The Corner – 17/07/2018 – All the News That’s Fit to Print – Oh No, Sorry, My Mistake…

An interesting cobbling of headlines today, which goes to show how some tabloids will go out of their way to avoid actually printing any news.

First, on to some proper news. Apparently, Trump’s been a bit of a naughty boy, and has more or less curled up at Putin’s feet got a gentle pat on the head and some treats. The reaction from certain US politicians has been less than complimentary. Here’s The Guardian:



Although, just as an extra, I think The Mirror headline says it all.


Meanwhile, in the UK, May’s plan for Brexit has gone completely down the shitehole as she flounders, flip-flopping between a hard Brexit and a soft Brexit rather than the obvious choice, which is no Brexit. The Times cover it thus:


So there we have the main items of news. Trump being a traitor and May being disorganised. You’d think the main right-wing tabloids might have a field day with this, either getting all shirty at May not following a hard Brexit route or coming up with a pun about Trump being a lapdog. Instead, we get this from The Express:


It’s been something like 6 weeks of non-stop sunshine in the UK (surely a record). Of course there’s going to be a hosepipe ban, you dicks. And since just about everywhere in the UK has been affected by the heatwave one would logically assume it would ‘affect millions’.

However, it turns out, due to a shortage of shite journos for tabloid bastards, both The Mail and The Express have employed the same people:


Look! They’re EXACTLY THE SAME HEADLINES, even down to the companion piece promoting the sequel to bastard Mamma Mia! I imagine there’s just one pipe coming from Bullshit Central that feeds out into all the tabloids, crapping out the same bullshit onto the journos heads so they don’t have to think for themselves.

Democracy in action.



The Cockney Ways by Poncington von Dick

Poncington contemplates his plate of jellied eels

The Poet Laureate was ever a man of the people. Aware that the proles like common sports like The Football he decided to immerse himself into the world of beer and skittles, often sneaking out at night under cover to become ‘a cockerney jape’.

“I wanted to sink into their world of roll-ups, flat caps and whippets,” he told ‘Blimey – Poetry! Monthly’. “I had heard there was a ‘world cup’ taking place, and realised the only way I could truly understand the common man was to BECOME the common man, so with a neckerchief, a dog on a piece of hairy string, and hobnailed boots, I Lambeth-walked my way into the East End. There, I watched The England get ‘knocked out’ as the plebs called it, by The Belgium, and subsequently took part in the riot which ensued. I would have escaped unscathed if my butler hadn’t given the game away by serving my mid-evening tea on a golden tray.”

His dalliance with the lower classes may have been traumatic, but I think we can all agree it helped to create this work of genius…

“The ref is blind, I hear you cry,
And yet he can quite palpably,
‘Man on’ I cry out,
But the crowd of paups ignore me,
For my voice is one amongst many.

See, for the goals slot in,
One, two, maybe some others,
I wasn’t paying attention,
For my eyes were filled with the glory,
Of the cockernee japesters and their otherworldly talk.

“Ya fackin’ cant,” I heard them cry,
“Ya big, fat wanger,” they roared,
“Fack me, the fackin’ ref is a cant,” they harkened,
“Fackin’, fack fack, fackin’ fack!” they roared as one,
Throwing the occasional ‘cant’ in there,
For good measure,
And I realised with a blinding clarity,
That I would never understand their common ways,
Their manners, their mores, their loves and life,
For they have tattoos,
And dirt on their cheeks,
And live in coal mines,
Where they dig for bread pudding.

Lord luvva duck, for they are a separate species,
And I minded my time with them not,
But would I go back into that strange,
Dark hovel known as ‘The Docker’s Fist’?
And I say ‘no’,
For they smell.”

A staggering work of heart-rending genius, I’m sure you’ll agree.

Civilization – Part Twelve

Civilisation title logo

The Story So Far: Brexit is up the spout (hooray!), Donald Drumpf is jailing anyone who looks a bit foreign and space lizards are trying to take over the world. However, thankfully The World Cup is there to distract everyone, and so far The England have managed to make it through their first few stages.

Now read on…


The England and The Sweden faced each across the mighty battlefield which was the football pitch.

The ref stepped between the team captains.

“Right, I want a nice clean game,” he said. “No chewing of the bollocks, no hoofing up the arse, and if you’re going to dive make sure it looks like something out of the Bolshoi, capisce?”

In the wings Russian Premier Pootin chuckled manically to himself as he held the big plunger linked up some curly wires.

“Those poor, stupid, ignorant fools,” he cackled. “Little do they realise that I have wired up ALL THEIR TESTICLES to this crafty explosive box. Now, the bloody English won’t get a whiff of the semi-finals, and that’ll teach Theresa Green (the current UK Prime Minister for those new to the story – blimey, why am I speaking to myself in parentheses? Anyway, hey ho, on with the plot) to call me a pointy eared twat!”

The whistle blew. Pootin slammed down the plunger. In the distance there was a vague sound of an explosion.

“Master, master,” huffed Eddy von Meddy, Pootin’s lackey, as he staggered up to him. “Tragic news! Someone’s blown up the Russian team!”

“Oh, yes,” muttered Pootin, quickly throwing down the plunger. “That’s terrible. Erm… probably a CIA plot. Anyway, let’s go and shut off the Ukraine’s gas supply for a laugh.”

With that, Pootin turned tail and legged it.


“Right, David Mavis, you bastard!” yelled Theresa Green, jabbing a finger at the cowering Secretary of State for Exiting the European Union. “I’m the Daddy now! Next time I’ll fackin’ KILL YA!”

“You won’t get away with this, Green,” hissed Mavis from behind the chair. “I’ll… I’ll quit, I will! I’ll quit and tell everyone you smell of poo and tramp’s wee and then everyone will hate you and I’ll be free to follow my dream to be prima ballerina.”

“We’re having a soft Brexit, and if you don’t fackin’ like it we’ll sort this out in the House of Commons!” yelled Green. “You, me, and these fackers!” She held up both fists.

“I hate you!” cried Mavis. “I wish I was adopted! You’re not my real Prime Minister! They would let me have Brexit MY WAY!”

Crying tears of misery and shame, David Mavis ran out of the PM’s office, flouncing like a girl.

“You poor fool,” chuckled Green to herself as she dropped the cockney accent. “You have no idea what me and my space lizard chums have in store for you. Evil laugh.”


“Wah!” cried the US President, Donald Drumpf, as James Motty, the Secretary of Defence, tried to fit the wriggling President into his romper suit. “How’s the Space Force coming along? Wah!”

“Just great, your Orangeness,” said Motty. “I believe Chewbacca’s signed up. Or something. Anyway, have you come up your choice for the new member of the Supreme Court. Remember, we need someone bi-partisan, who has a history of sound judgement and –“

“I want Brett Carbonara!” cried Drumpf. “He hates abortions and freedom of speech and the environment and workers rights! He’s just the kind of free-thinking not-at-all-fascist we want on our side! Wah!”

Motty sighed. “You know he strangled a hippy once?”

“KILL ALL HIPPIES!” cried Drumpf, and immediately tweeted that he once shat on a duckling.


“They can’t do this to you, by crikey by Jove by golly gosh and other such top stuffy English phrases for right old toffs!” blubbered the Home Office Secretary, Boris Penis, as David Mavis sobbed before him. “That’s ruddy well crikey o’lumme not the done thing. If the old woman doesn’t want to play cricket with the big boys, then by crikey we’ll show her a thing or two!”

“Will you get my job back?” sobbed Mavis.

“Not ruddy likely!” stormed Boris. “It’s time we flippin’ well took a stand!” He stood up, almost dislodging the blow-dried marmoset on his head. “I’ll ruddy well resign as well! By ruddy!”


“So, it was with great regret that I tendered my resignation,” mourned Boris in front of the world’s press (which consisted of a shaven monkey and Knobby the talking Shetland Pony). “I felt that the Prime Minister’s plans for Brexit was at odds with my own, and I felt I had to practice words over the weekend which stuck in my throat. MUCH LIKE DAVID CAMERON’S KNOB STUCK IN THAT DEAD PIG’S THROAT, EH, READERS!!? WOOF WOOF! Anyway, Green’s plan for Brexit was nothing but a semi-Brexit, much like the semi I get when I think about starving paups. I have decided I can no longer be locked in the EU system, much like Madame Spanky Bollocks locks me in those pink handcuffs and introduces Uncle Pineapple to me bottom. Thank you, and fuck business.”


“That turncoat little shit!” hissed Theresa Green as she flung her lackey, The Moggy, through the TV screen. “Right, let’s get a couple of right incompetent bellends in their place, just to show these feckless gits that they can be replaced by even the most bungling losers. Who have me got, Moggy?”

“Well, we could have Dominic Scab replacing Mavis,” mused The Moggy. “He’s a right useless, evil-minded shit, who once said food banks weren’t used by people in poverty. To replace Boris we could have Jeremy Rhyming Slang. He’s so bloody useless he’s already been Culture Secretary and Health Secretary and managed to bugger both of those positions up.”

“Genius!” simmered Green. “Right, get the usual crap out to the press and I’ll meet you in the underground volcano for cocktails and vole punching.”


“Wah!” yelled Trump to the English press (an otter made out of anger and Filthy Ralph from the Off Licence). “I am now in England. Theresa Green smells of wee and does a big poo on Brexit. That is all.”

“Excuse me,” said Ima N Otter, lead sketch writer for the Guardian. “Did you say our PM smells of wee?”


“But you just said it.”

“I said she smells of… erm… ‘swee’, which is Scandinavian for ‘not wee’. FACT! Everything else is fake news! “


“Mwah ha ha!” said the Lizard Queen as she ate a marsupial. “Soon, Trump will be in my grasp, and soon I shall be able to use The Bastard Gun on the world, for some unspecified reason yet to be established. But then, we don’t need a reason, because we’re the Lizard Monsters who control the world! Evil laugh!”


Tune in for more ocelot guffaws next week, readers!

Brett Kavanaugh: A Step Back in Time – Dispatches From Donald Trump’s Arse


brett kavanaugh
Brett Kavanaugh crushes the balls of hope


Hello, you bastards! Donald Trump’s arse here, and I’d like to make a few comments about the new Supreme Cabinet appointee, Brett Kavanaugh, who has a bit of a history behind him when it comes to those pesky human rights.

Basically, everything you’d imagine a nutty bonkers right-winger getting behind this bastard has got behind, from slagging off net neutrality to hoofing the abortion laws over the high fence to doing a big shite all over worker’s rights to sucking on the big, meaty balls of religion. This fucker’s been there and saluted it in a slightly fascist manner, and Trump has shoved him right into the Supreme Court, because if there’s one thing the world needs right now it’s some spinny-eyed prick with his nutsack in the mouth of Trump encouraging the feckless orange dicksplash to be even more of a Madcap McBonkers than he already is, the satsuma coloured wanker.

The problem with a lot of these Supreme Court dicks is half of them remember the days when it was a legal obligation to own a slave, and now the emancipation proclamation has come in and ruined all their fun they’re going to take out all their frustrations on the citizens of the USA. Equal rights for women? Fuck off! We’re going to take away your rights to police your own bodies. Feeling a bit ill and don’t want to mortgage your balls so you can nab a couple of aspirin? Tough shit! We’re going to make plans to roll back the Affordable Care Act so the paups can end up dying in the gutter and leaving more room for golf courses for our Big Corpo mates. Think it might be a good idea to stop the mass pollution of the planet just so a bunch of rich arseholes can get even richer? Eat my knob off! We’re going to build a big ditch full of toxic shite and bury as many EPA rules into the bastard as we possibly can, because we’re the Republican right-wing, and we cak all over positive action for breakfast.

It used to be a case that one half of the Supreme Court was made up of sensible people who thought the right-wing were a bunch of gibbering morons and would do their best to flick the V’s at the bastards and call them smelly (in the pursuit of democracy, obviously) as they possibly could. The other half was made up of the sort of mad fuckers who think Trump is doing a great job and that he should be President for Life and what’s wrong with tooling up the kids in kindergarten and everyone ever who has ever spoken out against the NRA and school shootings is obviously a crises actor. Anthony Kennedy used to be on the Less Nutty Bastard side of things, but that’s all going to change now.

Strap yourself in for some top-notch chortlesome fascism, folks, because Trump is doing his best to change the very concept of democracy, and I should know as I shite out the burgers this arseholes shoves down his sound-hole. If Trump can keep sticking gibbons like this fucker into high-power positions then I can imagine we can all look forward to a country which may have detention camps – no, hold on, this has already happened with the immigrants.

In a way this is the logical conclusion to a world slowly going right-wing. Stack the courts with bastards and watch the civil liberties floating away so Trump can take over the world! It won’t be long before this prick proclaims himself King of the Universe and marries a horse and then we’ll all be up the shitter. Still, as long as there’s people willing to speak out against the gimlet shitehole then there might be hope.

In the meantime, let’s hope Kavanaugh doesn’t fuck the country over too much. As Donald Trump’s arse all I can do is watch the world go by, and every now and then crack off the occasional bumhole nerve gas to embarrass him when meeting dignitaries. Which reminds me, I’ve been saving up a right corker for when he meets the Queen…

The Corner – 13/07/2018 – All Aboard the Arsehole Train

The Sun have found themselves a new hero in Donald Trump. He fits all the criteria for being lauded by the sun:
a) He’s a fucking arsehole.
b) He’s a racist prick
c) He talks a load of shite
It’s like political gods have shat him fully formed into The Scum’s lap.

Anyway, in today’s paper he talks a load of old wank about everything, basically lauding that old racist Boris Johnson and being a xenophobic pile of toss about migrants, so no change there.


The only reason he granted an interview to The Sun is because it’s the only tabloid title he can read without getting a big boy to help him with the long words.

Speaking of insufferable shites:


These are not ‘home truths’, The Mail – these are the ravings of your racist grandpa after he’s had too much sherry; the burblings of an orange dimwit with the IQ level of a wank sock; the cretinous gibberings of a sub-humanoid sewer monkey. So, basically, The Mail’s ideal leader.

The Express decide to just print a picture (or should that be ‘prickture’, guffaw, chortle) of Trump as their readers gets confused by words, and instead go for one of their bog standard pro-Brexit headlines:


The Brexiteers in May’s cabinet are obviously bolstered by the fat idiot visiting the UK and talking shite. These fuckers love a dictator, especially if they’ve got the mental capability of a particularly stupid rock. It makes them feel smarter, rather than the barely capable evolutionary throwbacks we all know them to be.

The Tourist by Robert Dickinson


The Tourist by Robert Dickinson

One of the few books to get the whole complexities of time travel into a logical order. Basic story – a criminal is set free to travel back in time to set certain events in motion, whilst at the same time a tourist rep is assigned to stop her, sort of. You can add to this the fact that everyone knows how their lives will pan out – to a certain extent – because records have been released from the future which tells them this. Except it’s not that simple. And yet, it is. Sort of.

Most time travel books can be a bit of a head-fuck as even playing around with the basic concepts is enough to wind your head into knots. You just have to think of Back to the Future to see where this can go wrong (yes, great films, but surely Marty McFly should have a memory of his family being rich at the end of the first film after he’s messed around with the time lines, because that would mean he has no concrete memory of his past up until that point, but then he would have had to have lived it to remember it, but how can he remember it if he both lived it, and changed it before it happened, and OH JESUS, MY FUCKING HEAD!!!)

Dickinson writes in a very straightforward and practical manner which actually cancels out any of this mind-boggling detail. The plot makes sense, and slowly stitches itself together over the course of the book. His trick is to not over-convolute the story. There are two basically linear plots which feed through from beginning to end, so you follow the characters as they encounter events as they happen, even if some of the time it happens in a past they’re visiting, which doesn’t make any sense now I’ve written it down, but this book actually follows a logical through-path.

It’s a smart bit of speculative fiction, with an easy going style which – crucially – doesn’t condescend to the reader. There are concepts about fate and life and destiny which are played around with, but not to the extent where you feel like you’re being patronised, and the characters are engaging enough not to be tedious.

There’s a lot of comedy as well, with the time travellers categorising people as ‘a religious’ just because they say “Jesus fucking Christ!’ in alarm, and mocking cinema as an art form when, as everyone from the future knows, books are the only real art form.


Deathlands: End Game by James Axler

18371667eathlands end prog

Deathlands: End Game by James Axler

Although the Deathlands series of post-apocalyptic Mad Max books are essentially science fiction by their very nature, very few of them use the science fiction staples as part of the plot. Usually it’s just Ryan Cawdor and his merry band running around, getting involved with hamlets which need protection, and blowing the shit out of stuff whilst straddling the thin line between cynicism and being lovely to people. End Game is one of those which toys around with proper speculative fiction.

Ryan, who usually has one eye, wakes up in a government establishment which has survived the nukes and prospered, to find he now has two eyes, one of which is a top-notch bit of techie grooviness, having a targeting system and the facility to take photographs and all kinds of other techie malarkey. Not being one to let ‘The Man’ tell him what to do with his life, he facks off out of the government establishment and gets involved in a tribal war between farmers and a bunch of biomechanical bikers, which eventually leads them back to the government establishment which has more sinister ideas on its mind.

This one plies on the expected clichés with the usual trowel – a bunch of high-falutin’ officials who run the post-war facility, a handful of rabid bikers who are basically there to be killed off, some salt-of-the-earth farmers just trying to make their way in the world, and a third act which turns into one big action scene because, dammit, that’s what the Deathlands books are all about. They can play around with sci-fi tropes all they want, but at the end of the day the readers want to see Ryan and his bunch of scalleywags stick a bunch of bullets in dodgy types.

There’s a certain comfort in trawling through this series. Unlike the Survivalist series which was all about them evil Soviets against the good old US of A, Deathlands has more cynicism. Saying that, all the characters in Ryan’s band are a pretty decent bunch, despite all their growling about ‘some people just get chilled – good or bad’, and you’d know they’d help an old lady across the road if the situation called for it. Yes, they might stick an armouries worth of bullets into mutant bikers along the way, but they’d still be very decent about it.

Recommended, as are all the 100+ books in the series. Yes, I know, I’m biased, but dammit, there’s no other series I know out there like it, which takes the basic premise of Mad Max and runs with it. It could do with a few more car chases, mind, and a reasonable explanation about why Cawdor and his bunch tend to have an endless supply of bullets (although, to be fair, they do run out shells every now and then, but luckily stumble across a redoubt packed to the gills with fresh supplies), but these are very minor quibbles.