Mostly Bollogs, I'm afraid

But occasionally, a glimmer of truth.
If you find one, please let me know.

Thursday, 29 April 2010


Normal service will be resumed ...

This Gordo McDoom thing about the lovely Gillian Duffy has been done to death.

I watched it several times yesterday and it is clear to me, because I am so perceptive, that the bloke's got absolutely NO respect nor regard for anyone apart from himself. He called the now fortunate lady a "bigot". She isn't. She didn't say anything that could have been construed as bigotry, although she may have said what a lot of people think, including me. And bloody good for her.

John Prescott might be claiming that Murdoch is a bad boy - I have no doubt that he is. It's his job. He may be claiming that  the press have got it in for his hero. They have. So have I. I want to see your hero wriggle and squirm, because he and his cronies have virtually destroyed MY country. As the guest over at Cold Steel's place said - "charge them, remand them, incarcerate them." He's changed it - last time I looked he'd named them.

Nobody is listening, John. Most are not blaming you, you're doing your job. I'd bet a pound to a piece of shit that the last thing you wanted to return to after your campaigning yesterday was the news that your esteemed leader had dropped a bollock similar in scale to the "little boy" that fell on Hiroshima. I bet a further pound to a crate of wasps that you at least thought of a few expletives before you set about your mission to polish that particular turd. And I would flutter a fiver on the fact that, although you know and I know and the world knows that the "correctice action" you took to try to alter history was monumental in its cheekiness, it won't make a ha'p'orth of difference to diddly squat.

The fact is, and the fact remains, that it didn't matter whether the PM called our Gillian a fat cow, a bigot or a taxi. What mattered is that the Ayatollah McTwat declared, in front of the entire world, that he doesn't give a stuff about the country, its people or its politics. All Jonah cares about is the power, and himself.

Announcing to the entire civilised world that Britain is run by a complete fuckwit, though, is not just a matter for you and him. It is a matter for all of us.

So, World, I say this - and I believe I speak for a huge majority when I do:

We didn't want him. We didn't vote for him. We want rid of him. Next Thursday, it shall be so.

Please forgive us for allowing such a dick, and such a party of dicks, to walk over us for so long. We'll be back, and we'll be great again. Soon.

Thank you all for your patience.

Wednesday, 28 April 2010


No, not the democratic republic of anywhere.

Gillian Duffy, of Rochdale, England.

The lady who Gordon Jonah Calamity Brown called a bigot, not noticing that there was a microphone attached to his person (you know, the one he'd been speaking into when he told her she had a "good family").

This lady may well have saved Great Britain. She should be hailed a national heroine.

I propose to buy her the hugest bunch of flowers imaginable. If anyone wants to chip a couple of bob in please comment, and I'll arrange for an email/PayPal thingy. If not, I'll stump up myself.

Anyone got her address?

Tax (contains offensive language)

Mr Constantly Furious described this "advert" as tendentious shit. A swamp of tendentious shit.

It's not like Mr Constantly Furious to mince his words like that. But I know how he feels. I have no idea how to describe this foul, disgusting, last-ditch attempt to cling to the slimy strings of power at all costs.

Mr CF then goes on to describe the perpetrators of this abomination as "utter, irredeemable cunts".

I agree with him. But I also sense his frustration in trying to find the words to describe his fury. There are no words good enough. Not in English. Not even resorting to expletives. "Jesus H. Fucking Christ on a Bicycle" doesn't come close.

I then listened further, and the same "advert" goes on to use the threat of cancer to secure votes. This really isn't funny, witty, clever - it's CUNTSTRUCK.

And I have this short message for the "STATE":

I was not over-familiar with tax credits. I went to the official web site to find out more, and it introduces the tax credit as "payments from the government". Now, dear reader, let me explain something. They are NOT "payments from the government". I am beginning to hate the word government. You, the government, are supposed to be the elected body competently running the country. YOU ARE NEITHER. YOU HAVE NO MONEY. It is OUR MONEY. Even that money OF OURS that you handed out to the banks, and don't talk bollocks about "we only lent it". Did you FUCK. Ask Fred Goodwin. Why isn't he in jail?

