjoy an hour or so solving the Alphabetical Jigsaw Crossword puzzles after a light breakfast of Stella. I would have thought the undeserving poor would be more inclined to read the Sun.

It’s funny, all these lefties go on about the poor going hungry and what a disgrace they haven’t enough to eat when most of them look as though they’ve just eaten the entire contents of a food bank for breakfast and are now waddling off looking for more. But wouldn’t it be nice if the hand-wringing liberals offered to give the poor a Sunday lunch in their Islington town-house. It would show the rabble how their betters lived and it would make a great reality television programme.

Yoof

I suppose we all look upon young people with fear and loathing of being mugged and the suspicion that they spend all their dole money on drugs and PC games, that’s why I always carry a couple of cans of CS gas in case I meet one of them on the street. I always prefer to get my retaliation in first, as it were and by incapacitating them for a couple of days in hospital, I’m long gone before the old Bill has the opportunity to take a statement. So it was a great pleasure to meet one of them who was at least intelligent to visit me and more afraid of me. Young Andy from Newcastle was a delight, pleasant company and took a good strapping; I’m only sorry I couldn’t spend more time with him. It was just as well I’d bought a new strap from Lady Pandora’s website, The English Cane Company as young Andy needed a lot of punishment.

This is an absolute beauty of a strap, it’s very dense leather but the leather between the handle and business end is very flexible so it comes down with tremendous force. I normally buy my straps from MC Customs, who make heavy Lochgelly Tawses and Glasgow straps, marvellous implements to beat the Scots with, I must say, but this strap from Lady Pandora was exquisite to use on a bottom.

I also used the strap on my young nephew, Kenneth, who’s been allowed to run wild and forget his school lessons, needless to say I taught him to remember his Pythagoras, always a useful tool when teaching; the strap, not Pythagoras. And also a second visit from young Michael of Ireland, who waited 10 years to visit me and has now visited me twice in six months.

Torture? Don't Make Me Laugh

Enhanced interrogation techniques? What? A cold room, led around naked by a collar around the neck, made to stand with arms chained above the head, beaten, blindfolded, bound, hooded and naked, sexual abuse, water sports….That’s not the CIA torture; that sounds more like a day in the life here. All right, I’ve never used rectal hydration, force feeding someone by the rectum but that’s because I’ve never thought of it but hey, that’s gotta be a lot of fun; messy, but fun. Maybe they should introduce that at the food banks, then we’ll see if there’s really a need for them.

And waterboarding? I thought that was an Olympic sport, like swimming. Hey, extreme water sports – get the CIA to use urine when waterboarding them. They’ll be queuing up for it.

And someone kept in a box for 11 days? Oh come on, Axyloid loves that sort of thing and suffers it all the time. People pay good money to enjoy this sort of thing so what the hell are all these jihadis grumbling about now? Don’t they ever stop moaning about everything? They’re not even paying for all this submission, humiliation and domination, why this would cost them an arm and a leg normally; although on second thoughts it probably has.

Oh, but of course, I understand what’s happening. Contact Novak and Good human rights solicitors to make a no-win, no-fee compo claim and they’re in the money. Who wants to be a millionaire? Well those who make a living from soliciting and criminal activity already are so I guess all those who claim they were tortured on their way to jihad will get a couple of mill too, courtesy of the taxpayer. You’ll be able to buy yourself 72 virgins without having to blow yourself up Abu. Who would want to live in a middle-eastern hell-hole when you can get all you want suing HMG and a council house thrown in? Capitalistic western society stinks, right lads?

And naturally we have the usual suspects beating their breasts and wailing in faux outrage over mistreatment of prisoners. Always funny to see them parading their sanctimonious PC credentials as though they’re taking part in a dick waggling contest although they didn’t raise a peep over the beheading of prisoners or the murder of thousands of Christians in the Levant but that’s probably not a fashionable enough cause for our luvvie Ack-Tors, comedians and comrades of parliament to concern themselves with.

So, thousands of women and children taken into bondage to be used as sex slaves and not a word was said, force a liquidised ready meal up some jihadi’s bottom and it’s the end of civilisation.

You’ll ride with me? No thanks, I’d rather walk. I prefer the fresh air.

It’s Christmas

As if you didn’t know, because the shops have been knocking out Christmas tat since September.

Christmas: it’s the best time of the year so the song goes and who wouldn’t want to celebrate Christmas? So with that in mind, and all the lovely presents I’ll be receiving, I’m sending you a topical Christmas card that you can put on the mantelpiece.

Happy Christmas