Archive for March, 2017

fantasyworld

This is either life before Brexit according to Remainers or life after Brexit according to Brexiteers

 

 Quick!  How do you spot a racist!?  They’re the ones who voted Brexit!!  HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!!!!!

Which is obviously a load of old bollocks, but it does seem to be the prevailing attitude amongst the Remainers, no doubt helped by the fact that the whole campaign was driven by rhetoric straight of the Right Wing Campaigning Rule Book For Brown Shirted Cunts, and because the bastards who were leading the Brexit charge seemed to be a rabble of jingoistic, flag waving cock monkeys ever so willing to play the race-hate card if it would garner them a push in the right direction.

However, I’ve been having a bit of trouble with the whole concept of every Brexiteer being a swivel eyed loon, content to live in their own filth whilst flinging turds at anyone who looks slightly foreign.  They’re not all wall-eyed buckets of clown-faced piss.  Some of them voted to get out of the EU because of deeply held political beliefs about institutional corruption within Brussels, and some of them voted to leave because the space alien that lives in their winnets told them of untold riches which would await them once the borders were closed, but enough about Ian Duncan-Smith.

The worst part about being one of these poor bastards is they have to forever live with the reality that they aligned themselves with the likes of Michael Gove, George Galloway, and the massed ranks of the gaggling racists who seemed to pop up in every pub conversation about keeping Them Foreigns out every time someone mentions the referendum.  On the other hand, The Ramainers had to contend with siding with cunts like David Cameron, George Osborne, and the pixies that live in their bellend shading the world as black and white because someone had an opposing viewpoint to theirs.  The fact that the voting public was split almost 50/50 on the issue says a lot.

To tar everyone with the same feather is as redundant a concept as the flat earth, which goes for people on both sides of the argument.  What the Brexit vote did was bring the bubbling undercurrent of racism in the UK to the surface, and any fucker who believes it was some sort of benign utopia before the referendum is living in a world of gumdrop smiles and puppydog dreams. Brexit has brought those views to the surface and made it easier to spot the fuckers.  At the same time, there has to be an understanding that not everyone who voted Brexit is a racist or unconsciously propped up the cause of racism, as this brings further divides into the equation and denies them their individuality.

People are complex.  And fucking mad, but that’s another story.  The Brexit friends I have don’t harbour racist views, and some of them actively fight against racism – they just don’t agree with the European Union.  They’re fucking wrong, mind you, but you can’t have everything.  Fact is the EU has been a force of progress as well as being stupidly corrupt and dictatorial – just take a look at their reaction to the financial crises in Greece and the terms imposed upon the poor bastards for evidence – and when progressives like Dennis Skinner are voicing opposition to the Union you have to ask yourself ‘are the arguments as clear as Remainers promote?’.

For me, a European Union brings stronger ties with countries we were lobbing shells at under a century ago.  It’s brought peace, healthy trade, an influx of culture and diversity and human rights.  Although I don’t agree with those who voted Brexit, I can understand their reasons, and can consider both sides of the argument, as should both sides at all times.  And then, once peace has been bridged between the opposing ideologies, we can all gang up together and kick the fucking shit out of Nigel Farage.  What a cunt.

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Stop it!

Posted: March 30, 2017 in The CC, Uncategorized

Hola!  Day one of Brexit Bullshit and the flags are already waving high and mighty from the withered masts which barely keep the priapism of the right-wing press on a semi-lob on.

The Scum just…  I don’t know, really.  What ARE they doing?  Are they trying to hold the UK hostage?  Are they intimating that the UK has now gone rogue, started wearing a mask over it’s face, and is holding up the EU carriages at the crossroads for trinkets?  Which will probably happen because once the UK opts out of the EU we’ll be fucked for trade deals, allowing the EU to laugh in our stupid faces.  ‘Trade with us and we’ll help fight terror’.  So, it’s bribery now!  Stupid cunts.

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The Torygraph are waving the same old wrinkled dicks in the face of common sense, with the statement that there is ‘jubilation as Article 50 is finally served’.  Which is blatant bullshit.  The only jubilation knocking about was in the minds of the diseased monkeys who voted Brexit, bless their confused, blundering souls.  Luckily for the twinset and grouse shooting brigade who read the Torygraph, Boris Johnson is on hand in a side column, ready to assuage their fears and splutter some meaningless drivel about backing Britain and going global and farting gold and taming unicorns made of bollocks and wank.  You know what he’s like, the clueless, dribbling smegma.

