Dressing Up



What's New






About This Site

Site Map


7 February 2016

Bottoms Up

Is Christmas over? It came and went  just like any other day, thank heavens. I don’t think I could eat and drink anything else for a while. And Sprout the budgie survived too, mainly because nobody fancied eating him. I take January off drinking alcohol, sometimes, just to get back on the straight and narrow.

Of course I’ll be paying full attention to the new drinking guidelines some over-paid nanny of the NHSS has just brought out. Don’t do this and I shouldn’t do that, if I were you; you should do as I tell you otherwise it’ll be the worse for you. It’s like being 16 again isn’t it? 14 units a week, is it obligatory? A unit is one bottle I take it, is it? These are the limits that doctors admitted making up by plucking figures out of thin air, some years ago I suppose. Where I grew up, in sarf Wales, everyone consumed 14 units in an evening before going to the local night-club.

It’s my burfday and I think I drank a week’s supply of Sancerre last night.

Stomping At The Savoy

Can there be anything more quintessentially English than tea at The Savoy? As it’s my birthday, I’m delighted to be invited to take afternoon tea there by Knoblet and no doubt The Savoy will be serving something a bit more up-market than a Greggs’ apple turnover and a mug of PG Tips. Jam or cream on the bottom of the scones? Jam first with a big dollop of double cream on top for me. Delicious.

But now I find Knoblet has to cancel because he has to attend to work. Can you imagine? What on earth is more important than keeping me happy? So, as Knoblet is being virtuous, will there be no more cakes and ale? This is someone who regularly allows me to handle him by the testicles; stomping at the Savoy? I’ll be stomping on something but it won’t be the Savoy carpets.

Who Do You Think You Are Kidding Mrs Merkel?

What is it with German Chancellors that they invariably try to destroy the entire continent? Who could forget poor old Bethman-Hollweg not realising Britain would go to war for a “mere scrap of paper”, for instance? What an idiot. And Germany is such a delightful country too, clean and presentable and Germans are very polite and well-mannered I’ve always found, not at all servile as Ian led me to believe. I’ve done the RAF tour of Germany; you know: Hamburg, Berlin and Dresden and loved it. If only Britain could be more like Germany. So it was a shock to see they’ve given their country away without a shot being fired to economic gimmigrants. Still I suppose the Germans are used to being invaded so maybe they don’t mind. But even so, gimmigrants who need it explained they can’t sexually assault German women? That doesn’t sound as though it’s going to end well but I’m sure Tante Angular knows best. Unrestricted mass immigration: what could possibly go wrong?

I wonder how many of these people Saint Bob has taken in; he said he would, didn’t he? He wasn’t just saying that surely? And that dopey looking Labour MP? Yes, I know they all look dopey but she made a great song and dance about taking in some of these poor souls that  I’m sure she’d be delighted to take in a couple of these guys who can’t keep their hands to themselves. Sorry boys, Mrs Balls might give you house room and accept that you’ll touch her up when you feel a bit randy but I’m afraid I won’t allow you to visit me. So if you've got a funny sounding name, look and smell like a goat herder or can barely string a sentence together in English, I'm afraid not.

And come on, who amongst us hasn’t scribbled a toothbrush moustache on a picture of Frau Merkel in the papers? I know I have.

Poor Me

I trapped a nerve in my neck recently, and I’ve had tremendous pain in my arm. I can’t think how it happened as I normally try to stay away from any form of exercise, except walking, like the plague but it’s played havoc with my caning arm. At the osteopath’s I visited, I was asked if I did any repetitive activity with my right arm – ummm no, I can’t think of any. Well I couldn’t admit to thrashing the bottoms of miscreants so I had to say no. Then I was asked if I was allergic to latex or baby oil – well no, they’re the tools of the trade.

So, I’m gradually getting my caning arm back to full power and slowly getting my accuracy back. Apologies to those who got hit across the back with sundry canes and tawses but believe me, I feel your pain at the moment, I really do. So now I need lots of practice so telephone me and ask to visit for a caning. Enter George, who delivers a bottle of ten units of wine as a burfday present, inveigled into being a crash test dummy for my caning arm and letting me practise on him.

Maybe I should give it all up and apply for a job as a prison warder, at the local nick, Belmarsh prison. I see they're thinking of making a new prison just for jihadis to keep them away from human beings. I'd love to work there. I’ve already got the uniform although I’d probably have to take off some of the “insignia”, after all, I wouldn’t want to hurt the feelings or scare and worry those who’ve committed some terrible crime against some gentle soul, would I?

I understand a lot of prison scum convert to Mohammedism once banged up inside to get more privileges, such as being allowed halal vegetarian curry. Now I don’t know about the likes of you, but I don’t eat foreign muck unless it’s Italian or French, as I’m quite partial to a bit of both, and if I were in a restaurant, the three words I would least want to read on the menu would be halal, vegetarian or curry. You want extra spit on this gunk you eat, Abu? Before you're waterboarding session?

Luckily I can still manage a bit of rope bondage.


Why are all these black Ack-Tors up in arms over not being nominated for an Oscar? Al Jolson never won an Oscar, did he? He was my favourite black ack-tor. "When there are grey skies; I won't mind the grey skies; you make them blue, Sonny Boy". Great stuff.

8 March 2016

Taking The P

What a great idea for prime time television, getting clebs to drink their own urine. This is worth paying the television licence on its own. Who on earth thinks these things up? It must be retired Dommes who are a bit bored, I suppose. I don’t offer water sports or hard sports myself but this idea is hilarious. Can we be really sure it actually is their own urine? Do the producers make them pee into a bottle first then make them down the hatch on camera? That’ll get the ratings up. Or do the producers give them a glass of small beer and pretend it's urine, expecting those at home will believe any old tosh if it's on the telly, innit?

When I used to visit SM clubs in the 1990s, I usually drank bottles of Budweiser and people often told me it was a liquid that entered and left the body in the same condition. The bars in these places only sold Bud or water so I suppose it was the best on offer.

Can the viewers choose the clebs? Hopefully they’ll be all my favourite leftie-luvvie ack-tors but I suppose they’re all far too important and busy beating their breasts with faux sympathy for the economic gimmigrants trying to invade the UK. Yours has got a bit of chocolate cake in, Ms Thompson, you said recently you live in a cake-filled island so enjoy. Big smile for the camera, please dear!

I know who I’d choose to have one on me but no doubt it’s a number of “TV stars” I’ve never heard of who are desperate to appear on telly no matter what.

In the meantime, I’m still receiving threatening letters from Aunt Beeb in the hope I’ll get frightened and pay their television tax to stop them harassing me. Fat chance. I could advertise to get people in here and watch them drink their own urine and get them to pay me. Although if the TV licence inspector who thought he could bamboozle me into paying towards the upkeep and livelihood of BBC executives knocks on my door and offers to drink his own urine in front of me, I’ll buy a licence.

No I won’t.

Give Me An Eff

No, not an eft, you imbecile an eff; F for F-Machine. I’m not going to spell out what the F stands for, you’ll have to work it out for yourself. Ask your probation officer if you can’t guess what it stands for; she’ll probably tell you. I’ve recently bought an F-machine from Regulation and a couple of plugs. In case you think I’ve been at the Sancerre again, this is a machine that takes the eff-ort out of strap-on play. I can connect you up to the machine and go down and watch the telly, hopefully a programme about antiques, or joy of joys someone drinking their own urine. Or maybe, someone drinking urine on an antiques programme. Result.

