Archive for August, 2017

All the papes this morning are genuflecting over Diana due to it being 20 years since her death, or Theresa May with the shock announcement that she’ll try and drag her travesty of a parliament out for the next election. The usual guff and nonsense. When Channel Four News did a piece on the North Korean problem they had a clip of May twittering on about the situation, and it all looked rather sad and pathetic.

Anyway, all this aside, The Times are STILL trying to beat the shit out of this story they created concerning the Muslim family adopting the Christian child. This time they’re going full The Sun by claiming there are plans to have the girl moved out of the country, thus giving the impression it’s the Muslim family who are doing this, when it’s actually the girl’s grandparents (which they mention, but not in the scare-headline). They also drag up ‘a Tower Hamlets employee’ to rattle on about the girl being in a burka and ‘looking scared’, which could be the usual made-up quote from one of their own journos under the mask of ‘an un-named source says’.

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Another thing they fail to mention is the Muslim family were what is known as a temporary adoption family – someone who would look after the child whilst a longer-term adoption family was being sorted. All this kerfuffle just so some arsehole at The Times can try and whip up a bit of anti-Muslim sentiment. They started with the lies, have now been caught out, and have decided to hammer more lies into the ground to try and save face. Twats.

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A couple of days ago The Times broke the story a Christian orphan who’d been fostered with Muslims who, according to them, didn’t speak English. This does bring up the question about where the reporter got their details, and how stupid they think Tower Hamlets adoption agency is to not even do the most basic background check.

Anyway, the next day The Mail, feeling aggrieved that they’d been gazumped in one of their traditional racist headlines, decided to splash it all over their front pages, as The Times occupied themselves with imminent nuclear holocaust. Which has now led to The Times getting back on their right-wing bandwagon (I hear it’s a very moor-ish ideology these days) and hammering their racist bullshit one more time into the front page.

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Tower Hamlets have said this is actually a big pile of crap, but somehow that doesn’t appear to have made the headlines, especially now that a judge has become involved, and a child and people kind enough to adopt have been run through the right-wing press mangle. As to the facts of the matter, I don’t have the details, but if experience tells us anything, the Mail and the Times are full of crap, and have been known to distort, lie, and bullshit their way through an article just to get their spinny-eyed, frothing anti-Muslim agendas through the mill.

The Mirror went a bit bonkers as well, touting a headline you’d usually find in the Express.

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I’m not sure how much you should take the words of Paul Burrell as gospel, considering past experiences, but I definitely know that a paper like The Mirror, which at least tries to hold up a barrier against the kind of festering bollocks the likes of the Mail and the Express run, should not be leading with this. I can only imagine they’re serialising his book, because otherwise they’ve gone completely off the rails.

 

More fury and anger over the idea of a Christian kid being forced to live with Muslims, but this time from The Mail. Usually, in the news, The Daily Mail will come up with a load of old toss, and then The Telegraph will steal the story and rewrite it for their own shit ticket the next day. But, in an unprecedented turn of events, The Mule have decided to nick the front cover of The Times from yesterday. From now on, we shall only see right-wing papers cannibalising each other until there’s only one headline in the Tory press, which will either be about immigrants or some dodgy new medical advice being hawked by The Express about how cheese will make your balls explode.

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Luckily, The Star are back on hand to remind us there is weather out there. Nice one, The Star! And, if that’s not enough, there’s a new series of Strictly Come Dancing on the horizon so we can all sit in our grief holes and forget about the impending Armageddon, now that North Korea have launched a nuke over the shores of Japan. WATCH THE SHINY PEOPLE, SLAVE PAUPS, AND DO NOT QUESTION AUTHORITY!!

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Seriously, though, fuck these bunch of galumphing cock wombles. Both the Mirror and the Express had bullshit pharma stories, whilst The Telegraph decided to splash out on a big strictly photo to distract from their anti-EU bollocks, and The Times printed a piccie of a bucolic sunrise in an attempt to divert attention from their bullshit headlines. Murdoch and the Barcleys – gentlemen, it is time to start flushing your heads down the toilet. It can only improve your tired, old rags.