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The Arsepress, weirdly enough, are not the most blitheringly patriotic pile of old granny helmets today, content with merely printing a picture of an utter cunt on their front page as he holds a pint and some toilet paper.  According to their diseased minds the whole Brexit thing was their idea, and anyone whom disagrees smells of wee.  They are unstable.

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The Mule has gone Full Cunt Biscuit today with a big splash of Knobend Number One on their front page, toasting anyone unfortunate enough to view his mangled visage and grinning like he’s just sat on the biggest cock known to man.  There follows some utter fucking utter bollocks old shit about ‘Cheers to a Great British Suicide’ and some cunt about the EU wailing about trade deals and all that wank, which is utter, utter, utter lies.  The Daily Mail, and anyone who reads it, are diseased, gibbering buckets of amphibious shit.  On the plus side, it makes it easier to spot an utter cunt in a crowd if they’re carrying this pile of old Der Sturmer bollocks.

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It’s finally happened.  The right wing have applied the blindfold, smoked it’s last Gitane, and stood before the firing squad before the Big Cock of Death descends from the heavens to expectorate great buckets of ignorance all over their stoic, uncomprehending faces.

Yes, huge-mistake-fans, Article 50 has finally got the crayon scrawl on it and Theresa May has sat back and waited for someone to feed her a biscuit and give her a pat on the head, mainly the cretinous fuckers who pushed the Brexit agenda in the first place.  The old lags have scurried off into the sewers (I’m looking at YOU, Cameron and Osborne, you malodorous, spineless cheesy helmets) and left the gateway open for the grinning frog face of Farage and his merry band of bimbling automatons to bump into walls whilst stentoriously claiming that Britain will be heading into a brighter future as they trouser a wadge of zlotys and fuck off to the nearest tax haven.

There’ll be plenty of flag waving cock robins out there celebrating this Dance of the Stupid, and none more than our toadying gutter press, proudly lolling about on a sea of their own turds, a smug grin on their chocolate smeared faces, loudly farting into the faces of the proles as they spoon feed them right wing ideology and suck on the balls of their Chipping Norton masters.

And what’s that, Skippy?  Who’s first up on the Bellend Bandwagon.  Why, it’s only those old stalwarts of blatant racism and bootlickery, The Arsepress, living under the delusional belief that a quivering PM signing Article 50 with the fixed grin of someone who realises the full enormity of the shitpile she’s about to shove the country headfirst into is a two-fingered salute to Brussels.  No one mention tariffs or trade freezes!

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In other news, The Scum are fucking twats.  They choose to illustrate this fact by mocking up the white cliffs of Dover with a message which illustrates the sort of close minded arse trumpet which would decide that, all things considered, democracy was over-rated.  “But, farty,” I hear the doe-eyed snowflakes who voted Brexit saying, “the Brexit vote WAS democracy, so suck on that one!”  To which I reply, “Fuck off, you gibbering, sad eyed, close minded, wittering, ignorant, testicle-faced apologists for goose stepping exclusionists.” (hah!  Satire!).  Although they have a point.  The democracy they cherish is one free to print lies and mistruths and porky pies of such unutterable wankness, that their very existence is an affront to humanity.  These cunts would rather ignore the HUGE FUCKING WAVE of racism which precipitated the referendum, and swept the fucking country in the aftermath, than admit they may have been collaborating with the dark side by ticking the Brexit box.  Put your head back in the sand, dick wickets, and lock yourself in the Closet of Denial.

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On a lighter note, The Mule promote Freedom In Slavery with the same old cock about bollocks and shite, helped along by a good old bucket of anti-PC piss in their smoke-and-mirrors act regarding their masturbatory fantasy over Sturgeon and May’s legs.

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And that’s the headlines, swear fans!  Obviously, we’re entering a brave new world, but Brave New World in the Huxley sense rather than the progressive sense.  Still, if it’s what a third of the people want (which is not a majority of the population of the UK, but it is a majority of those who could be arsed to vote) then we’ll just have to set our jaws, knuckle down, and try and do our best to help the new fascist – excuse me – Brexit regime stomp all over the proles, which is what’s been going on anyway, but in the future we won’t have any EU laws concerning equality, rights and legislation to get in the way of all those wonderful conglomerates waiting to shaft us right up the brown eye.

I could go on about a whole raft of rights which we’ll see kicked in the bollocks to the curb, but enough with being negative.  Hey, Remainers, turn that frown upside down and OH MY GOD, WE’VE COMPLETELY FUCKED BY A BUNCH OF GIBBERING RACIST CUNTS AND THEIR APOLOGIST NON-RACIST FUCK NUGGET EU HATING SOGGY BISCUIT GAME PLAYING CHUMS!!  AAAAGH!!!

 

 

Howard Beale

Your Spokesman For Today

A few weeks ago I decided to give up the endless day-to-day mind-scraping hell of producing a daily look at the right wing papes and pointing out what a bunch of scrofulous, gibbering goose stepping bags of old cak they really were, mainly due to the endless repetition of the headlines, and also due to having to get up at 5 every morning to make sure I got my deathless prose out there into The Interweb before I had to go to work.

 

Now I find the same thing is starting to niggle me about that clueless despotic Father of Lies known as Trump.  Every time his purulent, angry, face hoves into view on a news report and his tiny hands form that ‘O’ of witless point-making on the dais and the endless, endless bullshit flows like a tide of madness and those gimlet eyes of cloth-headed hatred stare like a backwards farmyard cow at the world, I feel my eternal soul (in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti) screaming at the walls of its own cage.


Actually, that’s a lie.  I believe in the eternal soul about as much as I believe in Trump’s ability not to be an utter cunt, but the effect is still the same.  I have the same reaction when Nigel Farage’s spluttering frog face bobbles about like one of those nodding dogs in cars as he harrumphs and farts his way through more pro-Brexit shite.  It’s as though society has taken to sloughing off good sense or ethics and decided to go swimming in the Styx, up to its neck in angry bile and muppet politicians who lie, lie, and lie again as long as their box gets ticked and their arses get pampered.  And all the while those without a tub-thumping agenda are pushed to the sides whilst these comedy parodies bimble about like wind-up toys on stage and capture the media and belt out endless swathes of incomprehensibility, and we have to sit there and take this shit as morons like Ian Duncan-Smith tell us with a straight face that the poor and the disabled are responsible for their own misfortunes, and May shrieks in discordant, hawking gobbets of congealed piss that Brexit will be easy and there’ll be nothing to worry about and EVERYTHING WILL BE ALRIGHT because those with the smallest minds have been allowed to dictate our future.  And we cower and protest and say “Why me? Why me?  Why me?” because that’s all we can do as the world marches with open eyes and open arms into this totalitarian Apocalypse of the Dumb as they determine our rules and our regulations and set out with a specific agenda to tear down the walls of regulation and sense and crush us into hiding in our holes because to argue is to stare into the face of dim-witted, uncomprehending hate and apathy.

Trump is in the hands of his business partners, as is Farage and the rest of the con-artists who have fooled the voting public into tearing down the walls which restrict their profit margins.  They can holler and wail and say “It’s nothing to do with us, we just want our country back, we just want big business off our backs” but they have voted, with Trump and Brexit, for a future FILLED with the glory of crass, open globalisation on an almighty scale.  Trump will out for profit, and nothing more.  The forces behind Brexit wish to dismantle European regulations, again for profit, and nothing more.  Our future is with Enormo-corp, and the man behind the curtain pulling the strings of those who voted ‘for change’.

Today’s broadcast has been brought to you by Howard Beale and Globo-com.

Produce Your Own Damn Movie

Produce Your Own Damn Movie – Lloyd Kaufman– DIRECT FROM TROMAVILLE!

Will this book help you, in any practical way, to make a film?  No.  Well, a bit.  There’s some advice in there about getting the correct location forms filled in and a bunch of information about downloading free film making software.  That part is helpful.  The rest of Lloyd banging on about the idiots in Hollywood and how the vertical system of corporate ownership has shafted the low budget sector right up the marmite.  Will this book encourage you to go out and make your own damn film?  Definitely.

This is the third of Lloyd’s books I’ve read (the others being Make Your Own Damn Movie and Everything I Ever Learned About Filmmaking I Learned From the Toxic Avenger) and they never fail to make me wonder why the bally-hell I haven’t grabbed a cheapo DV cam and kicked open the doors to the no-budget sector.  No money?  Fuck it, use my initiative!  Lloyd’s managed to do it, so why the hell shouldn’t I?  Okay, maybe without the gallons of blood and slime – that shit costs money – but dammit, it’s not impossible!

That’s where Lloyd scores maximum points.  The enthusiasm bleeds off the page, much like his actors bleed copious amounts of goo in his films.  This is not a book for the faint hearted egotistical auteur-theory-shades-wearing-gitane-smoking crowd, no matter how cool and Fellini that may be.  This is for those who need the necessary kick up the arse.  Lloyd is like a hectoring old man, yanking you about by the lariat at yelling at you to grab a camera, stop making excuses and get out there with the fire of creativity burning a hole through your brain pan and make your own damn movie, budget and circumstances be damned!

One from the aspiring film-makers who need that extra push over the precipice to get them started.  There’s some advice from old lags in the industry, like Larry Cohen and Roger Corman, but the book is mainly about that spirit which makes people create.  Lloyd readily admits a sensible man would have given up a long time ago, but it’s that creative monster living inside his heart that keeps kicking him up the rear loader to get out there and make some damn films!  As an instructional manual it’s pretty useless, but that doesn’t seem to be the intent.  It’s to spark creativity, to encourage, and to get the independent voices working.

 He’s demented, but so very, very right.

Gorky Park

Gorky Park by Martin Cruz Smith – Probably available in Russia.

Remember the good old days of the 80s when nuclear annihilation was always on the agenda.  Yeah, we had terrorists, but the Big Threat was the idea that any moment Brezhnev or Reagan would have a fit of pique over the size of their genitals and have to prove that their weight, girth and helmet circumference outsized the other by launching a jet load of red hot fury onto the other side.  Despite Reagan being a senile, doddering fool and Brezhnev a hardline intransigent the buttons were never pressed, but the menace was there.

Since Trump and Putin are snuggling warmly up to each other in their love pad the peril of total worldwide destruction is not a possibility – at least by them – so let us take a merry dance down memory lane as we remember the good old when the earth would die screaming and Martin Cruz Smith’s ‘Gorky Park’ ruled the book shelves.

The plot is standard thriller.  Three bodies turn up in  Gorky Park with their faces missing, and it’s up to troubled investigator Arkady Renko to sort out who did it, which he does in the first third of the book, and then has to convince everyone else of the matter.  The rest of the novel meanders through the various ins and out of Russian diplomacy and institutional corruption.

Cruz writes in a flat, no nonsense way, which means even when the characters profess some degree of emotion nothing really jumps from the page.  This suits the straightforward, procedural atmosphere of the book.  The only problem is, when people get into fights, get shot, fall in and out of love, fight with City Hall (the Russian version, anyway) it comes across as aloof, which doesn’t really work in the middle of a dust up.

It’s a no nonsense crime thriller told in a no nonsense way, like a James Ellroy but with borscht.  An interesting look back to the days when The Bear was the big enemy and the closed world of the USSR was somehow exotic in a repressed, dictatorial manner.  Now, of course, we’ve got dictators on both sides of the Atlantic, so everything’s fair and square.

The Bloody Chamber 

The Bloody Chamber by Angela Carter – Soft, absorbing, and very, very strong

This book is basically about sex.  Sex in the woods, sex in mansions, sex with wolves and cats and vampires.  But sex.

Carter has taken a few old standards from Grimm folklore and tied them into a retrogressive knot which stakes the stories out as they should be seen, rather than the emasculated versions propagated by Disney today.  For anyone who’s taken a gander at the original Grimm texts, or any of the old folklores, they were tales filled with terror, blood, flesh, sex and sudden death.  One glance at any story in Russian Fairy Tales by Alexander Afanasyev will clue you in to the old ways WHERE EVERYBODY DIES.  “Old Helgar was a mean and cantankerous woman.  She went for a walk in the woods.  And then the bears ate her.”

Not as straightforward in the fatality department as some of the Grimmer European tales, The Bloody Chamber deals out a fair share of menstruation, sex, mud, shit, and talking cats.  The literature curls and meanders around the core of the meaning and weaves its own spell so you become sucked into the story as it unfolds.  Carter is all about the telling of the tale, the atmosphere wrought from the lines, shadows and cobwebs and passions.  She sucks you into a wonderland which you knew existed when you were a child, and then dollops on great helpings of shit and mud.  These tales are grimy, dreamy worlds of shadow and light, full of slights and innuendos and full on rumpy if the story dictates. By Cthulhu, there’s a lot of sex.  Just about everything but the kitchen sink gets a good seeing too.

The majority of the stories are woven fields of ancient lore bubbling with threat and humour, but bawd is thrown in there as well, with an updating of Puss-In-Boots, which is hilarious and involves the tale of Puss and his Master and their efforts to get in the knickers (for want of love, of course) of a local woman married to a miser.  There is comedy.  There is knobbing.  There is farce.  There is more knobbing.  And then death.  But it’s a happy ending.

Considering how brutal some of the original tales are, Carter is a sentimental old sod, and happy endings aren’t for wanting, even if something has to be sacrificed to reach the golden chalice.  However, it is not the tale but the telling of the tale that matters, and Carter has the knack of sucking you into her world without the sparkle dust and puppy dogs which eviscerate most of folklore for the Disney generations.  Best read in a gothic mansion, lit by candles, as a tempest batters the shuttered windows outside.