Nice to see The Daily Mail can do a reverse ferret as well as any politician with today’s headline, where we see the notoriously homophobic paper suddenly get all solidarity over the issue of gay rights:


Hypocritical bastards. That must have been a real bind in the editorial meeting. “Bladdy hell, Dacre, stop eating that kitten for a moment and come over ‘ere. The loony lefty tree hugging kaftan wearing brigade has said that them gays have to declare their sexuality, which would be great for us because we’re total bastards and hate all diversity, and it lets us know who we can vilify because we love being total shits. The only problem is, the fackin’ equal rights brigade are be’ind the whole fackin’ thing!” “Thanks for letting me know, Shifty McWankbiscuit, my erstwhile sub-editor. We’ll completely go against our hate policy for one issue only, just so we can bang on about equal rights, and just how maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad they’re going.” “Righto, ya cant!”

Which is exactly how I imagined it happened.



Battlestar Galactica by Robert Thurston (and Glen A. Larson)

Let’s be straight here – we’re not talking about the remake with CGI effects and lots of serious looking people being grumpy about things. We’re talking the original seventies Galactica, complete with poxy looking robo-hounds and actors sporting luxuriantly coiffured hair, and effects which get repeated on a loop because the budget’s gone down the U-bend.

Obviously, the novelisation doesn’t say much about the luxuriant barnets, but it does feature some of the greatest ‘I’m a bluddy villain, me!’ characterisation I’ve come across in many awhile. Take a gander at this bit of cogitation from lead Cylon villain, Imperious Leader:

‘He envisioned the deaths he would cause, the cities he would demolish, the worlds he would reduce to rubble – and saw that from the human viewpoint all of this necessary warfare was evil!’

Sounds like Donald Trump.

Anyway, as you’d expect from a novelisation, there’s a lot of padding, so in place of plot-related dialogue or action we get a lot of ruminations on the meaning of leadership (mainly from Galactica’s top cheese, Adama) and some painfully dire joshing about from the ship’s resident roguish scamp, Starbuck. All bloody awful, of course, but good fun if you’re into your pulp.

Because Thurston’s not too groovy with writing space battles – which took up a good quarter of Galactica’s running time – we get a lot of repeated paragraphs about ‘spaceships pinwheeling through the galaxy in their unique fashion’ whenever the dastardly Cylons turn up to have a go at Galactica’s arse again. For space opera fans out there, you’d have to wait until Han Solo at World’s End (which I remember as being great when I first read it, but then I was 10 at the time), for something with a bit more pizzazz to any space action scenes. If there’s one thing that used to bug me as a nipper about speculative fiction it was the lack of decently realised action scenes. Which is why I moved onto horror pretty sharpish, because when James Herbert is writing about a giant rat gnawing on a tramp’s clackers, he leaves nothing to the imagination, unlike the space battles in most science fiction, which tended to skip over the details.

I used to love the TV series when I were a kid, but experience tells me it would suck the mighty balls these days, as nostalgia can be an unfair and dishonest maiden. The book, made up of the first 3 episodes of the TV series, is a tad on the ropy side, but if you’re looking to relive a bit of old whimsy for them Golden Years then you can’t do worse than nabbing this little beauty. And it’s only 1p on Amazon, so Bob’s your strange aunt.

The Daily Mule comes up with their own, bizarre variation on The Deal which supposedly took place between Blair and Brown to cement Blair’s leadership and Brown’s succession, but this time it involves the Tories, and takes place in a seafood restaurant:


I have a couple of problems with this headline, which involves Hammond and Osborne getting together to scupper Brexit, and that’s mainly because Brexit is such a monumentally stupid idea in the first place why the fuck would they need ‘a deal’ to screw it over? Just leave it to run its course and Brexit will fuck itself up. We’ve already had a two-year stall on the thing because the negotiations are so mind-wankingly complicated and Tories have trouble with sticklebricks, so there’s no need to get all Machiavellian on its arse, especially when it involves these two knobends. The reality is they were probably scoffing their stupid, fat faces with the most expensive lobster on the menu and laughing about dead paups, and then one went, “Blimey, this Brexit deal is a bit rum, old chap. We’d lose out on lots of luvverly zlotys in international trade. Wouldn’t it be nice if the bally thing didn’t even happen?” seconds before eating a baby.

The Arsepress, as usual, ignore all that shite, and have their finger on the button:


Yesterday it was 80 mph winds to fuck Britain right up the marmite, and this time it’s 100 mph farts. Tomorrow, expect the headline ‘Billion Squillion MPH Winds To Jostle Old Man’s Toupee and Cause Unlimited Worldwide Disaster!’

On a more serious note, the Grauniad has an interesting perspective on the internal struggles within the Conservative Party regarding Brexit:


In a way, this reflects The Mail’s story, but without the – ooh, look at the widdle penguins!! Ahhh, look at them!! All fluffy and cute!! Look at his little face! Aw, he’s sooooo cute!!!

So, in a nutshell, sod politics when you’ve got cute, fluffy things in the universe.

jeevs and mort

The Jeeves Omnibus Volume 2 by P G Wodehouse

I avoided P G Wodehouse for years, mainly because I thought it was a load of old toff nonsense written for richies and ankle deep in a privileged lifestyle which would mean nothing to me. Being a lazy git one night, I stumbled across the old Jeeves and Wooster TV series with Hugh Laurie and Stephen Fry, which I ended up watching due to the remote being halfway across the room and myself being in the condition of not being arsed to reach for it.