A bumper day for bigotry and Brexit bollocks today as The Express and The Times go suitably Bonkers McCrazypants. With The Express, as always, it’s Brexit. Those ruddy turncoats at Labour, instead of tugging their lower-class forelocks and shuffling their feet in a respectful manner to their right-wing overlords, have had the temerity to option the idea of a sensible and structured approach to Brexit, rather than the ‘let’s run into the fire and see what happens’ tactics the Conservatives have been talking about.

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The idea is that the UK carry on following rules and strictures put into place by the EU even after we get booted out. We’re going to have to do it anyway, so Labour have come up with this INSANE idea of negotiating for better trade deals by agreeing not to be cloth-eared bastards about the whole subject. This, as expected, has boiled the piss of The Express, because Richard Desmond is a knob.

Funnily enough this is the same headline – more or less – as The Guardian, except their’s a bit more non-judgemental, which is interesting considering how much they’re attacked Corbo over the past few years.

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The Times have gone full tabloid with the news that a Christian child has been forced into foster care with a Muslim family, because obviously, according to Times editor John Witherow, this is worse than a million Hitlers. They report the child ‘has been encouraged to learn Arabic’. The Times, being a Murdoch paper, don’t want any of that multi-cultural stuff getting into the heads of the young! It might teach them to respect other people from different backgrounds! And then they’d stop believing the right-wing bollocks these papers print!

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As Mrs Sortitaht said yesterday, when did the idea that ‘multi’ become a bad thing. We have multi-talented and multi-purpose, but when it comes to multi-cultural people tend to haul up the drawbridge and hide behind their 1950s nostalgia.

But everything’s going to be okay, as The Star have the revelatory news that it’s going to be hot when the sun is out!

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Knowing their reporting credibility, this means it will probably rain.

Just a quick entry today concerning how the majority of the right wing press work in the UK. First, we have this headline from The Mail:

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Notice how it unsubtly tries to make what is essentially a robot in a dress who touts for big business come across as more human by creating the fallacy that she’s shaking an angry fist at fat cats rather than sucking up to them and asking how many tax deductions they’d like with their tea?  The whole shower of shite is the usual Tory cynical move to come across like they don’t eat orphaned kittens in their spare time, and the tower of cards will crumble like a big wall of bollocks the moment she’s caught taking a large donation of used zlotys from whatever shady big business bastard she’s trying to curry favour with when the UK get hoofed out of the EU.

We get a lot of this in the UK, mainly from The Express, the Sun, The Telegraph and the Times.

The other main strand of news in the UK papers is stuff like this:

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This is the front page of a national newspaper. It’s about a TV series. There is not enough news in the entire world, so the Star, in their infinite wisdom, have been plugging this old bollocks. Richard Desmond doesn’t even own Channel bastard Five anymore and he’s still trying to pimp out his old programmes!

Oh well, on with the end of civilisation…

What with Trump pardoning a racist sheriff and now this from The Daily Mail, I sometimes wonder what the ruddy blime is happening with reality. Where people are okay to openly propose their anti-immigrant views in the most hostile ways imaginable down the local, we seem – as a culture – to be belly-flopping into a new fascism.

What makes this headline particularly shite is the use of quote marks around the word ‘prioritise’. That gives the whiff of ‘is it fact or not’, but since The Daily Mail are the genuine successors to Der Sturmer (think I’m being over the top? Then check out the copies of Der Sturmer in the Imperial War Museum. Some of the headline are exact copies of the anti-immigrant bullshit the Mail produce) I’d expect nothing less of the bastards.

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On the other hand – the sun’s come out! Fucking hell, nice one The Express! If it wasn’t for that headline I’d have stayed indoors all bastard weekend because looking out of the window isn’t a fucking option unless The Daily Cockwomble tells me too!

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Tomorrow’s news, ‘Clouds in sky’. Mind you, since those clouds floated in from foreign slimes, I expect The Mail and the Express to go crazy ape-shit bonkers over the news and demand that all clouds be subject to economic vetting.

 

Brexit County Logo

The Siege of Charity Hall, as it become known in the village due to not very much going on, lasted a total of two minutes. By the time Jackson Lancaster and Joseph Lenin had rustled up enough coffin dodgers from the local pub into a shambolic mess to march on Beard and his Brexit-voting team, the hall had emptied out. All that remained was a sorry-looking plate of hobnobs and some half empty cups of lukewarm tea.

“Our first victory!” shouted Lenin, raising a triumphant fist. “Afeared as they are of the unstoppable forces of revolutionary fervour, the massed ranks of the stinking bourgeoisie have fled to their dungeons to plot the next scurrilous phase of their plan!”

“Nay, lad,” said Jackson, calmly urging his arm down. “If I know that fat bastid ‘ee’s buggered off t’pub where we came from.” Jackson spun on his heels and yelled to the crowd behind him, “OFF TO THE JUICER!”

With a lot of griping and grumbling the geriatric crowd shuffled around, and with a heroic amount of wheezing and choking, hauled themselves back to the warm pub they had recently vacated.

#

Cressida Lump was already engineering her own fightback against the forces of disunity.

“You lying bastard!” she yelled into the face of Wardon Grimly as she tried to force a sink plunger down his throat. “What on the face of God’s green earth gives you the right to print this SLANDER about me!” She smacked Wardon over his balding head with a copy of the Charity Gazette for emphasis.

“Freedom of speech!” gargled Wardon as he kept a firm grip on the handle of the plunger to stop it sucking his guts out. Cressida was short but she had arms like small tenements, and Wardon could well believe she had the strength to plunge his stomach lining out of his throat.

“Freedom of speech, my arse!” yelled Cressida. “For a start, I’m 43 – NOT 44 – like you LIED in your article! And I do not. Fucking. Swear!” She gave the plunger an extra hard yank before Wardon finally managed to break free and scuttle backwards away from her, finally coming up against a wall and picking up his only means a defence, a moulded inkwell and pen his old boss at The Mail gave him on the day of his retirement. He brandished it at Cressida limply.

“The bulk of the article was true,” he managed, trying to regain some dignity.

“Was it, balls!” yelled Cressida. “You asked me what I thought of Mayor Beard and I offered no comment! Yes, there may have been a few choice words passed between us, but that’s all. Not this… this…” Words failed her as she shook the Gazette at him, and then tore it in two.

Wardon watched the two halves drop to the floor and felt glad it wasn’t his neck.

Cressida brandished a finger at him. “Any more bullshit from you, Grimly, and this foot goes straight up your arse!” For emphasis, she jabbed a finger at her foot, and then spun imperiously around and stormed out with as much dignity as her fuming, middle aged anger would allow her. The front door slammed shut with an ear-splitting crash.

Grimly observed the torn apart newspaper he sweated over day and night (although mostly between the hours of 9 and 12 until the pub opened) and vowed to himself that a) if Cressida wanted a war of words then she would get one, and b) to get a stronger lock on his front door.

#

Lancaster and Lenin finally found their quarry propping up the bar at the Hound and Squire.

“You BASTARD!” yelled Lenin for want of a better introduction, jabbing a quivering finger at Mayor Beard as he hob-nobbed with the other members of the council. “It’s because of the likes of you we live in a land of austerity!”

“Oh, give over,” muttered Councillor Hartley-Smith as he appreciated a nice brandy in the gloom of the overhead lights. “If you want to know about austerity try pricing the cost of pheasant beaters.”

“You’re not adverse to a pretty penny yourself, young man,” twittered Marjory from beside him in what she hoped was a chiding but coquettish manner. She liked them young, and her sex dungeon hadn’t seen the light of day in donkey’s years.

“Listen to reason,” said Lancaster, edging into the bar and tipping the wink to Cooper behind the bar who was already laying the first of many ales down for what, if he stretched the debate out long enough, could be a very long and enjoyable night. “Now, I ‘as my trinket sellin’ business, for which The Foreigns provide me with much coin. An’ if we take that coin away, then I’ll have no trinkets to sell to them, and if I ain’t got no trinkets to sell to them, then I goes broke. It’s commerce, see?”

“COMMERCE!” boomed Beard, causing enough of a distraction for Lancaster to nip to the bar and down half his pint before the last syllable his finished echoing through the rafters. “COMMERCE is for traders, you snipe! You, sir, are a conman!”

“Aye, yes, that I can’t deny, but a conman who needs to eat,” nodded Lancaster, sweeping the rest of his ale down in one gulp as Cooper set him up with another.

“This isn’t about money!” said Lenin as he strode in and planted himself squarely in the middle of the room, hands on hips and feet spread heroically apart. He tilted his chin in a roguish manner and Marjory almost had a heart attack. “This is about the will of the people! This is about right and wrong! This is about putting an end to your INSANE plans to wall Charity off for your own benefit! This is about JUSTICE!”

“Very good, young man,” said Hartley-Smith, giving him a gentle round of applause. A few of the old sots in the darkest corners joined in.

“It’s also about sovereignty, you little anarchist,” said Beard. “If we let those sods in Brussels dictate how we run our council then we might get overrun. And if we get overrun, we run out of resources, and if we run out of resources we all end up living in penury, and I’m not selling my bloody stake in the village for Johnny Foreigner! No sir!”

“So, it’s outright racism, is it?” asked Lenin.

Beard narrowed him with a gimlet stare, chewed a bit of leftover veal caught in his teeth, and then cracked a smile which glittered faintly on his snake-like eyes.

“Joseph,” he laughed, setting his pint down and sweeping his arms wide to welcome him. Joseph stayed put. “It’s not what you think. The barrier is merely symbolic. It’s what you would call, a gesture.”

Just then the pub door opened and Yanis Kuchma appeared on the threshold.

“Beard!” he chimed. “Bloody good to see you, old mate! When do you want the wall built? Might take a while as it’s only me. I can probably get Harry the Tramp to help out, but he’s useless after his third turps.”

“Yanis, my old friend!” boomed Beard, sweeping past Joseph and scooping the small man up in his arms, only to swiftly negotiate him up to the bar and slide a sloshing shot of whisky into his already open hand. “As soon as you can, my old chum. Remember, the second those bricks start going up the second your pockets are full.”

“OI!” yelled Lenin.

“Bastard!” yelled Lancaster.

“Don’t mind them,” muttered Beard to Yanis. “They’re just jealous they didn’t get the contract.” He beamed a self-satisfied grin at the two.

Lenin was back to waggling a strident finger at Beard’s face. “You’ll regret this, you pumped up small town nobody!”

“It’s a village, actually,” said Beard.

“WHATEVER!” screamed Lenin, and then stormed out into the night.

“Teenagers, eh?” said Beard, despite the obvious fact that Joseph was in his mid-twenties. He turned back to Yanis. “Now, what sort of price are we talking…”

#

Joseph Lenin had never been so pissed off in his life. Well, maybe that one time when mummy wouldn’t let him purchase a Bugatti for his 18th birthday, but generally he was angrier than he’d ever been without his parents being part of the problem. Couldn’t that stick-in-the-mud small minded bigot see what was wrong with the whole concept of Brexit? You couldn’t wall off the village from the outside world. That was insane. The place needed those visitors to bring a bit of diversity to the place. And they weren’t exactly short of jobs. Farmer Diamond was gagging for help come the grape picking season, and if Beard cut off access to the outside populace, whatever commerce the village indulged in would be sent up the Suwannee. He needed to get an army together. He needed to fight back, by fair means or foul, if necessary, although foul would be preferable. He had a brace of heavy duty bangers from France he was gagging to use up.

“Oh, Joseph…” The voice was frail, and slightly out of breath, and came from the cemetery. For a second Joseph was convinced it was mummy come back from the dead to castigate him about his wanking habits, but Marjory emerged from the shadows with a sickly grin on her face. She battered her eyelashes at him.

“If you’re not part of the solution you’re part of the problem,” grumbled Joseph.

“Oh, I‘m very MUCH part of the solution,” smiled Marjory. “You see, despite this somewhat… dowdy but alluring exterior I have, deep within me, the pounding heart of a revolutionary. All I need is someone to help me… pluck it out.”

“Oh, yes?”

“By spanking.”

“Excuse me?”

“I am here to offer you a base of operations. Underground. I can be your snake in the grass, if you’d just… put your snake in my grass.” She was confusing herself now, trying to drag the dregs of seduction from the cobwebs in her mind.

Lenin hesitated. If he understood Marjory, she was offering herself as the inside woman. A double agent. And with the stacks of cash lining up in her bank balance Joseph was sure he could tap her for a few zlotys to help fund the revolution. But dare he do it? Dare he get into bed with the enemy?

Marjory, who was thinking of a different kind of bed entirely (for a start it wasn’t metaphorical, and this one had straps at each corner), waited patiently whilst the rusty cogs turned in Joseph Lenin’s mind.

#

Inside the Hound and Squire the debate was hotting up. Lancaster was on his fifth pint by now and Dutch courage was seeking to conquer civilities.

“If you close down’t borders we’ll be friggin’ DESTITUTE!” he wailed. “We ‘aven’t got much commerce in this ‘ere place, and you’ll friggin’ ROB US BLIND!”

“Now, now, my good man, it’s not a matter of money,” said Beard with an unctuous smile. “There is more to life than gleaning the odd shekel. This is about our independence, and if the government are too lily-livered to take control then, I’m afraid, it’s up to us.”

“But what about me?” wailed Lancaster, pausing only to knock back the second half of his pint seconds before Cooper slapped another one in front of him. “What ‘appens when’t trade dries up?”

“Trade will not dry up,” said Beard calmly. “Your pockets will not stay empty. We shall simply have a monitored border. And those who we deem fit to enter Charity will be allowed access – under strict guidelines, of course. Plenty of gullible tourists for your trade, my friend, but ones we know will be brimming with finance.”

“Bollocks.” The wind went out Lancaster. He knew the kind of people Beard entrusted with the safety of Charity’s borders. Big egos in a small village. A deadly combination. If Beard was intent on enacting his draconian measures, then Lancaster was damn bloody sure he would be the opposition. Lenin was a decent bloke, but he lacked the subterfuge required to overturn this pompous blowhard of a Mayor.

“Alright, then, Beard,” he conceded. “I guess you know what you’re doin’. If you need any ‘elp, you’ve got my number.”

“Good man,” said Beard. “Another ale?”

“Aye,” nodded Lancaster slowly, already scheming. “Another ale, indeed.”

#

Outside of the village, the local constable, Hardly Crawford, manned the barricade on the East side. There were four ways in, and all the roads were closed down and sectioned off. Yes, he was aware the recruits were blood thirsty weekend warriors with a political ideology to the right of that Trump fella, but he knew they loved taking orders and wouldn’t question his authority. He did, after all, have a uniform on.

“Constable Crawford!” That was Gimlet, a small and furious looking man with a forest for a beard and little stature to speak of. “We’ve got visitors!”

Crawford peered into the distance. Coming towards them was a small trail of vehicles. Black, shiny, and very, very official.

“Run back and get Beard,” he ordered Gimlet. “If I’m right, this could be trouble.”