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12 January 2015

The Ghost of Christmas Past

So, that’s it then, all over for another year. And it was good. Three of us managed to destroy 13 bottles of wine over three days and eat lots of food although I think I’ve had my fill of sprout infused bubble and squeak until next Christmas.

I had three house guests staying with me so had a bit of company although sadly, Jon didn’t bring his DVD of his friend Mouse, fisting herself on stage; always a show-stopper; especially at the local WI meetings.

Nevertheless, I think we all enjoyed ourselves but even so, there’s always someone missing from the party nowadays.

The Ghost of Christmas Future

I know everyone says “Don’t go to the A&E department unless you really need to…” well, why would you? Why? Why not? Because I think the local A&E department would be a great place to have a New Year’s Eve party. Everybody will be there and they’ll be tanked up already so you just need to take a bottle.  If not, I’m sure there must plenty of bottles by the patients’ bedsides and someone is bound to want to fill it up for you. The police will already be there, in case anything gets out of hand or more likely escorting someone they've found collapsed in the gutter so it'll be quite safe.

And for those of you who like to take drugs to alleviate the depression and boredom of being unemployable low-life scum, you’ll be able to buy direct from one of the doctors or nurses who can no doubt nick the real stuff from one of the elderly patients they’re euthanizing. No need to take a chance on whether you’ve bought Bicarbonate of Soda off some African you bumped into at the station.

Put a CD player in the triage station blasting out non-stop Trance and hey, you’ve got a party. And the best thing is the staff can easily cope with this because they do it every Friday and Saturday night. And it doesn't matter if you go shouting and screaming through the wards like some brain-addled whirling Dervish; you won’t wake anyone up, the night staff keep the patients awake all night with their constant chatter on their mobile phones.

Slave Gareth

Lunch with Gareth. You might remember I used to abuse Gareth years ago but lost touch with him when he lost his job and was made homeless, well one doesn’t want to mix with that sort of person, does one? I always thought that Gareth would come to a sticky end, probably inside some bizarre bondage suit and connected up to the power grid but it was not to be. Ahh, happy days, I remember when Gareth spent his Saturday evenings rolling around the floor in a rubber cat suit in some dingy SM club and being used as a men’s urinal rather than just sleeping in a public convenience.

I asked him if the swastika I’d burnt into his back was still there but sadly he told me it had disappeared after about 3 years, which is good in a way I suppose as he can now go swimming without wearing a t-shirt. Anyway, Gareth now obviously buys his clothes in charity shops as they were all ill-fitting and looked like he’d slept in them but I suppose that comes in handy when he’s out begging, as it adds to the impression of poverty. I waited until he’d finished entertaining tourists with his act before saying to him hello and your flies are undone.

Personally, I thought he would have drifted into male prostitution but apparently the fisting played havoc with his haemorrhoids, he told me. I’m only grateful he was sober, this time.

Thankfully, he didn’t take me to some down-and-out’s soup kitchen but instead took me to The Ivy, around Covent Garden so it must have cost him a week’s benefits money to pay for that. I was impressed, not least by the fact he didn’t try to do a runner when he went to the lavatory; unfortunately I’d already beaten him to it, so he might still be working the bill off in the kitchen for all I know.

You Can Call Me Al

I don’t believe it. Can you believe these stupid jihadis think that when they’re brown bread, they’re going to become “green birds of paradise”?

So, if I’ve got this right, behead a couple of people, shoot, rob, maim and kill all and sundry, notice a red sniper’s dot on forehead, head explodes from dum-dum bullet fired by brave SAS soldier and then, suddenly, turn into … a parrot? Yeah, right. So who’s a pretty boy then? I think they’re more likely to be one of those noisy, squawking parakeets that fly around everywhere causing mayhem. That sounds more likely.

Johnson, my pet budgerigar is green so I’m beginning to wonder if he was once a bearded terrorist. This is why I keep him in solitary in his cage; I don’t care if the wet hand-wringing liberals think it’s cruel, it’s what he deserves. I’ll be getting a little orange jump-suit for him next. And what a great way to use up old nipple clamps – to clamp his little legs together to stop him moving around.

I suppose he’ll want to be known as Abu Al-Johnson from now on; maybe I should have called him Jolson. And why do the jihardis all call themselves Al? Big fans of Paul Simon, are they?

But it’s funny that all these jihadis who leave the comfort of Blighty for the delights of some Arab hell-hole all want to train to be doctors; I suppose it’s the thought of being able to kill people without any redress that attracts them. Still, I’m sure you’d be a bit concerned at being treated by some swivel-eyed, ranting balaclava-wearing madman spluttering in Arabic at you even if it is impossible to see the local quack for another course of antibiotics to treat that infection.

Ahh, doctors, if there’s one thing they can’t stand it’s any form of criticism as they believe they are always right and should be obeyed, whatever nonsense they spout; who can forget for instance they all demanded we eat industrialised goop called margarine instead of butter. Hilarious.That’s why it’s so funny to see them all screaming on Twitter when one of their own puts the boot in telling the truth about them. Naturally, they don’t answer the criticism, they just spew out their vitriolic bile and hatred in 140 words on Twitter. It’s hysterical.

What that’s saying?  “Wise men speak because they have something to say; fools because they have to say something”. That should be Twitter’s motto.


1 March 2015

Photo Images

A dear old friend, Richard, who visited me some weeks ago for a caning, told me that HMG was passing a law to ban images taken in dungeon. This can’t be true can it, surely? Who in their right mind would want to ban such things? What on earth is wrong with a few snaps of a well-thrashed bottom? I can see this is going to impact on my website if true so if anyone’s got any information, I’d be grateful to hear it.

I can imagine poor old Gareth will have his door kicked in early one morning by a visit from the Old Bill too; although this will be nothing new for him as he’s often helping the police with their enquiries. It’s probably best for him to hide that stash of gay BDSM porn in a different place from under the bed though. Still, at least he’s used to being in Pentonville and he’s well-known by all those incarcerated in the nonce wing. I remember vividly all the stories Ian used to tell me about their assignations in public lavatories and I still shudder at the memory that I let either of them touch me.

And heaven knows what they’ll think when they see the files he has on his laptop. I’ve already given them a tip-off and sent them the passwords. I hope there’s a reward.