I suggest that the incompetent, overpaid FUCKWIT who coined the phrase "tax doesn't have to be taxing" needs to be suspended from a lamppost for all to see, nailed to the door of Number Ten and have his eyes pecked out by the ubiquitous pigeons. I feel quite strongly about this. TAX and TAXING come from the same root. And yes, it IS taxing. It fucking IS.

I paid tax for too long. I have never, ever claimed anything from the state, neither in its current guise as luvvy-dovey givey givey nicey nicey let's all be equal and have a free ride on this unicorn, nor when it was half-competently run beforehand. I have been unemployed, mainly because of FUCKING GLOBALISATION which I never asked for and never voted for (and nor did anyone else) and I have made do. Work, it's called. I know many people who are unemployed and who DON'T ask for FUCKING TAX CREDITS. They do this thing called WORK. And there is ALWAYS work. They do whatever has to be done, which is sometimes messy, hard, involves long hours and comparatively low remuneration, and they DON'T PAY FUCKING TAX on it. And I don't see why they should. They have a thing which I will call PRIDE. It might be the wrong word, but I know what I mean. PRIDE.

Now, you sycophantic festering pile of incompetent arsewipes, get this.


That's official. You can shove your tax up your collective and ever-expanding arseholes, do you hear?

I am only one. Hopefully soon, more balls will be grown, and I will be joined by millions. Millions who, like me, are SICK and TIRED of this Big Brother, let's be equal, give me a big hug STATE.

And we'll see how big the prisons are.

Oh, and by the way, look at "Example 1" in that link to the website. Mr and Mrs Khan. Excuse me, I live in England. The most common name is Smith. Then Brown, then Jones.

Oh, and by the way again, you may have different sexual tendencies than I. You may be a different colour. You may be a different religion. I represent the majority of the UK population (still) being heterosexual, white and Christian. I despise the way you marginalise me. I DETEST your policy of ensuring that I am reduced to one tiny cog in your horrible, incestuous workings.



And DIE.


As both of my regular readers know, I understand very little about politics and law and most other inexact systems. I deal in facts and logic.

Here is some. I would like someone to explain something to me.

According to Millipede (for whom I have zero respect) and via John Prescott (who I secretly like) on Twitter, under Labour the tax TAKE is 37.5% of GNP (Gross National Product, I believe). This was announced proudly, because apparently under the Tories it was 40%.

And then I see on the Beeb that they have a little toy that shows you where that money goes.

Apparently over a quarter of it goes on "social protection". That's newspeak for giving away to anyone who asks for it, or in Marvospeak for propping up people who are spending more than they can afford. Anyway, my question, to which I can't find an answer, is this:

By what RIGHT do they TAKE this?

Don't give me any old cobblers about "it's the law", or "they always have done" or "they need it to make Britain brilliant". Don't give me that, because it's rubbish.

By what RIGHT? Logic applies.

Thank you.

Tuesday, 27 April 2010


It never ceases to amaze me just how fundamentally stupid some people are.

But then, I shouldn't be surprised. The stupid to whom I refer can be collectively labelled New Labour. It appears that, at every turn, they are intent on holstering their gun and, careful to ensure that the barrel is pointing directly downward, pull the trigger.

It just seems that whatever they do, it is turned around and pointed back at them. In spades.

Most of the mud they sling is artificial. Then someone finds some proper dark brown stuff and lobs it straight back.

They seem incapable of promoting anything positive about themselves - I suppose this is because all one has to do is to look back at the last sack of shit that they laughing called a manifesto, and see how much of it came true. It isn't a big list.

So they attack, ad hominem, or try to express their wonky and deluded dreams in the form of negative slants on the opposition.

The last one that really made me laugh was the "Fire up the Quattro" dig at Cameron taking us back to before this government. What they seem to have missed is that at least two-thirds of the country would welcome it.

And today, we have this piece de resistance, twat by Labour's very own John Prescott. I secretly like JP. I think that he genuinely believes in the Labour movement, and that is not such a bad thing. I don't think he's fully aware how far New Labour have gone down the road to obscurity, with their unique blend of everything that was ever wrong with any part of any party or its leader, adding a sprinkle of lawyers, barristers and others in the legal profession, with a side dish of Peers of Convenience, a dash of minorities, and a dump of legislation.

But this picture sums up the ineptitude of this government. How far off the mark they are. How far from reality.

"Funded by the Labour Government"

Do you know, I reaaly, truly, madly, deeply believe that they think it's their money.