As it turned out, I bloody loved the TV series, and on a day trip to some mid-size town in Suffolk (perfect Wodehouse territory) the Missus nabbed me a collected volume of the J & W tales, and thus my red hot passionate love affair with Wodehouse started.

The added bonus of seeing the TV series is now I can’t imagine or hear Jeeves and Wooster without seeing Fry and Laurie, which you’d think might be a bad thing, but luckily each of the characters are perfectly suited to the actors playing them and this gives the dialogue (all first person from Wooster’s perspective, bar one short story at the end from Jeeve’s eye) an extra depth.

All the besht facking mates of Wodehouse’s work keep banging on about his dialogue as one of the main pleasures of reading J & W, and they’re totally bluddy right! We get dollops of crackling asides, heaps of dry wit from Jeeves, a lot of blustering foolishness from Wooster, and it’s all so wonderfully marvellous. I’ll be sipping sherry before an open fire whilst the butler toasts me crumpets soon (ooer, Madame).

As for the stories, they mainly involve Wooster or one of his amusingly named chums (Tuppy, Gussy, Stilton Cheesewright, et al) getting hitched against/with their consent before everything goes a bit pear shaped and Jeeves steps in to solve everything with a wry gesture or a well-placed bon mot. Which is about it. But that doesn’t matter, because the writing’s so damn good, and everything chippies along in such a bonny fashion, it positively splendiferous. Which is a phrase I thought I’d never use in a book review.

Which just goes to show that I should never judge a book by my own sense of class distinction. Jeeves and Wooster may be about dotty toffs and their privileged lifestyles, but it’s incredible engaging, and monumentally entertaining.

Phillip Hammond decides to tell people who stick their fingers in their ears and chant ‘la la la’ that Brexit may not be all the fun and games these fools think it will be, and The Mail decide to quote Niglet Lawson who tells him to stop being so ruddy grumpy and lie about what could happen:


Interesting concept, this one. A daily (albeit, load of old scrote) newspaper willingly seeking the voices of those who would sell us a bucket of shit disguised as honey and flowers, just to back up their own short-sighted agenda. And it’s not even news, more an opinion piece given front page treatment.

Luckily, the Express are on hand to remind us what real journalism is all about:


Yep, wind is windy. Nice one, Richard Desmond, you spanner. It reminds me of some of their classic attention grabbers from the Summer, when they predicted that the sun would be hot. The insight and integrity of these journalists are beyond question!



A Tories’ view of how the poor live


Bloody typical! Not only are the Tories screwing up the welfare system, they’re also charging the poor fackers 55p a minute to phone up Pauphelp to find out why they haven’t got any moolah! They’ll find any way to screw a few more shekels out of people!

The universal credit system is already turning out to be a load of old cak, with late payments and border-line poverty amounts and now this rubbish. Corbs stood up and shook his walking stick at the PM, whilst May spouted some old toss about building a safe welfare system and blah blah blah and we’ve heard all this crap before. What is it about being the worst off in society that boils the piss of so many elected officials? Why do they seem hellbent on stamping on the heads of everyone who’s fallen below the breadline? Not only are they trying to make being from overseas a crime; not only are they trying to punch the biggest bastard of a Brexit into the rule books; not only are they trying to do a bit shite on the poor and needy; but they’re also trying to kill off our elders by refusing to put a cap on energy bills. It’s like they’ve come up with a concept that the poor should pay for having the temerity to be born with no cash.

I think this comes from their background. Yes, we hear about Knobbington Scrote who grew up on a council estate and made it to Parliament against the odds and etc etc, but if you consider most of these fuckers come from backgrounds where the only poor person they saw was the ones they shot at come grousing day, then you begin to understand why they have no concept of poverty. And there is no possible way to get them to understand the conditions people have to put up with, because there’s no possible way these bastards will yank themselves out of their lifestyles to get down and dirty with the people who vote.

On the other hand, do people really care. Look at Nigel Farage. He’s a penis. And yet his voting public didn’t give a monkeys for the bags of money he has from trading commodities, but rather warmed to his bullshit persona of a fag smoking, beer drinking, frog faced racist dick. The fact that this warm streak of piss hasn’t got a freaking clue how the other half live is neither here nor there.

What this amounts to is a lack of willing from those who rule to work for the good of the people. This bullish, grandstanding bollocks runs through all strata of government, from local councils to pig fuckers in Parliament (note to editor: this joke is massively out of date). It remains to be seen whether anything can be done to redress the balance so at least the poor bastards at the bottom have a slight chance of making it through life without dying of poverty.

There’s not really a lot to choose from today. The Sun have some old tosh about the CIA drone striking a woman who joined ISIS, but it’s a bit ‘meh’, so instead let’s go for a headline which says everything about the current Brexit negotiations:


Phillip Hammond has gone toy-pram-ejection related in his sulking and has made up some rubbish about how all flights to the UK will be grounded because Old Man Juncker won’t let him have all the sweets he can cram into his feckless maw. This is about as logical as Trump saying he’ll be reviewing NBC’s licence because they treat him like a cock womble.

These people really do live in a fantasy land where a sniffet of power someone makes them believe they can halt the flow of reality. Tomorrow, Hammond announces he can beat up a 100 bikers and once jumped over the moon.