But surely HMG have got other things to worry about with Islamic terrorists dressed up as women sneaking back into Blighty to cause mayhem than being concerned with photographs of someone receiving a good thrashing? Maybe not. Perhaps if the authorities applied the cane in schools, borstals and prisons a bit more vigorously, then we wouldn’t have any problem with anyone fainting at the sight of a bloodied bottom. Thankfully, my friend S’manfa works at the Home Office so if I get any police investigating me  I only have to mention S’manfa’s real name and I’m off the hook. Get out of Jail free. 

Evening All

And what excellent news I’ve heard that the undeserving poor on the dole are to be made to clean up rubbish from the streets in future to qualify for dole money to spend on drink and gambling. I get Quilp to fly-tip most of my rubbish in Epping Forest and I always throw some rubbish at the end of the street to give the street cleaner something to do but now I see I’ll be helping the unemployed get back into gainful employment by thoughtfully dumping my empty bottles of Sancerre for them to pick up. Well that must be so much more rewarding than sitting around all day watching daytime TV and swilling cans of beer, I’m sure. That’s what the likes of you do all day, isn’t it?

I’ve also written to HM Prisons offering my services as a correctional therapist to help the criminally insane back on the straight and narrow but I haven’t heard anything back yet.

How very different from the days of when we had a real police force rather than some politically correct ideal of being inclusive that anyone can be a copper as long as they don’t drool over the criminals or need a full-time carer with them.  I must say, if any footpad dared try robbing me of my hard earned savings I’d much prefer a couple of able-bodied ex-Servicemen come along to beat the living daylights out of him rather some chit of a young girl about four foot ten in height with a gamy leg.

And they all seem to be frightened to do anything these days in case they get sued. You watch them front up a gang of drug-addled hippies campaigning for the abolition of money and the rozzers look too afraid to use their weapons on the miscreants. Well if you were given a big wooden stick to hit people with, a pepper spray and a taser, wouldn’t you want to use them? And who could argue that a policy of “shoot to kill” is the most effective Stop and Search method. You can always plant anything you want on the dead body afterwards, usually before the family get there wailing like banshees and crying about “a lovable rogue”.

I’ve just been given a complete set of the 1970s show, The Sweeney and that’s how real policing should be done: fitting criminals up, taking them around the back to soften them up, bribing some slag to grass up his mates, planting some drugs during an intimate body search, pushing the scroat down a flight of stairs as he tries to escape; those were the days but one thing I don’t understand is why did all the men dress like circus clowns in the mid-seventies. Great show though the Sweeney is, the hairstyles are hilarious. How could you take a villain seriously when he’s got a bubble perm, a Viva Zapata moustache and wears flared trousers with a highly patterned shirt? Unfortunately every man dressed like this otherwise you’d have no trouble pointing him out in a line up.

Knock Knock

Just about to do a session with someone who shares the same name as our beloved PM when I hear a knock at the door. Telling the unfortunate Cameron to get his bottom inside immediately when, blow me down, it’s not him, it’s a the Labour Party canvassing for my vote; I’m only glad it’s not Harriet wanting to come and have a chat around the kitchen table. I don’t know what she’d make of me wearing a rubber dress and carrying a three foot cane.

This is why I think I’m going to  vote for the Greens, they’re all as mad as a box of frogs; probably endangered Amazonian frogs and a recyclable cardboard box naturally but they’re still complete fruit-loops; fruit from ethical fair-trade sources only, of course. And I feel strangely relaxed about voting for someone who isn’t embarrassed at relieving themselves inside their trousers; such an unusual musk, I always find. It’ll make a pleasant change from the usual lunatics in charge; whichever one that is as they’re all the same. And we can have a PM who hasn’t a clue what she’s talking about for a change.

And think of all the good things we can expect: free electricity from all those lovely wind-farms built across the country, clothes made out of hessian, we can all get fit and healthy from riding bicycles rather than ride around in cars, everyone living in a yurt and peace and harmony and goodwill to all men; it doesn’t get better than that. Excuse me while I tearfully hum the refrain from Imagine. And if the Greens get into power they’ll bring an end to all of that ridiculous “global warming scam”. Who on earth believed that preposterous nonsense, anyway?

And the food! Being Greens they’ll want to look after animals properly and do away with all this dreadful factory farming. A happy pig is a tasty pig; that should get all the vegans to vote for them.  

I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter

Because why would anyone put anything else on their toast? Surely nobody believed all that nonsense about not eating butter but you should eat some factory produced industrialised gloop full of chemicals instead? Or not enjoy full-fat milk or lovely thick clotted cream? I still buy milk from the milkman with cream on top; not that watery liquid that looks and tastes like watered down Tippex from a supermarket.

Oh, but of course, doctors told us this twaddle so it must be true. Leaving aside most doctors coming out with this tripe are probably in the pay of food companies I always take anything they say with a pinch of salt. On my chips. Deep fried in beef dripping. Or lard will do. Delicious.

Margarine? The best use for that is to use it as substitute if you run out of KY Jell when doing a bit of anal stretching, it might help to bring your cholesterol down too but you probably wouldn’t want to eat it after a good fisting anyway and you’ll probably need an entire tub of it.


I’ve decided to call Johnson, the budgerigar, by the first name of Sprout. Well he’s green and yellow and tastes horrible; you try licking a budgie and see if you like it. Anyway he looks like a sprout, one that looks and smells like it’s been left in the bottom of the veg rack since Christmas and grown a tail. Anyway, Sprout sounds a great name for a gang member so Sprout he is. I’ve also painted his toenails and beak red with nail varnish too. Well he’s certainly a pretty boy now.


Okay, I’ve just realised that some of the links to the stories on this site don’t always work so, again, I’m going to have to spend time re-linking everything.

3 August 2015

Dead or Imprisoned

No, I am neither dead nor imprisoned. Much to the chagrin of some people but no, I have neither been in prison, as some believe I should be, nor am I dead, as those same people wish I was. I just stopped writing on this blog for a while, that’s all. So, me: neither dead nor imprisoned.

Not so for poor old slave Gareth, although I’m happy to say he’s still alive, or was a couple of weeks ago when he took me to lunch at Brasserie Blanc in Covent Garden. I just wish he hadn’t spilt water, so he claimed, all down the front of his light-coloured trousers when he turned up; some accident he’d had in the gents at Charing Cross apparently. But thank heavens he didn’t arrive in a gimp suit this time; that is so embarrassing walking down The Strand leading him by his dog chain. How do I know it’s him in the gimp suit and rubber hood? He has his name and address painted on the back which is handy.