Now go and search twitter (as well as the twitpic itself) for comments.

I'm not the only one who's noticed.


What did we do wrong?

That's the question all but a very few of the New Labour Regime must be asking themselves.

The very few are still labouring under the misapprehension that they are not yet truly and comprehensively rogered up the back passage with a splintered axehandle.

Of the rest, I am guessing that at least some (I can't think who) genuinely believe that their vision for the future was fair and just.

As for the majority, and we all know who they are, the plan was always to get, and keep, the power, for ever, and ever, Amen.

Not ten years ago, the dead donkey was still a game prize in the grand raffle. Not five years ago, there may have been a donkey. Now the donkey's head is on a spike and being paraded round the streets of London, shown on all the telly channels and tweeted many times a minute.

They're toast.

So, Messrs NewLabour, this is what you did wrong. What you did was a filthy, rotten, underhanded trick. Some of us knew that from the start. Some woke up to it in time. Enough woke up to it too late. But you didn't finish it.

All you needed to do was to make sure that you put the right people on the benefits, the right people in the useless, sponging civil service nonjobs, and those right people, in your terms, would be the ones who will not only vote for your corrupt, stinking, hubrism-ridden self-serving government, but the ones whose vote would get you back in.

You've had 13 years to engineer it, and you haven't even managed to get THAT right.


Monday, 26 April 2010


Found it. I've found the argument.

Apparently 8 out of 10 people think I should be prepare to be robbed in order for people who want both a career and children to have the childcare paid for.

Brilliant. They're entitled to their opinion.

So am I.

Children are something either you, the Pope or fate decides that you will have. In order to have them, you have to have carnal knowledge of a member of the opposite sex, or you have to find a donor and a turkey baster. Or buy one, in a Madonna-stylee. Or rely on being impregnated by a deity, which doesn't happen often.

But it is apparently something that you can't decide not to do. I am told by some women that they have no choice, for they have a biological clock which makes the decision for them. That is fundamentally bollocks, although I understand it in the same sense that my body is telling me that if it doesn't get a decent chicken tikka jalfrezi in the next couple of days there'll be trouble.

I've got kids. Lots of them. I have never, ever, asked for anyone else to pay for them, although they have all had free schooling (such that it is these days) and I would rather pay for kids to be schooled (and thus looked after for a large part of the day, too) than for the country to be overrun by illiterate, innumerate semi-savages. Sadly, that part of my plan appears not to have worked. But I spend rather a lot of my time augmenting my own kids' education, and explaining to them that not everything that's pumped into them by the state is necessarily right. I'd help others too except I have to be CRB checked and, although I would pass one, I resent the state's invasion of my privacy. So sod them.

When I was a young Marvo, my Mum looked after us and my Dad went to work. I think he worked for a cruise company, because I often heard my Mum explain to people the "he worked for Cunard". I think that's what she said. But, apart from being in the RAF immediately after WWII, he worked in various trades in the private sector (as the call it now - it used to be called "proper work"). He was an opportunist, as am I. Eventually he did quite well, through bullshit, arrogance and bloody hard work. It was pretty hard, but we never wanted for much. My brother and I built our first few bikes from bits we nicked from the dump - from scrap that richer people couldn't be arsed, or had not the ability, to mend. We always ate well, although the stuff we had was really cheap and instead of spending the money on other peoples' efforts my Mum did the work herself. That way, you can eat like a king at the cost of a pauper. So we didn't have anything to complain about.

Now look, I don't have a problem educating women. I say that because I'm scared, and because I believe that women have the same rights as blokes. I live in the twenty-first century. I don't have a problem with the ladies choosing a career - why the hell shouldn't they, if I can? They can have kids until they run out of biologicals (although it's not often a good idea to start popping them out at 50-odd). They can choose to have them early - kids round here have them before they leave school - or they can choose to have them late. Or in between. Or the bloke can look after them. It's not that bloody difficult.

But really, I don't see that ANYONE has the right to have their cake, eat it, AND have it paid for by me. I struggle to pay for the kids I've got, and they come first. Every bloody time. And as they're crap at building bikes, and I'm not allowed to take stuff from the dump any more (health and safety, you know), I'll buy them.