So now I have a milking machine and a pumping machine; I should be able to make a great cup of coffee with all that. Poor Daffydd gets milked regularly and he has to scream out when he’s ejaculated as I’m not sure when he’s come. Maybe I shouldn’t gag him.

The Better Part Of Valour

Be discreet, always be discreet. Someone has just written a letter to me addressed to Miss Spiteful! Okay if you don’t know what to put, leave the name blank or use the telephone, or an email. Don’t write Miss Spiteful, it scares the postman. Also, if you’re travelling here from the railway station and you take a taxi, give a different door number. Simple isn’t it? Yet it’s surprising how many people don’t think of it.

Well Armed

Well my arm is beginning to recover from this very painful trapped nerve. No doubt your “Get Well Soon” cards are delayed in the post. Thankfully, I’ve been doing a lot of rope bondage recently so I haven’t had to dose myself up. Now I need to practice my stroke as practice makes perfect. Thankfully, Markus booked a judicial session of 72 strokes although he ended up having 90, because I felt like it. He came all the way from Germany just to see me. I always like meeting Germans, they usually take a hell of a caning without any screaming for God, or their mother or for me to stop, please stop. They simply accept it but I suppose they should really.

Not much of a tradition in Germany for the cane unfortunately as it might do them the world of good to be thrashed at school with a good old rattan. And none of them appear to know any German Chancellors for some reason, I briefly mentioned Caprivi’s “New Course” in passing but Markus knew nothing of it. Woe betide any schoolboy presenting himself to me without knowledge of German Chancellors. You'll certainly be for the high jump if you don't know the answer to such simple questions. .

Shake It All About

In Out, In Out. What a difficult decision we have to make shortly and I know from experience that most of you are probably too daft to decide what to have for dinner let alone anything important like who should reign over us. Oh, well, this is going to end in tears I can see; it usually does.

So, children, you have to decide whether we are to be ruled by some Johnny foreigners and succumb to the Coudenhove-Kalergi plan and the envy of less happier lands to destroy this blessed plot, this earth, this realm or, be ruled by the old Baked Bean and the weasels, criminals and comrades of Westminster.

This is why they shouldn’t give your sort the vote; it’s probably far too taxing for the likes of you. I would suggest you confine your voting to the X Factor and such like.

When I saw IN, I naturally thought it was some modern contraction that some clever elitist politico had made up for the word Invasion; like Brexit, whatever that means. You know the sort of thing, Europe falls apart and needs our help, we land somewhere on the coast and fight our way gallantly towards eventual victory, then we tell these foreigners to jolly well behave themselves in future or we’ll get really annoyed!  Doesn’t matter who it is: the Germans, the French or maybe the Spanish or Dutch. It’s usually one of that lot we have to deal with and put back in their box. The other European nations don’t really matter, do they? I mean, is Luxemburg even a country, I thought it was a radio station?  

So, let me take guidance from our erudite politicians and know-all tree-hugging liberals at the BBC who know best: who’s telling us we should stay in Europe? Dave, Jezza and Nick, the Kinnocks, Lady Mandelson, Auntie Beeb, Presidente Ali Bama. Umm. But what about our greatest ever Prime Minister: Tonie Blare? What is he telling us to do? Well that’s it – I’m definitely voting OUT. Let the Europeans sort out their own mess. They’ll miss us when we’re gone. They always do.

31 March 2016

Thank heavens Easter is over. Easter is my favourite holiday after Christmas and what other religious festival do you get to eat crème eggs? This is on a par with being beaten by a scourge; they’re disgusting and I should know I ate one once. Only once, that was enough. I’ve used a heavy whip often enough and out of the two, I think I prefer the heavy whipping. Easter should be all about eating hot cross buns and chocolate Easter eggs.

That’s why I can’t understand those men who find it acceptable to whip their backs into a bloody mess with said whip. Why don’t they eat the crème eggs instead? Maybe the whipping was the best option of the two. Or come to that, why didn’t they ask me? I would have done it to them and enjoyed every minute. Full of diversity, that’s me.


Good news for all those of you who want to receive an extremely large butt-plug up the anus during a session but need to relax to accept the proffered frightening sex toy. Thankfully, there’s no need for me to use a smearing of KY and a mallet to bang it home in future, as HM’s weasels have decided not to include room odourisers in the forthcoming legislation to ban legal highs. These are the legal highs you can buy in certain shops, not the stuff people like your off-spring buy from some foreigner at the local railway station.

I’m sure hard core drugs will still be available for those who want or need them to function normally from their usual suppliers even though everyone pretends their illegal. Room odourisers are what poppers are laughingly called, although who on earth would want to use it to fragrance a room is anyone’s guess. Probably someone high on hard drugs.

And note: I do not take these drugs myself and I do not allow you to take any illegal substance on this property.

Safe Space

Apparently, I now have to provide a safe space for all those who are unable to deal with being dominated and feel they need to retreat into a place of safety, a comfort zone. This is in case they get frightened when I’m wielding a cane across their buttocks or are humiliated and I hurt their feelings with some of the things I say to them. Poor loves. No doubt this is line with the latest namby-pamby left-wing thinking to protect everyone from the real world. The only safe space I’ve got is the cage; I suppose they could go into that for an hour, with a blindfold while I goad them with barbed jibes. Or maybe they should be committed to a lunatic asylum; that might be the answer.

And I certainly wouldn’t let any African students visit me with their blubbering about Cecil Rhodes for heaven’s sake; or Caesar Rhodes as one illiterate “student” thought he was named. What do they teach these dullards these days? Obviously not education.

Anyway, what’s the matter with the young today? They should be out getting drunk, laid, working in a burger restaurant or protesting the injustices of the world, not that it’s going to do much good as people only listen to the rantings of young people to indulge them. You wouldn't want to pay them any heed, would you? And why do they need “safe spaces”? Can’t they cope with being verbally and physically humiliated? I should have thought they’d been used to it if their teachers had done their jobs properly. And surely they must get abused regularly by their online “friends” on Twitter and Facebook.

Twitter: that all powerful tool of making a fool of yourself and then being held up to ridicule by the rest of the world. Years ago, you could make yourself appear a complete imbecile and hardly anyone would know, now to compound your stupidity, it’s posted on the net for everyone to see how thick you are. As if anyone needed proof.

Plato said “A wise man speaks when he has something to say, a fool speaks when he has to say something”. That should be Twitter’s motto.

Ah, Plato, he was my favourite; I always thought he was the funniest of the Marx brothers, a lot funnier than Karl anyway.  He wasn't exactly a bundle of laughs, was he?

Give Me A Call

How would you introduce yourself on the telephone? Well, it’s always nice to be polite so imagine my disdain when someone rang me with a lot of background noise and pretended he had just finished a conversation with someone near him and then abruptly demanded, “who’s this”. Oh, goody, my chance to have some fun. Firstly, I enquired if this foreign sounding oaf was British, to which he replied, “Err, yeah, I’s British”. Well, as the Duke of Wellington stated, "being born in a stable doesn't make you a horse," so....