As he was paying again, I only had one bottle of white wine with a starter, chicken dish and a rich creamy dessert. Gareth, presumably not being very hungry only ordered a burger. Well I suppose he has to watch the pennies too but he must make quite a tidy sum from importuning. You see, I’m sure the likes of you can get up off the dole and start earning your own keep if you put your mind to it, even if you didn’t pay attention at school and are somewhat regarded as a failure; just like Gareth did.

All too soon the meal ended and it was time for him to return back to the Scrubbs; I’m just glad his probation officer didn’t join us for lunch. Day release, meant to rehabilitate the offender but I think Gareth uses the opportunity to do a bit of begging on the streets. And then, he was gone again, back to his cell and his cell-mate Abu for a spot of virgina dentata before lights out.

The Beeb and I

What is it with the BBC that they find it impossible to believe that anyone in this country simply does not want to watch the television? I’ve been having some fun with their employees who are trying to force me into buying a licence just because I own a television. I hasten to add that I only ever watch DVDs and the aerial is tied up in such a position it’s impossible to attach to the television. And no, it’s not illegal to own a television without a licence, as many people erroneously believe. And as they do not have right of access to any property, unless you invite them in, I simply refuse to let them in, much to their great annoyance. Anyway, who’s daft enough to spend 145 quid on a TV licence these days when you can watch it for free?

And what does this licence buy? Why it gives you full access to inane, mind-numbing “entertainment” programmes presented or starring overpaid, under-talented “clebs” interspersed with advertisements and socialist propaganda. Wow! Where do I sign up and receive my lobotomy? I can understand people incarcerated in prison, like the aforementioned Gareth, or those who have been committed to a lunatic asylum or the unwanted elderly forced to live in a care home by uncaring social workers passing the time watching it but there’s always something better to do if you look for it, like giving someone a fisting for example.

I got into a bit of contretemps recently with some minion from TVL who demanded to know if I had a television.  What a cheek! I told him, in no uncertain terms to get off the property before I set the dogs on the wretch and where to put his hand and what to do with it otherwise I would do it for him. I admit I swore a bit, well a lot, at the damned fool upon which he asked me why, when he was being ever so polite and agreeable to me I was being so unpleasant to him; I happily reassured him that this was me at my most pleasant.

I wonder if I can buy a set of DVDs of The Black and White Minstrel Show. Or, “It Ain’t Half Hot, Mum” They were both on the BBC; the PC brigade love it. If the television licencing rogues come again with a warrant to search the house, I just hope that’s playing at the time. And who was that favourite of the Beeb who was always on the box? No, not Rolf, the other chap: JIMMY, that was it: Jimmy Savile. Yes, he was one of the Beeb’s favourites and highest paid stars.

So, let me see if I’ve got this right. The lefties, like those who work for the Beeb, often like to quote they became socialists after reading “The Ragged-Trousered Philanthropists”, one of their favourite books, in which most of the population pay towards a system of keeping a small number of very wealthy people, very wealthy. Nowadays, most of the population pay for a TV licence which goes towards keeping a small number of very wealthy people, working for the Beeb, very wealthy.

Sprout Watch

After I’d lost lovable old Nick, a number of people told me to buy some kind of animal to keep me company and as we’d tried a cat, Binkie, who lasted about 3 weeks and cost us about £300 for the privilege I didn’t fancy another one so they suggested maybe a dog? Well I’ve read about dogging and I don’t particularly fancy taking a dog out for a walk and doing that, thank you very much. And I would also have to pick up its turds and put them in a bag, that isn’t my idea of fun either, although always a giggle to drop said turds into someone’s front garden. Anyway, I have enough of that to do with butt-plugs removed out of anuses wearing a brown turban so I wasn’t keen on walking around the local park with a Sainsbury’s bag full of dog’s muck.

So I bought a budgerigar. Why, I simply do not know. Sprout the budgie is still living, miraculously, considering his constant attempt to peck my eyes out, dive into my glass of wine and eat my breakfast but despite that he is very entertaining and has picked up and learnt a lot words from me; mostly shouts of “Gerroff, you little….”. He has also discovered the fun and delight of masturbation and rubs himself quite vigorously up against one of his perches, much to everyone’s amusement as I point it out to all and sundry. I’ve also been treated to his odd little sex dance where he lifts his wings and raises himself on his little legs like a feathery yellow gartered Malvolio trying to woo his lady. Rather comical to watch and yet faintly disturbing.

Still it’s not all sex and violence owning a budgerigar, he comes in really useful at times. He’s just the right size to fit into the hand and with his soft downy feathers he’s ideal to mop up any unwanted body fluid spillages that are likely to happen; and there are quite a lot of spillages in this house. No wonder he’s always attacking me. Now, where are those used butt-plugs?

Discipline In School

Those of you who may have been lucky enough to have found a woman willing or daft enough, to marry you and start a family, not least for the generous benefits you receive, will probably be under the impression that your idiot spawn is some sort of child genius. Yet I don’t suppose your progeny gets the chance to learn English Literature or a lot of Shakespeare at the Abu Hamza Comprehensive, or whatever the politically correct local education authority has decided to re-name the bog-standard school your drug-addled child attends sometimes.

So imagine my delight when grabbing hold of schoolboy Adrian by the scruff of the neck to kick him off the premises, whereupon he burst forth, for some reason best known to himself, into the entire St Crispin Day’s speech complete with inflections and hand motions,; oh, how glorious. I almost felt sorry for thrashing the living daylights out of him but I’m glad I did because he most certainly deserved it. You see, that’s what an education gets you: the chance to recite a famous speech even though you’ve been punished for being the class dunce. Next up was little Willie Brown, who knows nothing of the Bard, only about being barred; mostly from all the pubs in south east London. I always make fun of his manly proportions by telling him he must be Brown as he certainly isn’t Alcock.

And then came Jens, all the way from Denmark for a thrashing; these shuttle flights are a boon for those on the continent who need their bottoms caned. That’s another one who has travelled across the continent to visit me for a caning.

Golly Gosh

It’s good news that the old bill isn’t going to bother to turn up when you’ve been burgled anymore because a band of travelling gypsy folk have recently pitched camp near here and the police would be run off their feet if they had to attend every incident of pilfering. Anyway, they (police) probably had enough with the mass brawl they were involved in with these lovable rogues one Friday night, some weeks ago.