Now the Labourite whingers are saying (apparently it isn't a whinge, it's in our DNA - BOLLOCKS, BROWN) that the eeeeeevil Tories will stop handing out childcare vouchers/tax credits/supplements willy-nilly which means that you won't be able to have a herd of kids and then spend your life ripping me off to pay for them while you earn money. That makes no sense. You earn money, I pay for the childcare. That's me giving it to you. Pure and simple. Now get real.

It's a choice. Your choice.

Make it. Pay for it. It's your right.

I really am a bastard, am I not? Still, might get a few comments, if anyone has the balls (or other things) to shove their necks over the parapet.


For fifteen years I was, being involved with a certain organisation, instrumental in the systematic brainwashing of innocent people. The people most in need of help. I have since pretty much disenfranchised myself from that organisation, although I am a supporter of its fundamental beliefs and of its aims.

Brainwashing is not achieved by sitting people in white rooms and attaching electrodes to their heads, but rather through a variety of methods, mostly psychological, notably using emotions in various ways.

There are many emotions, ranging from the paraphysical, such as hunger and thirst, to the purely psychological, such as love and anger. The brainwasher uses these emotions as appropriate, usually starting with the positive and gradually introducing the negative in small doses - the psyche does not easily absorb negative emotions but readily accepts the positive.

Anyone who has been in the business, for instance The Reverend Moon, or "Big Brother" of 1984, will verify that these techniques are universally applied in order to coax a candidate into acceptance of his "way". What is not so obvious is that these techniques are used in a variety of scenarios - interview of a witness by the police, interrogation of war criminals - it is a long list, and some of them will surprise. People such as soldiers in regiments such as the SAS, who are very likely to have to experience these techniques, are taught counter-techniques.

Experience of the delivery of these techniques brings with it, naturally, the ability to recognise them. It also makes one immune to them.

Let me illustrate the use of a couple of these techniques and show how to reject them:

"Is it right?" - A plea to the general sense of right or wrong. Every individual has a sense of right and wrong. Most people sense that murder, for instance, is wrong. Some don't. Some people would think that speeding is right, if they think they're in control and there's nobody about - some would think that it is wrong because the law says it is. But there is doubt. Doubt causes confusion and, where there is doubt, there is the opportunity to start to use other emotions.

"Will it work?" - Simples? No. the emotion is fear. Fear of it not working. Instil doubt. Fear is a negative emotion albeit, surprisingly, somewhat weak.

"Is it fair?" - Again, you might think that this is a right/wrong option. It isn't. If it is fair, then you are in the clear. If not, there's guilt involved. One of the most powerful negative emotions there is.

After that, all you have to do is to carry on poking and prodding. Tell the victim that you are the sunshine and bunnies, and the opposing view is sneaky and underhand. All that stuff about big hugs versus a fiery pit is so old hat these days.

Once you've got the emotions whirling, you put the boot in. "Join us," you cry. "Fight for what is right!"

In order to reject this sort of thing, one only has to dig a little. Why are we being told this? Is there some underlying reason? Perhaps they are really after our money, time, effort? Perhaps they're trying to seal themselves a future? Could be anything.

But recognise the techniques. Read this, it's a good example.

In case you were wondering which heinous organisation I was involved with, it was the Church of England. No, I wasn't a vicar.

Thursday, 22 April 2010

Spot ...

... the difference. Sky News compared these two characters. It is very difficult, I know.

Just try.


It would appear to me that the Party Machine (Minitrue - Lies, damned lies, and statistics) of the incumbent government is struggling.

From Government to just another pony, no tricks left.

They deserve it. God, how they do. But why don't they just lay down?

The machinery is whirring. Prezza and Bellie are tweeting away as fast as they can tweet. I must confess I like Prezza - he had the balls to punch someone in the gob and maybe he should have done. He apparently thought it was blood, not egg, on his face. I'm not judging.

I'm not keen on Bellie. She hasn't got the common courtesy to reply to her twittering, nor even has she now got the time to delete the pisstake comments that have soiled her blog.Worth popping over there and having a read. Maybe comment yourself.

For some time, the tweetmeisters have been interspersing "news", such as knocking on the doors of innocent people in marginal seats, with ad hominem attacks, links to newsworthy (ROFL) articles, and the ubiquitous slagging-off of anyone who has ever said anything off-message.