I then proceeded to explain to him that he should understand that it’s customary, and polite, in this country to introduce yourself first and then ask for the person you wish to speak to. It’s not rocket science but some of our citizens appear unable to grasp this simple idea. After a couple of minutes berating this simpleton for his damned impertinence, he then asked if this was Abbot’s the Estate Agents? Obviously the chump had mis-dialled and had rung me by mistake. Well at least he’ll know better in future how to speak and conduct himself on the telephone.

This brings to mind another person who gabbled some bizarre discourse down the telephone at me to which the only possible reply could be: “Pardon?” After a couple of pardons, I demanded the cur speak English, as he obviously only had a passing acquaintance with the Queen’s English. Can you imagine what this impudent wretch said? That he was speaking English and he wanted Abbot’s. Idiot! Which only goes to show that it’s called a “smart” phone because quite often it’s a lot smarter the dolt who’s using it.  

What The F…

I’m not sure about this F Machine. It looks great in the video demonstrating how it works but I suspect the young gentleman, who is enjoying playing with the F-Machine is well used to this machine or at the very least well used. The dildo which comes with the machine is very large and I’ve tried smaller ones that are used with a strap-on but they just seem to bend. So perseverance is the name of the game and William Brown is gamely persevering as a crash test dummy. Well a dummy anyway.

Get Me Out Of Here

Vote Brexit and you will become sterile, your penis will shrivel and people will throw stones at you. Vote Remain and you will become more attractive, everyone will laugh at your elephant impression and think you’re the star of the party.

Of course this isn’t true but if you really think the EUSSR is going to let us leave, you’ll believe anything.

My friend S’mamf does elephant impersonations at his civil servant nights out. If you don’t know how to do it, pull your trouser pockets inside out and undo your fly buttons. Hilarious.

Maid Doris

And a thank you to Maid Doris for her compliments. Doris has asked me to supply some of my old photographs that used to be on this site, maybe she wants to frighten the neighbourhood brats.


19 May 2016

So, whose idea was it to use nettles? That’s the question my friend Colin will probably be asking himself for the next couple of days as he recovers from a session of CP. Interspersed with this was some nettle punishment, i.e. putting nettles down inside Colin’s pants to ensure maximum discomfort. Luckily I was wearing gloves so I didn’t feel a thing. And Colin had to pick the nettles because I wouldn’t recognise them if I fell over them, not being clued up on botany.

Unfortunately, Colin had picked very fresh greenery so these were excruciating when rubbed vigorously on the genitals and anus for a full punishment of 5 minutes. I suppose I could have stopped when he started screaming but that’s not the point of the exercise. Anyway, it hurt so much that he barely felt the Singapore cane coming down full force on his bare buttocks.  

I’m sure he’ll look back fondly in years to come and laugh at this, everyone else is laughing now.

Celeb News

Probably many of you believe that most of the people who visit me are very important or very well-known men and in the public eye. You might think that all visitors here are MPs, football players or celebs. Well I’m glad to say that isn’t the case, I have much more select, and nicer, clientele of ordinary, run-of-the-mill guys. And they don’t get much more ordinary and run-of-the-mill than some of you.

One of the advantages of not buying a TV licence, apart from the constant threatening letters sent by the Beeb every month, is you have no idea who a lot of these people who claim to be “celebrities” or sports "stars" are. I’m lucky in that I don’t have to waste any time in reading about or following the lives of people who hold absolutely no interest for me. This is why I’m baffled by the Beeb thinking everyone in the country would be sat watching the television; they appear dumbfounded, and disbelieving, by the fact anyone would be doing something different with their lives: such as thrashing miscreant schoolboys on the bare for instance.

Anyway, I must be the only person in the country now who hasn’t got a clue who this wholesome TV personality, or his/her wife, is indulging in threesomes with other couples or this famous ack-tor engaging in a bit on the side with a well-known lady of the night. Or the uncle of someone who's known as a tight-wad. I might not enjoy telly but I do still have some idle curiosity. The last time this happened it turned out to be someone called Giggsy, apparently a football player from Cardiff who was caught having it off with his sister-in-law. Classy guy. Well I can believe anything of someone who comes from Cardiff because, as everyone knows, the only good thing to have come out of Cardiff is Newport Road.

So who’s this latest personality who enjoys a bit on the side? Anyone know? Anyone really care?

Beeb letters continues: now they’re writing and telling me what I should take to court when I’m arrested and charged with the heinous crime of watching live telly as its broadcast without a licence.

Bless them.

Celeb Watch 2

Can it get any better than some celeb luvvie being doused in manure? Better luck next time to the farmer who covered some unwashed anarchists in cow dung, try and get the tiresome, loud-mouthed, leftie thesp stridently telling everyone else how they should live their lives next time. Still I don’t suppose the protesters worry too much about being covered in dung, they probably won’t notice any difference.

I usually come across these tree-hugging creatures on my trips to Borough Market as they’re often employed trying to trick people out of their hard earned cash by begging them to donate to some worthy cause such as supporting the opulent lifestyle of a CEO of a charity. I always answer them with that classic put down line that has served me so well over the years, “Oh, please do excuse me but I think you’ve confused me with someone who gives a f…”

That always brings about a slack-jawed look of confusion. They need some sense knocking into them by being beaten stupid with a three foot rattan cane. And they need a sense of humour too. Amnasty International? You want me to donate to that? I often think these people in prisons across the world might actually deserve to be in prison but that’s only my opinion. I usually walk off after saying that as they begin to stutter and go apoplectic and start to fit.

But what a great idea for a game show on telly though: douse a celeb with manure. This can follow on from making them drink their own urine. Maybe entitled: “I’m A Celebrity, Get Me Outta Here, For the Love of God, Get Me Out”. And instead of voting them off the show, we can vote to keep them in. Can we choose the celebs? Even better.

In Or Out

So now we know, if we leave we’ll be responsible for unleashing plague, pestilence and the four horsemen of the Apocalypse across Europe. Sounds good to me; at least we won’t have to do what we’re told what to do by Old Mother Merkel.

Blair, Brown, Cameron, (BBC), Mandy, O’Bummer, Merkel, Kinnock, Heseltine, Major, etc. Who are you going to believe? them, or the evidence of your own eyes? 

F for Failure

Well, I’ve tried the F Machine and failed with it. All I can say is it’s the most dangerous piece of machinery you can imagine. I shan’t be using it, not after poor William Brown nearly got eviscerated by the damned thing; luckily I was on hand to deal with the problem and clean up the blood, vomit and faeces immediately but thankfully he didn’t need to go to hospital with the machine speared up his bottom. Always a laugh trying to explain you were bending over to pick something up with no clothes on when the machine suddenly began to operate itself. Anyway, I think it’s for the best it goes up into the loft and stays there.

Poor William, hasn’t really recovered since a vibrating dildo got stuck inside of his bottom and he managed to expunge the offending item down the lavatory pan.  

Phew, What A Scorcher

Ah the weather gets warmer, at long last thank heavens. And Sprout the budgie is happy it’s getting warmer too. When it’s cold I have a habit of putting him inside my knickers to keep that area warm. He’s a perfect size and fits nicely and he's so feathery and so very comfy. It's hilarious when I sit down and he squeals loudly, everyone stops to look at me.

It’s always best, I find, to make sure he’s facing downwards though as I don’t want him pecking anything and causing damage.

Now, holidays. I suppose I’d better not plan to visit any Middle Eastern islamic hell-hole this year, or any other hell-hole come to that so that's my tour of East London out so it’s probably going to be Devon again. Why does anyone bother going to these foreign parts? Most of the natives can barely speak English and those that can are probably asking you for a handout to help feed their ten children or want to marry you to get a British passport. Or both.

Yes, yet another overweight 55 year old harridan appears in that left-wing rag The Daily Mail bemoaning her lot at spending her life savings on a 20 year old Ghanian waiter who proclaimed his undying love for the dopey old bat. Of course it was love dear, it’s just unfortunate he was already married. You don’t become the victim of scams like that when you holiday in Devon.

Next week, 23 May, I shall not be working because I have a couple of men working in the garden. They’re building a fence in case you think they’re burying William Brown’s body.


22 June 2016

Well, we’ll soon know if we’re out of Europe or not.

Yes, yet another football tournament is under way again, great!. Don’t these sporting events ever stop? I had enough with the damned Olympics disrupting everything some years ago. I would have thought that would have been enough for anyone. But that explains why there are loads of English flags flying and men dressed up as Crusader knights in the papers. I realised of course it wasn’t because we were going to invade the Levant again to defeat these damned Saracens. Shame. So something must have been up.

I thought it was probably the English with their wacky sense of humour to make some mischief and upset and hurt the feelings of our wonderfully diverse and culturally enriched society, especially during Ramadan-A-Ding-Dong, as lovable old Nick always referred to it. I suspect the great and the good are up in arms over such displays of patriotism so it’s all worthwhile.

Naturally the Beeb doesn’t like it when English flags are flying and as usual, they are trying to make us feel guilty about our nation and history and demand we stop celebrating or culture because it offends other cultures. What sort of organisation calls itself British and is ashamed of anything British? 

Nevertheless, I suppose our clean-cut lads are ravaging their way through some God-forsaken hell-hole, boozing, fornicating, fighting and generally behaving like the English abroad by scaring the locals and that’s before they get on the pitch to play. You have to admit that if there’s one thing the English are good at, it’s invading and fighting our way across France; but then we’ve had a lot of practice.

Doesn’t Scotland have a football team? Everyone else appears to be playing except them. They never seem to take part in these football jamborees, do they? Maybe they should have voted for Independence when they had the chance and had their own football team.

Is it all being shown live on the telly, complete with pundits? Oh well, it makes a change from the Beeb trying to bully and frighten us into staying in Europe on pain of dread penalty. England usually go out on penalties, don’t they? Maybe they’ll be kicked out of Europe before the rest of us.


Well it won’t be long now until we know our fate, whether tis nobler in the mind to suffer or vote for Brexit. I’m all for it myself, voting to leave because I know full well HM weasels and the unelected EU rogues have no intention of letting us leave Das vierte Reich as it’s their gravy train. So it’ll be great to see how they try to worm themselves out of this one. I wonder if they’ll threaten to invade, mmm, what happened to the last German Chancellor who tried to invade these shores; they usually come to a sticky end, German Chancellors, don’t they?  

When it’s all over, and the Remainders are crying their eyes out and worrying how they’re going to afford to send their idiot spawn to private schools now they haven’t got a European sinecure, I’ll try and wangle an invitation to turn up at one of their post-election Remain parties, preferably in Islington. This will be a great laugh as everyone’s going to be totally dejected and there’s lots of free wine and food. Always best to go to the socialists’ parties as there’s no expense spared for the comrades.

It’s great fun winding up the lefties pretending to be some disadvantaged minority. This year I think I’m going to wear a jib-jab or whatever those dust-sheets are called the muslim women wear. This way I can eat and drink to my heart’s content and insult all and sundry at the same time. I think I’ll take Quilp with me blacked up and dressed in a burkha too. With any luck I’ll be able to slip some fart powder and a couple of Ex-lax tablets into his drink; that should test the tolerance of smug right-on liberals to other cultures. And I’m sure the Romanian home help will be able to clean the spatter up from the back of the pan. 

I can also give a lecture on the benefits of Sharia law in Britain to the assembled too. Imagine the look on the faces of the ladies when you explain that all the women should be at home, minding the ever increasing number of children, not go out working for a living and they must obey their husbands or their menfolk will beat them. That should go down really well. This should bring one of those frozen grins on their faces as though you’ve just suggested fisting Red Ken on the dining room table. Or have them running off crying to their “safe space”.

In The Summertime

Ah, summer, glorious June: wild, wet and windy. Who wouldn’t to live here to enjoy a magnificent English summertime? I suppose that’s what draws all the economic gimmigrants to our shores: the weather. But there’s something missing, surely. For years we’ve had to suffer the shrill cry of “Global Warming” from environmental charlatans and sandal-wearing hippies lecturing us on how we’re destroying the planet and demanding we pay them lots of money to sort it out and return us to living like serfs in the 14th century. Wind farms? Who’d be daft enough to rely on them?

And where are these scoundrels now? It all seems to have gone a bit quiet recently hasn’t it with the climate change. Still at least everyone’s driving around in a diesel car now so that must be doing something to help the climate. And how’s that ozone layer doing nowadays, I wonder? We were all going to die from the sun scorching us to death if I remember. How did that work out?

And what other global catastrophe have the experts warned us about that would lead to death and destruction for most of the people in the world? No, you imbecile, not the fall of the British Empire, although I’m sure most of the colonies would prefer that Britain still ruled over them. No, dunderhead, the other great disaster to strike the civilised world: Y2K. The first day of the new millennium when all the computers kept working and – gasp – nothing happened.

Read All About It

Oh, it’s him. He’s the one with the secret injunction. I always thought he was a bit of a grubby creature and I’ve never really liked him or the “stuff” that he did. Why is it, whenever something secret and underhand happens that the great and good don’t want the great unwashed to know about, it always makes me curious to try and find out who it is; probably just me being nosy. But when you do find out who the miscreant is you realise you really couldn’t care less.

3 Dresses

Not one, not two but three dresses. Three rubber dresses ripped apart on me before a session with William Brown. Of course I blamed him for it, the idiot.


23 June 2016

Well would you Adam and Eve it? Our lads got through. Reading the back page of my Daily Mail I see they’re through to the next round in this football tournament; and there’s me making fun of them saying they’ll be kicked out of Europe before the rest of us and they’re on their way. It’s quite exciting, isn’t it? Well, not really, I still couldn’t care.

Oh, I see England got through too.

25 June 2016

Close The Door On The Way Out

No-one likes to see a grown man cry, well not unless you’ve got him by the testicles for some intense cock and ball torture anyway. So, bugger off and close the door behind you, Dave.

Well this is all going very well, isn’t it? Already the snowflake millennials are whining and complaining the vote didn’t go the way they wanted so, naturally, they want to hold it again until they get the result that pleases them. These children are so funny, to think we allow them to vote. Aww, diddums babies, are you going to cwy over the result because you can’t get your own way? Are you gonna wun off to your safe spaces and mummy and daddy gonna make it all better for you? Yeah, this is called democracy, children, you only get one vote; it’s not like the X-factor where you can vote every week. It’s how the grown-up world works, but you probably don’t know that.

I’m still waiting to see what scam they’re going to come with to rob us of our country.

If anything else it was a great result if only to upset all the “celebrities”. I know I go on about them but it is lovely to see them sulking because the “ordinary people” didn’t listen to their wise counsel. Like Eddie Is-Hard for example, in that fetching pink beret. Or Geldorf. Always nice to watch a foreign millionaire flash a V sign at British trawler men protesting over the unfairness of the EUSSR. What a classy guy that Sir Gob is; who wouldn’t listen to his opinion because he obviously knows best.

And now that wee Krankie girl in charge of Scotland wants to leave us. They want to be independent. Well they’re already IN the UK and they’re dependent on English tax-payers for their dole money, what more do they want?

Some of the protesters look like they haven’t had a wash since the start of the referendum, especially the women – yeuggh! And that one holding a placard, “I’m not British, I’m European”. Priceless! Well go and live in Europe then. You could go and live as a refugee in Germany. Hand your British passport in at border control and off you go. No-one will miss you. Do what we’ve said all along – LEAVE!

Ten Years After

No, not some aging 1970s prog-rock band; I had two very interesting sessions this week with two people, Michael and Brian, who both first came here to see me about 10-12 years ago. Not together at any time I hasten to add. Maybe it’s taken them that long to get over the shock, or possibly to recover but it’s always nice to see people from a long time ago. I also had a proposal of marriage from someone who wanted me to beat him like a dog just wearing a pair of knickers. No, you idiot, I’d be wearing the knickers, not him.

18 August 2016

Well the dust has settled after Brexit and all that remains is to get Maid Doris of her bottom and to get busy with the fluffy duster and clean everything up. Has world war three started yet, as the Remaniacs promised us? I must have missed that with all the celebrating.

I’ve been partying the length and breadth of Islington since the result. You simply look on Facebook for a likely snowflake, befriend them and then find out when they’re having a commiseration party. It’s easy to spot them; they’ve all got stupid names their oh-so-right-on parents christened them with. You know the sort of thing, they’re usually called something like Princess Windrush Poppy-Lulu or Cosmo Xipe Totec or some such nonsense. Luckily their parents probably paid for them all to go to selective schools as they wouldn’t survive five minutes in a bog standard comprehensive that the likes of you went to, not with their dopey names anyway.

Once you’ve befriended them on social media you can get all sorts of information about them as they’re so naïve and trusting of strangers they shouldn’t be allowed out on their own. Then you just turn up on their doorstep, carrying a copy of The Guardian, and you’re in! I usually take Quilp with me and we go dressed up in regulation Islamic dustsheets. They’ve probably never come across any ethnics before, apart from those they buy their illegal drugs from, so they won’t be any the wiser. Tell them you’re gay and they win extra brownie points. And black up too, that always guarantees entry. I always make Quilp black up and introduce him as Iman Rsole. If they question any of that, I say he’s undergoing a sex-change.

So let me see now: BAME, tick; gay, tick, gender fluid, tick. Quilp only needs to be disabled and speak with a northern accent and he’d be able to get a top presenter’s job at the Beeb.

Then you can help yourselves to all their food and drink. Think of it as a food bank for smug right-on lefties but without the tins of Tesco baked beans. And it’s good if you can make fun of the feminists gathered by insisting they wear a headscarf in empathy and compassion with all economic gimmegrants sailing across the channel to claim their council property and life of luxury, courtesy of the tax-payer. They’ll never see the irony of feminists being subjugated into wearing a veil so take lots of selfies to upload to their Facebook account to add to their humiliation.

And last of all, it’s always fun to download Pat Condell’s Godless Comedy on your tablet or smart phone. This brings a look of frozen horror on their faces once it starts as the ideas Mr Condell espouse are totally alien to their senses. It’s best to use this time while they’re all catatonic and defecating into their pants watching The Godless Comedy to see if there’s anything worth taking home with you. A re-distribution of wealth, you could call it. Lefties are very keen on that sort of thing but usually with other people’s money.

The snowflakes want to re-run the referendum? Oh, please, yes please, let’s have one every year. It’s been great fun watching the great and good who think they all what’s best for everyone else get shafted up the Aris by the great unwashed. They should turn the results into an annual event like Strictly to watch the colour drain out of their faces. I’d buy a TV licence just to watch that.

The Beeb – Round 36

Yes, I know they’re all out having a jolly in Rio at licence fee payers’ expense but that doesn’t mean they’re not still trying to extort money from me with menaces. Now they’re going to start wasting their time standing outside the house trying to decode my internet connection and what I choose to download. Well good luck with that because I’m wired, not wireless. And I never watch i-Player either.

Catch licence fee dodgers? This is the same organisation that couldn’t catch Sir Jimmie kiddie fiddling on their premises.

I Have Seen The Fuchsia

And its pinkie coloured. Much to my own amazement, I have started doing a bit of gardening, well when I say gardening, I mean bringing plant, pot and dirt together to make a pleasing ensemble and then place the pots around the garden. Other than that, I haven’t got a clue, I can’t tell one plant from another. Neither do I wish to so please don’t write asking to work in the garden for 10 minutes and then expect a two hour session for the privilege.

Of course the easiest way for me to do a bit of gardening is to steal a few pot plants from outside someone’s house in the early morning. This is what they mean by harvesting I suppose.

And I have tits! Great tits! And blue tits. This is because I feed them, you see. And stop sniggering at the back, that boy! People always complain they don’t have any small birds in the garden but that’s because they don’t feed them. Anyway enough of this horny handed green fingers nonsense. I hate gardening; almost as much as sport.

Daily Sport

Great, the Olympics are back on. Is there anything better than watching loads of young men and women doing exactly the same thing as the ones before them? Once you’ve seen one 400 metres race, you’ve probably got the gist of what to expect in the next 400 metres race. Why is it in metres anyway? What’s wrong with good old fashion yards? Metres are what we measure the gas with, aren’t they? Or are they meters? I blame the teachers for this. Surely, they’re all on drugs and they all cheat, don’t they? No, not the teachers you imbecile, I mean the athletes. Most people under the age of 30 are on drugs, I believe.

I really struggle to see the attraction of watching athletes competing in the long jump, pole vault or high jump. Hasn’t anyone noticed they’re all doing the same thing, time after time after time. If I had my way, they’d all be for the high jump and the repetitive actions would be 36 strokes of the cane across their bottoms, that’d make them bloody jump.

And when this jamboree is over, we can all look forward to the football starting again. Joy.

It’s Only A Joke

I always claim the photographs on this site are really meant to be “Art”. This is to confound the authorities who might wonder at some of the images and inform the old bill. I couldn’t believe it when I read some nut grumbling about bondage websites claiming to show “art” and not pornography. Calm down dear, it was only a joke. Anyway, anyone who looks at photographs on this site of Quilp and Knoblet tied up and thinks of it as “porn” really needs to be locked away in a secure unit for a long while as they’re not fit to be loose amongst the general public.

But I have to be extra careful now because the police have set up a squad to scour the Internet for anyone making fun of someone else and, oh no, hurting their feelings! Heavens above. Can you imagine the horror of “hurt feelings?” I suppose the police will only be kicking the doors in of those who hurt the feelings of leftard liberals and Guardian readers as they’ll be the ones constantly whining. They just love screaming the word racist at anyone who disagrees with them.

You’re being bullied on Facebook? Then turn it off you dope!

Oh, have I just insulted most of the metro elite of north London? Better wait for a knock on the door around six o'clock in the morning. I hope they realise I hurt people in a lot more ways than just their feelings.  

I suppose all the real crime’s been solved then.

Old Friends

Did I write friends? I meant old fiends, of course. I’m glad to say that a lot of old faces have returned after an absence of some years. Pete, for example, said he hasn’t been here for the last five years, mainly because it’s taken him that long to get over the last visit. And for his bottom to heal up too I suppose. Either that or he’s probably been in prison. Again.

My friend Jon, who works at SM clubs and organises bondage festivals as Nawashi Murakawa, has told me he’s now retiring from all of that and taking a back seat. He’s organised five bondage events at the Barbican over the years and has worked across the world so that’s a loss. If you’ve ever seen him preform rope bondage, it really is an art. And it’s exquisite to watch the dori (sub) drift into her/his own little inner world: sub-space as it’s called.

I have been doing a lot of bondage myself recently and more of a predicament type of rope bondage with lots of awkward positions. Having tied Knoblet up last night for about three hours he was relieved I managed to untie his hands from behind his neck after he’d suffered two orgasms; or floorgasms, as he was cruelly laid out on a cold hard floor. Still I was okay, I managed to sit on a chair most of the time.

5 October 2016

Burfday boy Knoblet

It’s October and that means the boy Knoblet has another birthday coming. Lovable old Nick always called it a burfday, because he was a sarf-east Londoner.  Last year I gave him an Amazon voucher; I know it was very generous but it was only for £50 and I suppose it’s the thought that counts.

Annoyingly, he spent it on himself, not me as that was the intention of giving him the voucher.
This year, I decided to change tactics and actually buy him something for his birthday. Something he’s always wanted and badly needs: a new pinny. He’ll look the business now when he’d doing the housework and washing up for me. Some of you might have noticed the stair carpet needs the hoover put over it; well blame Knoblet and I intend to next time he’s here.

I shall wrap the pinafore in some fancy gift wrapping paper, that left-wing rag The Daily Mail will do. Knoblet always enjoys reading the reasoned arguments in my copy. Knoblet’s a civil serpent working in The Home Office so reading anything other than The Gruniad in the office is career death.

And he can look forward to a spot of house cleaning on his days off. An extra gift from me.

Crime And Punishment

Have you read it? No? Raskolnikov did it so don't bother. Sorry if that's a spoiler but what I meant is that it is excellent news that’s been announced recently from Daisy May, our new PM! HMG have decided to start up some new grammar schools to try and educate children in a little bit more than teaching them how to sing Kumbaya, the slave trade, the wickedness of the British Empire and how to masturbate. No doubt, the lefties will start screaming how unfair it is to have working class brats going to the same school as their beloved issue. Lefties love to shout about equality and fairness as long as it doesn’t involve their families having to share anything. So it’ll all be worthwhile, just to annoy them; and laugh at their whinging letters to The Gruniad.

I’m all for it, myself. I think I might turn the dungeon into grammar school. I’ve had lots of teaching experience, teaching your sort how to behave and I’m always right so what more can there be to it? And proper teaching too, not like modern teachers today who appear to be drug-addled hippies who would be happier running around a field, screaming at some unfortunate who isn’t very good at athletics. Or the teachers who go in for a bit of sexual abuse with their pupils; that seems very popular these days.

Okay, there might well be sexual abuse, and telling you off, but absolutely no running around the fields.

Naturally the focus will be on learning and I’m sure you will learn from your mistakes. Just imagine the joy to be had from an hour doing mental arithmetic. Or an hour of history! Preferably English because it’s the most interesting and we have defeated most, if not all, other nations.   

Being a private school, there’ll be plenty of cold showers, buggery and discipline. Lots of good old fashioned discipline. That’s what the country needs. And woe betide any schoolboy, or schoolgirl, who misbehaves. Six of the best? You can multiple that by 9 as a starter; without the aid of a calculator, if you please.

Safe spaces? Oh, yes, there’ll be a safe space all right. You’ll be very safe there, under the stairs.

And very affordable fees too. And it’ll give the likes of you the opportunity to send your idiot off-spring to a proper school, not the bog-standard secondary modern you no doubt attended. When you could be bothered.

And not only… but also.

HM Prisons are going to employ ex-squaddies to keep order inside the holiday camp hell-holes that pass for modern prisons. I just hope it’s going to be run on the same lines as the Abu Gharib Prison. You remember the sort of thing: waterboarding, mock executions, sexual assault, isolation cells, torture and sadistic women guards. That’s how prison should be. Pottery classes, for heaven’s sake!

Muslim criminal gangs running the prisons? Well that’ll have to stop. How much body waste would you like to eat today, Sheikh Abu? Don’t hear much about hook handed Hamza nowadays, do we? Oh, and I do hope that shyster lawyer who’s been hounding our troops doesn’t end up in chokey. That would mean there is a God; or a judge who’s not a certifiable imbecile like most of them.

It sounds great fun. I might offer this place to the Home Secretary to be run as a private prison. Making the prisoners act like a dog, dragging them around on leads, harsh caning, beatings, kickings, tied up for hours on end, sexual abuse and that wonderful old army tradition, a beasting! On second thoughts, it’s already run on those lines.

Lucky Jim

Have you read that? It's much funnier than Crime and Punishment.

Anyone heard any more about that greasy scumbag politician caught having some bum fun with a couple of Russian rent boys; that all seems to have died a death lately. Russian rent boys, for heaven’s sake; what is the matter with the man? Surely there are plenty of British rent boys to take his pick from? There must by hundreds, if not thousands, of young university students who’ve spent their student loans on drink and drugs and now have to make ends meet by prostitution.

Apparently some lunatic wants to offer prostitution as a career choice to school children, for goodness sake. And no, said lunatic is not a Child Protection Officer cum social worker in Rotherham, pimping young girls to the local curry house, it’s some imbecile that’s been put in charge of the nation’s schools, supposedly.

See this is why I won’t have MPs visit me here. Or snowflakes for that matter

The World Takes A Turn For The Surreal

What on earth is happening to this country? Anyone would think the entire country has collapsed after we’ve voted to Brexit. For what calamity has struck this royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle? Have the Germans invaded? The second fall of man? Why no, it’s worse, much worse, disaster has struck and we’re doomed: Bake Off has buggered off to Channel 4 from Aunty Beeb.

People do realise this is a television programme, don’t they? So why are people being so stupid and why are they acting as though it’s a national catastrophe? It’s not real life, is it? This is a television programme, Snowflakes; please don’t cwy little children or I’ll beat the living daylights out of your bare bottoms. It’s only the edited highlights of a television programme about baking a cake.

Oh My God! Will Mary leave? Will the bloke with a beard stay? Is Mel and the other one staying or going? And does anyone really believe all those witty double entendres and puns about buns are ad-libbed and off-the-cuff? No, Snowflakes, they’re all scripted and perfectly rehearsed for the cameras, probably when everyone’s stopped baking. How odd, but when Benny Hill was doing the same jokes, everyone took offence, now it’s must-see TV.

And what about that lovely smiley-faced Nadya? Will she ever stop grinning? Still, at least she’s done well out of it. She appears to be the face of everything, or almost everything as I haven’t seen her on a pack of toilet paper yet. Do all winners of the Bake Off get to do their own television shows and write cookery books? How odd! The beeb wouldn’t be pushing her because she wears a jib-jab, would they? Because it looks like we are being manipulated by the beeb into accepting this as the norm. You know the sort of thing: “look they’re really happy, lovely people and they bake cakes. No, they don’t want to conquer the Christians and convert them to a death cult or behead them.”

Anyway, it’s a TV programme for heaven’s sake this is why the BBC should be closed down. They’re manipulating you to keep you under control.

And I love the way all these white so-called alternative comedians are complaining that they’re being kicked off the Beeb for being – white! They never complained when it was happening to all those who don’t work for the Beeb.

Alternative comedian. Does that mean they’re not funny?


If you want to buy me a gift, I’d like that cute little sexy Saudi burka that Amazon is selling. I can’t understand why most of Europe wants to ban it. That looks great fun to wear, can you imagine popping down to the local mosque on Friday to enjoy a bacon sandwich, wearing one of those. Strange, I always thought the infidels liked to keep their women folk covered up because they can’t control themselves and keep their hands of the ladies. Seems I was wrong. Still if that’s what they wear, I’m not surprised the men can’t keep their hands in their pockets.

Oh, and a great touch to have someone blacked up with shoe polish to look like a Saudi prince, everyone complains when I ask people to turn up here blacked up to boost my diversity rating.


5 November 2016

All Over Bar The Shouting

Well that’s the dreadful All Hallows Eve over thank heavens. And the Indian Doolally, or is it called Dim Wally? I can never understand a word these foreigners speak. Now we’ve only got Guy Fawkes Night to go and the season for annoying people with fireworks and banging on the door demanding treats is over; until New Year’s Eve. Thank Heavens. They wouldn’t be so keen to knock here if they knew what goes on behind these closed doors.

Anyway, this year I thought it might be a good idea to put some carved pumpkins outside so it would attract these young hooligans. Not outside my door, of course, outside someone else’s front door. That should keep them away whilst they’re bothering other people. Actually, I didn’t have to carve any pumpkins as there were plenty outside other people’s houses and I simply gathered a load of them and put them on the neighbours’ walls further up the road.

I suppose those who were looking forward to receiving dread teenagers dressed in some comic Halloween horror costume were rather disappointed that no-one knocked on the door demanding a tenner to pay for their drugs and to go away and leave them in peace and some poor mite who only wished for a quiet night was threatened with violence to hand over their cash and woke next morning to find their windows covered in graffiti.

And scary clowns? No, they’re not scary; they’re just imbeciles wearing make-up. A custard pie in the face usually does the trick. Either that or grab them hard by the testicles and swiftly jerk upwards and sideways. That always works.

Kids, eh? Who’d have them?

Well, Silly Lilly Allen would take one or two, she said. How many of these hulking brutes would you like to take in, Lil? There’s plenty to choose from, call Shave The Children if you need help. Better put a lock on the bedroom door too as some of these menchildren haven’t had sex with a white women since all the “charity” workers left the jungle. They’re called “charity” workers because they give it for free.

How does that song lyric go? “At first when I see you cry, It makes me smile”. Laugh out loud I think is the term.


I do like to be treated well and I was recently taken to lunch by Martin, who some time ago foolishly bought me a bastinado cane. Maybe he didn’t realise I would use it on him but anyway, it kept him on his toes. Quite literally. Even so, Martin’s not one to bear a grudge and took me to lunch and bought me a bottle of Chanel No. 5 too. Gorgeous. And hey, I didn’t have to run out this time in case he didn’t pay the bill. Naturally I thanked him by torturing him with some Eros-Tek electrical equipment, and of course, the bastinado. Boy, did he scream.

This is always a problem because even though the room is sound-proofed some local busybody might hear the shrieks and yelps and call the police under the impression that someone is being murdered. I have a ready-made excuse for the old Bill should they come investigating. I’ll use the same one some gimmigrant used in Germany when caught buggering a minor and that I “didn’t realise he didn’t want to be anally raped and sexually assaulted your Honour.”

Mmm, maybe I should just gag Martin instead, that might be a better option; especially in the restaurant.

Dressed to Kill

I always enjoy dressing up my friend S’manfa in girls’ clothes as he looks so pretty in his petticoats and frilly panties. I love putting my hand up inside his pretty party frock to fondle his bits inside his knickers. It’s also handy for him as he’s trying to evade the police as well. So you can imagine that I was quite taken aback to see two I-Sisies trying to run away from the fighting wearing women’s clothes who had been captured by the lemon curds; more so because these two retards forgot to shave off their beards first. That’s right, jihadi warriors wearing fancy party frocks and thick, luscious beards. Running away. Not so all-conquering now are you, Sisis? But don’t worry ladies, I’m sure the Kurds will be offering you a sex-change operation before executing you. Maybe you’ll be part of some dead jihadi’s 72 virgins.

That’ll be nice for you.

Or maybe they really were women! Could this possibly be the reason they like to keep their womenfolk under dust sheets? Because they’ve all got thick beards? No wonder they have to arrange marriage to their uncles and cousins; nobody else would have them. And this is probably why everyone thinks there aren’t any women in the jungle; there are lots of them really, they’ve all got thick beards. Good time to buy shares in Gillette I think. Or fight back against the invasion.  

I Told You So

I don't like to say, "I told you so" but I told you so. And so the fightback against Brexit begins.

I knew the great and good wouldn’t allow us to leave, not without street fighting anyway. What did Sir David say, “We are not wise enough to make this sort of decision” Let’s leave the decisions to those who know best then; those taking backhanders from the EUSSR.

Bread and circuses, Sir Dave, that’s all we want and we deserve. And you’ve got a new series of animal programmes faked and filmed in zoos again; that’ll take our simple minds off Brexit. And Nadya’s staying with the beeb so another good reason not to buy a TV licence.


10 November 2016

All Over Bar The Shooting

Well, the funniest thing…. Donald has become El Presidente. What on earth went wrong, Billary? You must have thought you had it in the bag. Oh the look on the faces of the all the smug, sanctimonious left wing liberals taking it hard up the Aris once again. Priceless. A re-run of Brexit. Well this is how it feels to be taken with a large strap-on, snowflakes. This is how it feels when the little people don’t listen obediently to your astute words of wisdom and do as you say.

It’s at times like these I wish I’d succumbed to the begging letters and threats from the BBC and bought a TV licence, just to watch the talking heads and their know-all, know-nothing experts use their trousers as a lavatory on live TV, when things don’t go as they confidently predicted and realisation dawns on them that they’ve got it wrong.

But the good thing is all the clebs and luvvie Ack-Tors who’ll be leaving the US now The Don’s been voted Pres. I doubt they’ll want to go and work in Mexico so they’ll probably come and work in Blighty; even if they can’t earn the same amount of money. They will leave, won’t they? They’re not just saying they’ll leave America in the same way our own UK luvvies say they’ll take in a manchild gimmigrant into their own homes but then don’t follow through with their self-important posturing, are they?

Lefties are all for tolerance and compassion, except when they have to be tolerant and compassionate to those who disagree with them. They’ll be calling the voters stupid and racist next, that’s their usual tactic when they can’t get their own way.

And the snowflakes! Crying their eyes out yet again because they didn’t get what they wanted. Again! And mummy and daddy always gave them whatever they wanted in the past but all the nasty, stupid racist people didn’t do as they were told. Yes, this is a slap in the face for you. This is the adults taking back control children.

Get used to it.

10 December 2016

Christmas is coming, but hopefully not all over the floor like some of you reprobates. Always funny to watch a floorgasm, not so funny to have to clean it up. Maybe I should get Irish Michael to lick it up; he’ll enjoy that and it is Christmas after all. Peace and goodwill to all men. Yeah right. I got that.

This year there’ll be six of us over-indulging in enough food to survive the Siege of Mafeking and enough wine to bathe in. Although I suspect we’ll be drinking most of it, especially if slave Daffydd and our old friend Barry from up the road, turns up. Hopefully we’ll have Maid Doris over to do some serving and to clean up the mess afterwards.

Unfortunately, the budgie, Sprout, still hasn’t grown large enough to make a decent meal for six of us over two days, even though he’s stuffed full of Trill, so buying him has been a bit of a turkey. In fact it would have been better to have bought a turkey; that way I would still have had the delight of cleaning up endless bird droppings and feathers and had a delicious meal out of it as well.

I usually start by serving foie gras on hot buttered toast. Delicious. I tell any vegetarians who turn up its mushroom pate so everyone’s happy. They’ll never know the difference anyway, probably never enjoyed foie gras before. Then, the main course: capon, pork, ham hock, chestnut stuffing, pigs in blankets, potatoes roasted in duck fat and a delicious sprout roast for the vegans. Don’t worry; it’s not the budgie Sprout but vegetables. One should never serve a budgerigar to vegans or any meat products really. Yeah right. Well I hope that won’t happen; not again anyway.

Naturally none of this is sourced from a food bank in Woolwich.

And this year, I’m going to make it an all-inclusive, multi culti Christmas for all. I’ve already managed to buy an exclusive door mat with Arabic scribble on it from Allan Ackbar Ltd. This is in case any gimmigrants turn up looking for a free lunch because I know it’s important for them to wipe their dirty feet before sitting down in civilised company. It’s certainly important for me with my wooden floors and clean carpets.

Luckily I asked the Lord God Amazon, to send me one before they were withdrawn by howls of faux outrage from breast beating leftards. I’m a devotee of the Lord God Amazon, He is all-seeing. He sends me suggestions for things he thinks I need. And you don’t have to wait until you die to get what you deserve; not with a 24 hour free delivery anyway.

This brings me to Santa! Why haven’t the usual loud-mouthed harridans complained he’s too pale, stale and male? Or hideously white, like the BBC? They do go on about everything else that’s traditionally British so surely it’s time we had a black Santa? Zwarte Santa! With a black, straggly Shenandoah for a beard, just like a jihadi. So step forward, Mr Quilp, who’s the ideal size to play Santa. Naturally, I’ll have to super glue a fake beard on his chin but I’m sure he’ll be able to rip it off before he has to go back to work.

Then I’ll black him up with boot polish and send him off to deliver our presents down the chimney.  How Politically Correct am I? Eat your heart out Harriet Harm Them! I wonder what happened to her? Never hear of her nowadays; has she been committed to an asylum?

Of course, creeping around the backs of houses with a bag of swag is bound to raise the attention of the old Bill, if they’re awake, so if he’s arrested by the plod he can always tell them he’s a chimney sweep, hence the black face. If he ends up in Nick over Christmas, I hope they don’t put him on the nonce wing but they probably will when they see he’s wearing a ladies corset and tights under his Santa garb. It's Christmas boys, and here's a turkey that needs stuffing.

This just leaves the presents. You might know that I always like to give something that’s ethical and sustainable for Christmas, you know something fairtrade and vegan like a cardigan knitted out of string or some such nonsense the green simpletons favour. But that all appears to have fallen out of favour now everyone’s realised that Global Warming is just another scam by scientists to live in luxury on government funding and power companies to raise their prices. So this year I thought I'd buy one of those jackets made from coyote all the clebs are wearing. But hey, aren’t clebs supposed to be against all that stuff? Well I don’t suppose it applies to them, they only want us to obey their dictates; they can do as they please because – they’re clebs.

Probably best to mosey over to Muswell Hill and browse around that new shop they’re all talking about – “Really British”. What could be more appealing than opening something British on Christmas morning? I’ll probably have to barge past the Remainiacs protesting outside that the shop is horribly racist for selling anything that’s British but I always find shouting very loudly in their faces does the trick and these cry-babies just dissolve into floods of tears.

For a present for myself, I always enjoy DVDs of police brutality at left-wing demonstrations; it’s always so funny to watch some unshaven retard wearing a Che Guevara t-shirt mumbling “We Shall Not Be Moved” while the old Bill beat them around the head with a truncheon. Especially when they’ve stupidly chained themselves to some railings so they can’t defend themselves. I could watch it for hours, and often do. 

But this year, instead of treating my guests to three hours of gratuitous violence by the police, I thought I’d buy myself something different: A DVD of Brexit Night And Trump Triumph! Oh, watching all the saddened, downcast faces of the snowflake generation turn into grizzly, bitter, snarling vicious grimaces and howls of rage as they realise they’ve lost and can’t get their own way. And there’s not another vote next week. Always be graceful in defeat, children. That’s what gives us class and makes us British. Your parents should have taught you that.

And with luck that gobby Irish dipshite Geldof and Eddie Lizard might be releasing a DVD in time for Christmas! They really are the funniest men on television, certainly in their looks and dress sense.

For Christmas lunch, I’m going to dress my friend S’mamfa up in one of those kinky PVC mini-burkas, the sort that come up just below the panties; also from the Lord God Amazon. She’ll look fabulous with some black stockings and her plump bottom just begging to spanked; she’s a typical pampered princess in need of a slap.

And let’s not forget all those less fortunate souls who won’t be able to enjoy a happy Christmas because social services have incarcerated them in a care home. They’ll probably be drugged by the staff to keep them quiet while the staff enjoy themselves. And for entertainment, they can always take a few selfies of the inmates in humiliating positions and post them on social media for all their mates to laugh at.

I really don’t understand why the old dears don’t just stop paying their television tax and get sent to prison instead. They’ll be much better treated and well looked after inside. And they won’t even have to buy a TV licence as telly’s free in nick. And the food must be a lot better in prison than the halal spam fritters and slop they serve in care homes for lunch otherwise the do-gooders would be up in arms.


Six months on and still nothing’s happened. And now we’ve got judges involved, it’ll take years to come to a decision. It’s often thought that our judges are learned men, wise in the way of the law. I suspect they’ve really been brought out from the local lunatic asylum and dressed up in fancy robes with a wig plonked on its head. They probably pick anyone who can sit still without slobbering dribble down their chins or use their trousers for a lavatory. That’s why, when you see a line-up of these learned imbeciles, they all have soporific grins on their faces; it’s because they’ve been given a chemical cosh.

How else can you explain the bizarre rulings they make?

You want a plan? Here’s a plan: we stop paying and if you don’t like it, we invade; we invade your countries and burn your houses down. Chevauchée. Sounds good to me. We’ve done it plenty of times in the past and always succeeded. Call it Edward, The Black Prince plan.

Happy Christmas

Back To The Top




Old things here