I wouldn’t particularly want the police involved anyway if someone did get into the house to try and rob me. I’m more than happy to deal with any intruders myself, in my own particular way. But if you need the police, take a tip from me: I always tell the desk sergeant that I’m berating on the blower that I’m a gay muslim single-parent so that normally brings a squad of uniforms up here anyway as that always trumps any other vulnerable minority victims. The only downside is you have to deal with the damned social workers who want to poke their noses into all your affairs on the pretence of helping you but really want to report you to the authorities.

Even so it’s good to hear that the police are going to spend precious resources looking for three scallywags dressed up as a trio of Gollywogs. Oh, those zany university students, what fun it must be to be at university and not have a care in the world.

But this is bad news for Quilp and his “Burn-A-Koran” barbeque parties he runs during the summer in Walthamstow. The usual dress code is to black up as a deep-south minstrel singing a collection of Stephen Foster songs whilst burning a number of korans and then ceremoniously extinguishing them in the time-honoured way after a gallon of Wibbler’s Best. Always hilarious to watch on YouTube. He’s had enough trouble blacking up with the police too as I powdered the inside of his leather hood with boot polish for a giggle and forgot to tell him before he went home. I don’t know what he said to the local magistrate but I think he managed to get off with it.

Holidays In The Sun

Usually at this time of the year I go on holiday. I’ve already been to see some friends up in Berwick and I really enjoyed it there, it’s a very nice town. Anyway, if you have a country cottage or seaside home and you want to put me up for a couple of weeks for a free holiday, just let me know.

I always prefer to holiday in Devon as it’s quintessentially English but this year I thought I might venture somewhere different. So I’m going to take a flight to Paris then journey down to Calais and hop aboard one of these non-fare paying trains to the south coast with all the other holidaymakers swarming aboard. Apparently, you can get free board and lodge down there; three meals a day and money off hard working taxpayers to spend on wine or the slots on the sea-front. What’s not to like?

The only trouble is it’s full of bloody foreigners nowadays enjoying themselves so I might as well be in some hell-hole overseas. I wonder why they all want to holiday here, anyway. They must come for the weather, or maybe it’s the English food; or possibly they all enjoy the English holiday traditions like eating whelks, fish and chips, candy floss and Kiss-me-Quick hats. That must be it.

Or maybe it’s the availability of underage English girls to sexually abuse. As most of them are in laughingly entitled “Care Homes” the socialist workers in charge would probably encourage this as a “life-style” choice otherwise they’ll be thought racialist; and that would never do.

I think I’ll stay at home this year.

Trust Me, I’m A Doctor

Like the good doctors Shipman, Crippen and Mengele or Ferrie the junkie, Bradbury the nonce or Cockburn the butcher, if you prefer someone a little more contemporary, all honourable, upright members of the medical profession. Now doctors are saying it’s better to fry my food in lard or beef dripping rather than corn oil or sunflower oil. You see, this is why you shouldn’t be a vegetarian, or listen to anything a doctor tells you as most of them are in the pay of food or pharmaceutical companies. I’m all for cooking my chips in rendered pig fat. Mmm delicious. And enjoying full fat milk rather than some watery liquid Tippex sold to the gullible as skimmed milk. All of which they tell us are bad for us. Oh, but now they say they are good for us.

And I wonder how following this flawed advice contributed to lovable old Nick’s illness. Or that he was over-medicated on drugs by our local GPs. Or that he was badly mistreated by the staff at our local NHS death-camp.

Anyway, it’s two years ago on 6 August that he died and I still hold the doctors who treated him with contempt they deserve.

14 September 2015

Annie Bees Books

For those of you who’ve managed to master the art of reading, I have a treat: a new story for you to read. It’s entitled “Always On The Bare”. Have a guess what it’s about. No, you imbecile, it’s not about Rupert Bear, it’s about being caned. On the bare. Always on the bare!

It’s by a lady called Annie Bee, who used to be a professional disciplinarian but who now writes stories on the subject. This story is excellent and you’ll enjoy it. Annie also has a website and you can find more stories of hers at www.anniebeebooks.com

If you have to speak the words out loud when you’re reading then I suggest you wait until you’re alone before attempting to do so, you might embarrass your social worker. And for those of you who were too daft to have learnt how to read, well I guess you’re an unemployable misfit or a jihadi being shot at by the RAF.   

Back Down The Rabbit Hole

What is it with the Beeb? Not content with some down-at-heel scoundrel from the BBC banging on my front door impertinently wanting to know if I own a television set and trying to trick me into buying a licence, now they’ve resorted to sending me begging letters asking me to pay towards their executives exorbitant pay packages. For the bargain sum of £145 I shall be allowed to watch socialist propaganda, pointless game shows, chat shows, antique shows, One Shows, Pointless, etc. to my heart’s content. Well thank you Beeb but push off and don’t call again. But I’m sure they will.

So, from now on and solely for the benefit of the Beeb and its database, I’m now going to call myself Mrs Mwengi, for a while anyway. I might decide to call myself Mrs Hamza Islam when they get in touch again. Well they sent me a form to fill in but they didn’t say I had to answer truthfully so I’m going to write anything that comes into my head. They use this information to keep their database up to date. I’m thinking of saying I’ve moved to Heathfield Road in SW18; this HMP Wandsworth. Now I’m tempted to give my new telephone number as either the prison’s telephone number or the Metropolitan Police, or maybe a kebab shop. That'll be amusing if the Beeb ever try telephoning me.

Annoyingly, they didn’t send a stamped addressed envelope, as is customary when requesting information, so I’ll send a letter back without a stamp. They can afford the postage; they’ve got millions because people keep paying the TV tax.

This form also has the obligatory command, “Do not write below this line”; well if I am not allowed to write below the line then neither shall the Beeb as I’ve cut the form off just above said line. What are they going to do? Bang on my door and ask if I've got a TV licence?

They’ve also been stupid enough to give me a name to write back to, Jackie Garswood. Obviously this is a fictitious name as this is a corrupt organisation I’m dealing with and they’re not going to give out the real names of people working for them. So I wonder if Mr Jackie will be expecting the letters I’ll be writing to him; it is a he I take it?

Oh We Do Like To Be Beside The Seaside

Well that’s the holidays over for another year, thank God. This year I thought I’d fly over to Paris and come back through the Chunnel. Naturally, being foreigners, most of the passengers had no idea of queuing properly as we do in Britain but the pushing and shoving trying to board the train was unbelievable and you could easily be beaten to death by all the youths waving their selfie sticks to take congratulatory photos to send to the folks back home.