But now it's just porkies. I've asked them to quote their sources. They don't answer.

So, people. Answer. Or I'll just post my own.


I remembered what I was going to rant about now, having just posted that pile of cock about Janet Street-Prosser.

It was British jobs for British Workers. Wot Gordo said.

I have been reading the most appallingly badly massaged figures in the MSM showing that British people are unable or unwilling to do these alleged jobs. I see just as many showing that the British people are desperate to do these jobs but they've gone to Martians even though they neither speak English nor breathe oxygen.

But this is one I know about. I know about this one because I'm British, and it's my job.

This isn't racist, but ...

I offered, seeing as I know more about it than anyone on this godforsaken planet, to make some major (and I mean huge) alterations to a system. I know more about this system than anyone on the planet because I wrote it. I am not on dodgy ground here.

I quoted them a sum of money to do this, and a timescale, over a year ago. It would have been finished by now, and it would have worked, first time. I know this because I know more about ... sorry, repeating myself.

Anyway, because the firm is huge, they have accepted a tender to do this job from a company that is also huge. It has taken a year or more for the purchasing department, contracts department, legal department etc to jump through the hoops. The deal is done. It is twelve (12) times as much as I quoted, and twice as long.

Now I see a document emerge, showing how they're going to do this (it won't work) and why they're going to do this (it's so wrong there's no path to right from it) and where they're going to do it (the Czech Republic).

WHAT? I scream. The fucking Czech Republic? See, they can do that. They're multinational. They have a branch in the Czech Republic, another in China, Malaysia, The USA, France, Belgium. Probably even in Guatemala.

So this isn't a British job. It's a Czech job. It won't be in the figures. And if my cost of living was that of a Czech, I would have done it for 200 Marlboro.

You know I said it wasn't racist? It's getting bloody close.

Shove your multinational globalisation all-embracing culture up your multination, global, all-embracing arse. Especially you, Mandy. You'll probably enjoy it.


I had to turn my radio off yesterday because I can't stand the tit on Radio 2 in the late afternoon, and the only other channel I have bothered to tune in is Radio 4.

It was Barnoess Prosser. Now, this isn't racist, sexist (come on, luvs), classist or anything, but I'd rather shove my knob along a cheese grater than listen to the horrible twangy whiney gratey foul noise that comes out of her gob.

I'm not any sort of class, grew up in council houses mostly, eventually made goodish and bought my own, ended up giving three of them away to the women looking after my kids, live in a shed, fucked up the arse by this government, thanks. So I'm not posh. But I can speak English in an accent that most people can understand most of the time.

I'm sure this is writworthy, so I will try to be careful. Actually, bollocks, no I won't.

Why the bloody hell has she got a Baronetcy anyway? What in the name of quango has she got one for? It isn't hereditary. And she grew up in Battersea. People in Battersea and W. Andsworth don't talk like that. She sounds like a fishwife. And really, I'm not posh, but if that noise came out of Julia Roberts I wouldn't shag her.

Why, Radio 4, are you trying to alienate your listeners? The people who listen to Ed Meyer and Humph aren't the sort of people who want to hear that vile snotlike drivel.

Just saying.

Please don't get me started on what she said. I didn't get that far.

Monday, 19 April 2010


I see from the TwitMobile that a certain Tweetess has said

"Indy front page made me smile. #dunkirkspirit #brilliantBritain #voteLabour"

And I had to go to the Indy. I am assuming that it is the "Independent", a mainstream newspaper, as opposed to a race or a kind of music.

The "Indy" says (and obviously I acknowledge this a copyright etc etc)

Volcanic Ash Crisis
Navy Rescue Plans for Stranded Britons

Coo. I didn't buy the paper. I assume it says the same.

Then I wonder what the Tweet was about.

Of course, people have been away, It's the Easter break, end of term, all that. And, of course, people didn't know that a volcano was going to play up.

There are a lot of Britons somewhere other than Britain, who don't want to be there, and who are probably running out of money, if not will to live. The Navy has ships, great big ones, which are probably not all deployed in Afghanistan or wherever today's war is. They will be full of sailors and diesel, too. Might as well bung them over to Spain, France or whatever and bring people back.

I would. Most people would. I don't suppose I'd wait until Monday and set up a meeting with Cobra either. So good, the right thing is done. As anyone would do. