Archive for August, 2013

With the news that the most successful novelist of last year was EL James for her book about nudey prod games and naughty ladies getting a spanking and loving every minute of it the light of publicity has been shone on the dawning age of New Feminism.

The success of Fifty Shades of Bollocks has led to a series of cheap rip offs/legacy books from the dirty mac brigade/empowering literature handing sexuality back into the hands of birds – er, chicks, er – ladies, er – self-empowered feminists who like a bit of rough and tumble.  With titles like Spank My Botty, Fatman, to He Flicked The V’s At My Fanny all the way through to He Ignored Me and Went Down the Pub the concept of women reclaiming a five minute scuttling from behind has been taken out of the hands of gentlemen who can’t leave their tackle alone for five minutes and into the hands of the strong, powerful ladies who read this sort of stuff on the tube and ignore me.

But what articles like Blokes Are Shit by arch feminist Sour McAngry and I Did It Lots And Liked It by Bouncy O’Chirpy fail to take into consideration is the psycho-sexual political angle these works of fiction encompass.  True, it is not just the average member of the Houses of Parliament who chooses to contextualise these works within the boundaries of his own member (see what I did there – that was clever, wasn’t it.  Took me bloody ages to think that one up. See, girlies, not only am I really right on and feminist, but I’ve also got a sense of humour, and according to the mags I don’t read like Cosmo and Bella that’s what ladies like!  Of course, politicians come in both sexes, so it could also be ‘her member’, which wouldn’t make any sense, but that’s not important.  The important thing is I’m funny and I have a beard and nice ladies should definitely go to bed with me as I’m so right on it makes my knackers ache, or would if I hadn’t had them removed last July to become even more right on!  Knackers are symbols of oppression, ladies!)

The key to the novel’s  appeal lies in it’s easily accessible language and the way it subverts the norms of modern sensuality, providing a mixture of passive-aggressive foreplay in the intertexuality of the main characters, as evidenced in this extract:

“Blimey, Christian, I’m feeling a bit rum tonight and fancy a quick go at a bit of ‘How’s your father’.  Fancy doing me a right old favour, me old chum, and giving me a bit of a spanking.  I’d be right pleased and no mistakin’,” said Ana in a sort of way which said she was feeling a bit horny and wouldn’t mind a bit of a roll in the hay with the swarthy rich fucker, but only if he gave her a spanking.

“Bloody hell, Ana, you mad young mad thing who’s also quite intelligent and is thus no insult to women anywhere at all whatsoever, even though you’re subverting the strength of your personality to be my plaything.  Match of the Day’s just started and I’ve opened a can of fackin’ lager, wot wot,” said Christian, who was dead fucking posh and drank his lager with his little finger crooked just to show how fucking posh he was, which was dead posh.

Or how about this touchingly knowing nod to a reversion of the feminist archetype as evidenced in the fetishisation of the tropes more at home with the male gaze than with the feminine stereotype of the willing female:

“Fuck me, that’s a large one,” erupted Ana in a gushing spout of steamy hot sticky words that metaphorically splashed all over her norks.

“Too bloody right, love,” ejaculated Christian as he stroked the rigid contours of his manly wonder.  “It’s a The Enzo Ferrari, a 12 cylinder mid-engine berlinetta named after the company’s founder, Enzo Ferrari.  It was built in 2002 using Formula One technology, such as a carbon-fibre body, F1-style electrohydraulic shift transmission, and Carbon fibre-reinforced Silicon Carbide (C/SiC) ceramic composite disc brakes. Also used are technologies not allowed in F1 such as active aerodynamics and traction control. After a downforce of 7600N(1700lb) is reached at 300 km/h (186 mph) the rear wing is actuated by computer to maintain that downforce.  The Enzo’s V12 engine is the first of a new generation for Ferrari. It is based on the architecture of the V8 found in sister-company Maserati’s Quattroporte, using the same basic architecture and 104 mm (4.1 in) bore spacing. This design will replace the former architectures seen in V12 and V8 engines used in most other contemporary Ferraris. The 2005 F430 is the second Ferrari to get a version of this new powerplant.  Now let’s have a look at your knockers, love.”

It’s this tendency to deconstruct the interplay between the two main characters that gives the novel it’s rigid charm, thrusting proudly into the mainstream literary circles and giving the modern patriarchal novel by people such as Amis and Mailer a right good bloody seeing too. Suddenly the man is no longer the dominant aspect of the story, even though technically he is, and even though Ana gets a good old spanking in it, is it her or the male protagonist, Christian, who comes away with the sore bottom?  Critics of my work claim it’s the woman, and I’m talking a bit pile of shit, and refer to this oft quote extract to externalise their criticism –

Ana knew at this point that it was definitely her who had the sore botty, and not Christian, and any tosser who said otherwise was probably a big nerdy virgin bloke with a twatty little goatee beard who didn’t have a girlfriend and spent all his time reading chick lit in the vague hopes that some girly who was really rude and didn’t mind doing it with a massive bellend of a bloke would give him a go at her grumblies.

– but these critics all smell of wee.

In conclusion, ladies should touch my willy.

Karl Marx the Water Vole

Posted: August 9, 2013 in Uncategorized

Karl Marx the Water Vole

As one of the more moderate forces in the coalition on the Conservative wing I’m often called upon by the Prime Minister to give my views on what the local rags are calling ‘the immigrant problem.’ There seems to be a prevailing attitude at the moment that far too many of those overseas chappies are coming over here for a myriad number of reasons to take advantage of our liberal welfare and National Health systems. So when the mainstream paper The Daily Frothing Swivel Eyed Cunt (otherwise known as The Mail) started printing the not-at-all made-up statistics about how immigrants were at this very moment riding around in expensive cars and gesticulating in a disorderly manner at the very houses of government t whilst bathing in large vats of virgins blood it was felt research was necessitated to substantiate these claims.

It is with this in mind I sent one of my toadying lackeys out into the world to try and gather the mood on the street. I think you’ll agree the results were rather shocking. Shocking, as in ‘totally predictable.’

Derek Ballbag – Tory and Market Trader
Wot dese fakkin foreign caaaaaaaaaaaaaants dun unnerstan’ iz dey cwant even twalk fakkin’ Ernglorsh, the caaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaants’

Shittington Forkworthy Trouserpants
I feel, as an executive director of BastardCorp and therefore fully responsible for the deportation of these people, I find it disgusting that people from overseas who are visiting these shores illegally should be referred to as ‘immigrants’. The correct term is, of course, ‘cash cows.’

Med Illiband – Labour
As a member of the 6th form debating society I think it’s right and true that we should start tugging our forelocks and do whatever the voter says we should on the off-chance that we might be able to get our scabby little claws into power. Let’s face it, if the fuckers wanted to bring back hanging we’d get down on bended knee ready to have a good old nosh on their collective bellends in the vague hope that they’d stick a tick in the box next to our fucking names. We’re about as hopeless as a big streak of piss in a toilet factory, and I don’t even know what that means but our statistics show the voters would vote for someone in a voty type way if they just said that thing about the piss. Is Nanny back yet?

Cavid Dameron – Massive Cunt
As a feckless dough faced shitbag of mild and thoughtless terror I feel it is my duty to bimble about like a clueless Oxbridge fuckwit, bouncing from one policy to another without a fucking clue where I’m going, just reacting the way an eyeball does to light – purely by instinct. What I tend to do is read something in the news, and then listen to my special advisor Ozzie Racist, and then pretend I’m coming up with an idea of my own when he tells me to kick the foreigners out. I really am as clueless and hopeless a piece of shit as that Illiband twat, and quite frankly anyone who voted for me was a massive gibbering bellend and please would they do it again, as we need more bellends voting for us. In fact, my new raft of policies is aimed at the bellend market. Actually, I don’t really care what you do. I’m in power – nominally, anyway – and like that Nice Mr. Blair I’ve secured my position in the free market where I’ve helped all my friends scupper labour laws and equality and fairness and things like that and basically helped to make a lot of rich people richer. Some people are under the impression I have no idea what people on the lower spectrum have to deal with in life, when the actual reality of it is I just don’t fucking care. As far as I’m concerned if they all fucked off and died immediately it wouldn’t even vaguely affect anything I do, say, or pass as policy. Unless it turned out to be a vote loser. Sorry, what was the question? Foreigners? Well, I’ll do or say whatever is necessary if there’s a vote in it.

Dick Smeg – Liberal Nazis.
What he said above, but with a nicer smile and a more unconvincing attempt at being angry about something.

Figel Nuttage – Monster Raving UKIP Party
Fuck me, I’m a twat. Er, kick ‘em out, but if you wish to know a reason for my opinions I’m sure I can make something up about a billion Ukrainians coming into the country to do something horrid – haven’t really thought this one through. Sorry. I’m just in it for the fast cars and the chicks. The problem is I have an unfeasibly small knob and having the UK Press slavering at my every word is the only thing that gives me a stuffy. Even the fucking Guardian have been doing pieces on me, despite the fact that I’m obviously a gibbering, witless cockwrench with no concerted policies outside of my own bigoted and small minded spectrum. People are bloody stupid.

English Massive Fucking Cunting Defence Cunts Arseholes Shitbags League Tosspots
We are wankers. The end.

The Lovely Party
I feel there is too much swearing in this alleged satirical swipe at the endemic racism in the press and the political system at the moment. On the other hand, aren’t the ruling classes a bagful of shite buckets?

The Average Man on the Street
I do not bother to affect an opinion on anything as I find this diverts attention from the big flickering screen of fun. Now and then that flappy thing with the pictures of boobs in it shoves words in my face which lead me to get angry about things, but I have no real idea what I am angry about. I am Man On Street Bot 4000 – how can I be of sound-bite service.

After sifting through the comments above which my researchers have gathered I can only come up with one conclusion to the question ‘Johnny Foreigner, Rum Cove or Good Egg’ and that is, ‘what time does the bar open?’