I didn’t really intend to holiday on the south coast as well but when I got to the laughably entitled Passport Control all I said was, “It’s like an asylum here”, just for a joke.  Then before I can kiss the ground, thankful to be back on this blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this ….   I’m whisked away by a couple of earnest looking sandal-wearing Leftie social workers in a luxury motor to the local five-star Grande Hotel and given 35 quid to spend on myself; just enough for a decent bottle of wine I suppose. A shame I had to share with three Somalians but thankfully they all slept in a corner of the room after I told them I would rip their testicles off if they didn't. I had no problem with the lavatory either as they preferred to use a bucket in their corner. Anyway, I told them the lavatory bowl was a washing machine and to put their clothes in there and keep pulling the handle; the manager would have all their clothes freshly pressed for them in the morning.

I do like to be beside the seaside it’s so relaxing. The only thing that spoilt it all was the swarms of youths asking for directions to Alan’s Snack Bar; wherever that was, well I didn’t know for I never found the place. I pointed them in the direction of the nearest greasy spoon to savour the delights of black pudding, sausages and a couple of rashers. Delicious.

When I got back to the hotel, I was asked if I would like to go and live with some ageing one hit wonder from the 70s or some dim-witted self-important left-wing luvvie. Well that was enough for me; I couldn’t bear to listen to the constant moaning about being a has-been so I told my social workers I'd had enough and I just wanted to go back home, which sent them wailing to the heavens and beating their breasts with anguish. I was just glad to get out of there and let them pay for a taxi back home to London.

However, I do like the idea of St Bob putting up 4 or 5 families though because it’ll be interesting to see how many of these champagne socialists will be opening their doors and wallets to pay for the upkeep, education and healthcare of these new compatriots of ours. They will be paying for all of that, won’t they? I also love the look they give to the camera too when they're holding their stupid hashtag placards. I wonder if they practice that pained look of concern on their faces; looks like they’re all suffering constipation. They should hold an award ceremony for the falsest look of compassion and benevolence at the Baftas.

It’s odd though that if they're all so concerned about disadvantaged people with no home why haven't they done this before with all the children in care homes around the country. Or Roma gypsies. I wonder why that should be. Maybe because they'd have to keep the child until it turned 16 whereas they could kick the refugees out after a couple of weeks once all the cameras and news-teams have gone because believe me, this is all about them, no-one else. Everything's about them.

Anyway, holidays. Dreadful. Next year I’m going back to Devon; at least all the foreigners down there are English.

New Equipment

It’s always good to get something new in just in case someone wants to try something different. So imagine my delight when Callum purchased a sjambok from Cold Steel. This implement is made from plastic I hasten to add as originally they were made from Rhino or Hippo leather so before all the lunatics from Green Peas start wetting themselves and beating their breasts about endangered species, it is definitely plastic. I’ll be very happy to use it on any vegan imbecile to prove it.

About the last thing I need is that dopey girl from Cardiff singing Abide With Me outside or Emma reading her bloody poems about polar bears. Is she still an actress? I haven’t seen her in anything for years. Maybe she’s “resting” as Ack-Tors call it; or unemployed as everyone else calls it. And why is it all these clebs think they have the right to tell the rest of us what to do? Haven’t these luvvie Ack-Tors realised there might be a very good reason why they’re employed to simply speak the words other people have written? That and to avoid walking into the furniture. Surely that's enough to occupy their little minds to be going on with, isn't it?

Nevertheless, I should also thank, but I’m not going to, Marty, who bought me a bastinado cane from Quality Control. This is to beat his feet with, Marty’s feet. This is a very whippy cane and looks very painful as Marty will no doubt find out. That could be painful used on the penis too.

And lastly, I’ve invested in a Venus 2000 milking machine. This machine takes all the work out of masturbation. That’s for me, I mean, not for you. You still have to dispense some body fluid.  I just connect you up to the machine and sit back and watch what happens, maybe grab a cup of coffee, and some biscuits, perhaps a little snooze, go watch some daytime telly on my non-licenced television; you’ll be fine. No, I’m just messing with you Beeb. Your screams will wake me up I’m sure.

Next week Mistress Cordelia will be visiting me to show me how to operate the machine. I met her recently when she invited me to her premises in Notting Hill to watch the machine in action. Oh dear, I suspect poor David, the prospective victim will be drained senseless of his life-force. She has some fantastic equipment at her place too if you pay her a visit.

Soldier A

I’m a great supporter of our armed forces, I always buy a poppy, etc. because you never know when you might need them and they’re always handy to have around in times of war. So you’ll be delighted to know I’ve donated a sum to Soldier A’s legal fund. I recommend that instead of forcing some halal double chimp burger with cheese and a large fries on the side down your throat, washed down with a gallon of beer, the likes of you think of someone else and donate too, if you want. You’ll get six of the best if you don’t; you’ll get twelve if you do.

So, it’s as clear as is the summer sun. Soldier A and his comrades are ordered out to some foreign hell-hole to kill jihadis and when they do, he gets shafted by the donkeys and PC brigadiers on our own side because it’s not done according to the disciplines of war that politicians have dreamt up to try and win the hearts and minds of those determined to kill our soldiers.

Do these PC apologists and do-gooders think we fought WW1 and 2 as though England were busied with a Whitsun Morris Dance? I suppose raping and beheading prisoners indiscriminately is in the Geneva Convention too, is it? How or why would you want to win the heart and mind of some jihadi terrorist nut-job? Surely, much better to shoot them first then try and appeal to their better nature afterwards, just in case. Better also to have Soldier A walking the streets of Blighty than some suicidal jihadi.

And Sgt. Blackman quoted Shakespeare at the jihadi too, “Shuffle off this mortal coil, you c***,” apparently. I do love irony. Probably not quite the way leftie luvvie Benedict is currently reciting Hamlet at the moment but you can guarantee a bearded terrorist wouldn’t be able to quote the Bard. Unless he or she studied English Lit at the local comprehensive before flying off to Turkey to join I-Sissies.

Anyway, there you have it; I've lent a hand to A Blackman; never let it be said....

2 November 2015

The Game’s Afoot

No doubt you’ll all have been attending street parties and celebrating on 25 October this year. Why, you ask? Why? 600 years since the battle of Agincourt, that’s why you dunce. Have you already forgotten the celebrations on 18 June this year for 200 years since Waterloo? Who wouldn’t want to celebrate such a great victory? Over the French as well; makes a change from beating the Germans all the time, I suppose.

I wonder if the English army had “rules of engagement” in 1415 trying to win the hearts and minds of the enemy back then, like our politicians and generals expected Sgt Blackman and his comrades to do with Al queda and related terrorist scum.  

Win their hearts and minds? How about threatening them that we’ll:

“Defile the locks of your shrill-shrieking daughters; your fathers taken by their silver beards, their most reverend heads dashed to the walls, your naked infants spitted on pikes"

That’s how you win the hearts and minds of the enemy. Anyway, Afghans don’t have silver beards, they paint them orange or red in a vain and ridiculous attempt to look younger.

One dead jihadi? One less to worry about.


Lunch the other day with my good friend Jon, or Nawashi Murakawa as he’s known as. I first met Jon 20 years ago in a club called Whiplash held in some warehouse. You can imagine what went on there, but if you can’t you shouldn’t be on this site. I watched him tie up and suspend a woman there and was fascinated watching him work.

He told me he’s recently been appearing in a new film about criminal gangs and he’s playing a criminal mastermind based in a tower block, tying people up and doing all sorts of things to them. That sounds great fun.

I’m hoping he’ll be coming here for Christmas again this year as he’s vegetarian and it’s always a challenge to serve something up for veggies. As my lovable old Nick once asked when told a veggie was coming for a Bank Holiday lunch, “Vegetarian? What the f*** do they eat?” Nick was a sarf east Londoner so that’s the way he spoke. Anyway, Sprout the budgie is growing big and strong and he should make a perfect foie gras Hors d’oeuvre. I can use his beak as a novelty scoop to eat the meat with. It’s okay, I’ll tell Jon its mushroom pate. Delicious.

Evening All

I’m always willing to help the police with their enquiries and inform on the likes of you, especially if it helps keep the streets safe from your sort. Anyway, next door had a break in by some low-life but naturally they got away before they could be apprehended and beaten about the head with a truncheon. So if you’re going to be visiting me probably best not to look too furtive and suspicious. I realise this might be the way you look normally but if you get arrested by a couple of policewomen, please remember I don’t use a police uniform so the chances are they really will be the old bill. Trying to fondle them while they attempt to handcuff you and saying you’ve been a naughty boy and you deserve to be punished might make your situation worse.

One miscreant who did manage to get past the security and visit me was a dandy Andy who was probably on day release, as he was from the north. He was terrified I was going to thrash his bottom relentlessly. He was right, I did. And dear Michael, who was plucking up courage to visit me for ten years and has now been to see me three times in a year. Obviously I’ve had more success keeping him on the straight and narrow than his probation officer.

The Envy Of The World

I was gagged, threatened and verbally humiliated. You probably think that’s sounds like a great way to spend the evening. That’s what happened to a NHS whistleblower when he reported two doctors for illegally experimenting on their patients. And don’t you just know it that they’ve both sporting those smug, grinning faces you could cheerfully beat senseless with a stick for a couple of hours. A pair of eminently punchable boats as someone termed it recently.

Or those two doctors working for the National Health Shultz Staffel who couldn’t speak English and needed translators. Or those two doctors caught cheating their exams but were still taken on by the NHSS.

Envy of the world? We most certainly are.

Room For One More

I really can’t see why we have to take this Saudi terrorist from Gitmo just because he lived in London once upon a time but was then caught up to no good in Afghan lands with a forged passport. Well who doesn’t travel to the world’s trouble-spots on a fake passport? And please don’t bother writing to me trying to persuade me he’s an innocent charity worker. Nobody goes to these hell-holes on a fake passport pretending to do char-it-dee work or a computer course. Was the charity The Alzheimer’s Trust? Because nobody seems to know which charity it was. Even Shaker the faker can’t remember which one it was.  

Naturally the great and the good are up in arms and have hilariously been on a 24 hour hunger strike for Shaky. Well, who’s going to watch them for 24 hours to make sure they do? Anyway, it’s not about the terrorist, it’s all about them getting their names in the papers, because everything’s about them.

No doubt Shake Your Hammer will decide it was entirely our fault and sue us for a mill then bugger off to join the I-SISies like the last falsely accused so-called “Brit” who was only doing charity work in some foreign hell-hole. Helped along the way by Amnasty International and Novak and Good yuman rights lawyers no doubt. And the returning hero has already been flown here on a private jet; no doubt to get him used to a life of luxury at the expense of hard-working mugs.

I won’t have a Saudi in the place; anyone who wears a tea-towel on his head and flowing robes in London can’t be all there. I know they’re all very wealthy and so on, but you can’t buy me and I decide who visits me anyway. And what are they going to do about it if I won’t let them come here? Complain to the Equality Commission and Yuman Rights Racket that I won’t thrash them mercilessly till the blood flows down their legs and spatters the ceiling and they lie screaming and crying, their mouths dribbling and begging for me to stop and for their burka-clad mothers to save them.

Oh, all right then, but only if Miss Harm ‘em asks me very, very nicely.

Shake your Hammer, Shake your booty, shake your tail feather, shake your bloody fists, in anger.

Room For Some More

And how many immigrant families have been taken in by clebs, I wonder? Anyone know? St Bob? Emma? Anyone? All very well Benedick Comeback and other Ack-Tors haranguing the audience to donate; how much do they donate? Immigrants? More like Gimme Grants.

And, oh dear, now he’s upset the paying punters with some foul mouthed rant although these lefties are all the same. They always throw a tantrum when they can’t get their own way and demand everyone do what they tell us to do because they know best. I wonder if he recited the line uttered by Marine A, in the heat of battle, at the dying jihadi? “Shuffle off this mortal coil, you c***.” Listen luvvies, there’s a perfectly good reason you’re employed simply to speak the words other people have written. As the man said, all you have to do is remember your lines and make sure you don’t walk into the bloody furniture.

Is he a Bene-Dict or a Dick? But I guess I know the answer to that one already.

And what about that old stripper who managed to glue her bottom to a department store in Croydon demanding the UK taking more economic migrants? What a perfect opportunity to nick her pension book and false teeth.

But what a great idea! Why don’t clebs do this down Oxford Street? Glue their backside to the window of John Lewis’ I mean, not steal someone’s pension book although I wouldn’t put that past some of them. Imagine a line of earnest left-wing luvvies with their trousers down, bum pressed against the window of Marks & Spencer, mooning Saturday morning shoppers. Another perfect opportunity to give them a good hard slap across the face. I might get Quilp to do that one Saturday, blacked up, wearing a curly wig.

Why does anyone listen to the opinions of clebs, anyway? Ummm, now let me see, I can’t think for myself due to 40 years of teachers who can’t teach, or child-centred learning in schools as it’s laughingly called, and I need moral and philosophical guidance. I wonder what a left wing alternative comedian can advise me, or maybe some girl with breast implants from Clebrity Big Brother can offer me? They’re bound to be an expert cos dey is on da telly, like, innit.

Where’s my cane.


3 December 2015

Two Kings

For those of you who want to be caned in public, you don’t need to travel to some Arab hell-hole and commit adultery you can visit the Two Kings Christmas Party this year on 17 December. It starts at 1.00 so you’ll be able to get back to the bail hostel before curfew. It’s at Club Valbon, 23 Lewisham Way, New Cross. You have to phone to book so telephone 07887 762477.

I’ll be there, I hope, with a couple of canes. I hope you’ll be there too. Hopefully it doesn’t clash with any forthcoming court cases you’ve got coming up.

Illegal Substances

That old biddy in charge of the Home Office, Daisy May, is legislating to ban poppers and other legal highs next year. I import poppers from abroad for some of you who wish to use it but this will have to stop if this ban becomes law. For I do not break the law, you might, you probably do, but I do not.

I do not supply any other form of stimulant either, such as nitrous oxide. I don't supply drugs and I prefer you not to take drugs here; you've got the rest of the world to take drugs in, you don't have to do it in this house.

Okay, never mind the streets are awash with heroin and cocaine and other illegal Class A drugs, the old bill won’t bother with chasing them in case it’s a bit difficult so they’ll much prefer the easy option of nicking people like me. So the Guardianistas in their Islington town houses won’t be affected as they’ll probably still be able to buy their smack and Charlie from some illegal immigrant standing outside Highbury and Islington tube station. There is a petition you can sign to persuade HMG to change its mind but it won’t make a scrap of difference. Why should HMG ever listen to the likes of you, anyway?

Dear Beeb,

“Bugger off and stop sending me letters begging me to fund your organisation. I’m not going to buy your overpriced, exorbitant TV tax as I don’t want to watch your mind-numbing programmes and I don’t want to fund socialist propaganda masquerading as BBC News. Neither am I interested in maintaining the standard of living of your chief executives who you expect the British public to maintain.”

How can I make it clearer? I haven’t got nor want a TV licence but they keep writing to me. I must admit I do keep replying without putting a postage stamp on the envelope; maybe that’s what makes them annoyed.

Anyway, I don’t care. Anyone see The Bridge the other night, it’s brilliant. If only the Beeb made programmes like that, I might re-consider my position. And I’ve bought an Amazon Fire so I can watch it on the move

War, War, War! That's All You Ever Think About, Dickie Plantagent

Ah, the immortal words of Lady Edith Plantagenet to King Richard The Lionheart; played by Viginia Mayo in the film King Richard And The Crusades. Who could ever forget that tender moment and that awe-inspiring speech. If only we had a leader like the Lionheart today to lead a crusade and defeat the Musselmen.

When I read we were going to bomb muslim terrorists, I naturally thought they were going to bomb most of east London, but sadly not, they mean to bomb the Levant again. Great. Let’s hope lessons have been learnt from the last couple of times and it turns out better. What’s that saying about insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results?

So, we bomb Islamic terrorists in the middle east, so far so good; but those who live in the UK, we give benefits, a house, free health service and allow them to insult, threaten and attack us in the name of equality, diversity and multi-culti nonsense.

Why are we to war with these I-Sissies in some God-awful place in the Middle East anyway? Let the Russians bomb them. At least they know what they’re doing and will probably bomb the lot of them whereas we will try and help “moderate rebels” if such beings exist. And the Russians won’t be arresting members of their armed forces a couple of years down the line for killing these jihadis willy nilly and not trying to engage with the terrorists to win their hearts and minds. Unlike our own valiant authorities and yuman rights shysters do to our soldiers. Especially, perish the thought, if the jihadi has a British passport. Cue tree-hugging lefties tearfully looking into the middle distance over the thought of a beautiful boy blown to smithereens.

Anyway, if they all wait long enough these lunatic jihads will blow themselves up without us having to do anything. Anyone see the You Tube video of some jihadi being liquidised by an incoming mortar? It was hilarious. Bearded jihadi talking to camera, giving it all the Alan Akbar spiel and what he’s going to do to non-believers; look around at unfamiliar noise off camera and then WHOOSH! A huge column of fire just where Abu was standing. And after that, some screaming and groaning from injured bystanders. No need to bother with a coffin, the birds will eat the remains. Good luck with the virgins now you're smeared all over the desert. Let’s hope the Social stops his benefits.

And that dwarf posing with an AK47, which is bigger than he is. Couldn't they have given him a pair of high heels to totter about in? Available for murder, rape and panto. Sleepy, Grumpy, Dopey Jihady. Or the imbecile who fired a rocket launcher inside a building and demolished the house he and his playmates were filming in. He was probably the brains of the outfit.  

Also the captured jihadi who was squealing like a stuck pig when he’d been taken by a group of Kurds. Wait until they start removing your testicles then you can scream. Oh dear, I hope I didn’t hurt his feelings by comparing him to a pig; still his feelings being hurt will probably be the least of his worries now, I hope. What’s that they shout? “You love life, we love death?” Okay, let’s give them want they want.

And why are these people all so plug ugly? And not just the men, the women look like they’ve been hit with an ugly stick too. No wonder they cover the women up in dust sheets; it’s enough to scare the live-stock and put you off your bacon banjo. Plus they all sport this mono-brow look, that’s so not a good look guys; soooooo 14th century. It makes them all look like they’ve escaped from a lunatic asylum. Oh, wait, maybe they have.  

I wonder if they’ve ever thought of waxing their eyebrows; probably could go with a back, crack and sac wax too and maybe a little depilation on the moustache for the ladies probably wouldn’t go amiss. I suppose it’s centuries of inbreeding has caused all that hairiness.

Enter luvvie Ack-Tor stage left: Sigh, yet another left-wing liberal has all the answers. Let's go and talk to them, says he. Fine. Off you go and dazzle them with your performance of Olivia from Twelfth Night and see how long you last. They won't cheer you from the rafters, they'll throw you off the rafters.

I don't suppose there's much point wishing them a happy Christmas so I hope they all get blown to pieces.

Jingle Balls

Speaking of Christmas it’s that time of year again. This year I want peace on earth and goodwill to all men; failing that I’ll settle for lots of presents.

Slave Gareth will probably be lolling around the dining room floor in his rubber gimp suit and rubber feeding tube. I shall be preparing him an infusion of liquidised sprouts, cabbage and broccoli to dribble down the tube for his Christmas dinner although he’ll probably be expecting a collection of body fluids and waste substances. S’mamfa will be maiding for us while we eat and will probably be sexually molested as he serves us coffee and tiffin but don’t worry, he’ll be wearing a silicone chastity device to keep himself chaste. I can always slip a hand up his frock to jiggle his balls and knoblet about though

Long gone are the days when dear old Ian would buy us enough presents to keep us happy until Twelfth Night so now I have to make up for it with supplications to the almighty Lord God Amazon, who knows exactly what I want and what I need. He gives me recommendations. He sends me messages. You can forget bowing to Mecca five times a day when the real god is only a click away.

22 December 2015

The Ghost Of Christmas Presents

I’m glad to see that the old bill have been given orders to shoot to kill these terrorists. About time too; no good pussyfooting about in case the vic decides to sue. And good to see they’re no longer afraid of riots as well, just shoot the rioters; they’re probably only drug addicts, benefit scroungers and university students so they’re not going to be much of a loss. Problem solved. Shoot to kill would be so much more cost efficient too as the CPS is always trying to bring down the cost of bringing a court case. Shooting to kill will save a fortune on court cases at the Old Bailey and Legal Aid for human rights liars.

That’s why I always carry a loaded hand gun with me, just in case I see someone suspicious; you never know when it will come in handy.

I always buy my offensive weapons from Amazon as they have a wide range of pepper sprays and tasers on offer. And they make great Christmas presents to put into a Christmas stocking for a friend’s kids. They can have great fun on Christmas Day in A&E having their eyes washed out. Or their gran, she always enjoys a day out and will be well looked after by the NHSS.

But as usual, the left-wing liberal kill-joys have to spoil it all for everyone and The Gruniad has now done an expose so I suppose they’ll want all these banned now. First it was legal highs, now it’s small arms they want to ban. How are you supposed to fight back if you’re attacked these days? Wait for some sandal-wearing tree-hugger to come and appeal to the miscreant’s better nature?

Luckily I’ve got a couple of old pepper sprays spare so I might pop round to slave Gareth, dressed as Santa, and see if they’re any good. Well he’s usually rolling around the floor in a gimp suit anyway so it won’t make a lot of difference.  

Did I say Santa? I meant Satan.

So if I can’t buy those for everyone, I might buy some of the false hymens the moslem girls buy to fool their cousin they’re still intacta on their wedding night. I could get S’mamfa to serve them at Christmas lunch. You only have to poke them and they burst and fake blood dribbles out. Great fun! I might put one up Quilp’s bottom on the quiet and wait to hear he’s been rushed to hospital for Christmas. That should be a laugh. These fake hymens should be on a par with my friend Nawashi’s DVD of Mouse fisting herself on stage. How very different from the home life of our own dear Queen but never let it be said we don’t know how to keep a traditional Christmas.

Christmas lunch this year will be clean eating. I intend to peel all the veg and roast them all in clean duck fat. Ethnically sourced foie gras for starters and after the main course, of clean capon and veal, a cleanly steamed home-made Christmas pud with full-fat double cream and lots of fresh bottles of Sancerre.

And for those of you who celebrate Christmas, here's my Christmas card for 2015.

And those who don't like Christmas or maybe you're afraid to mention Christmas in case you offend and hurt the feelings of some foreigner, here's some chocolate for you.

Yes, it really is a Mars Bar, it helps you work, rest and play.

Two Kings

I attended the 2 Kings Spanking Club Christmas Party last week and it was great fun. I saw a number of old faces I hadn’t seen for years, mostly because I’d caned their bottoms a bit too hard; poor, delicate young men, and they’d run away in fright, never to return. I don’t think you can ever cane too hard, can you? Anyway, there were a lot of young submissive women there who wanted to be spanked running around in their stockings and suspenders with their bottoms tanned. Great fun for those who wanted to spank them. And two female strippers; I have never seen strippers before and I’m heartily glad they never came near me with the dildos they were using. Then a free for all spanking and caning. Bottoms up! I gave the organiser, Mike, a generous six of the best.

That’s the Christmas spirit.

Donald, Duck!

You’ve got the Twatteratti after you! Ha-ha. Always a bad idea to tell the truth but great fun to wind up the self-righteous lynch mob on Twitter. Ohh, I bet they were all soiling themselves with righteous indignation at the thought of someone saying there are no-go areas in Britain. Of course they would know, wouldn’t they? I'm sure they all walk around Newham, Tower Hamlets and Walthamstow late at night wishing everyone happy Christmas. If they do, and have a problem with the locals, no good calling for the police to help, they won’t go near the place. Oh, but wait, isn’t that what Donald said?

An Inspector Calls

Be Off With You! My seasonal refrain to carol singers begging for alms and luvvie Ack Tors haranguing me for a share of my ill-gotten gains to give to economic gimmigrants who are in need. Probably all they want for Christmas is a new pair of top-of-the-range designer trainers, the latest smart phone and a brand new Mercedes to work as an Uber taxi driver. Unlike the jihadi scumbag who is taking Belmarsh prison warders to court for knocking his teeth out because all he really wants is his two front teeth. Enjoy your Christmas dinner this year jihadi, it probably includes the body fluids and solids of your guards. Yummy!

But no, this knock on the door is neither from the Sally Army or a smug hypocrite wanting me to pay for his feel good factor; it’s some officious bod from the BBC demanding to know what I’m watching on the box because I still haven’t bought a licence. Don’t they ever give up? Obviously my ruse to pretend I’m Mr Habib didn’t work. Anyway, who’s daft enough to buy a licence these days, even little old ladies don’t bother nowadays? If everyone stopped buying one the world wouldn’t end, the Beeb gravy train would. Now, where’s my copy of the Radio Times, what’s on the telly tonight?


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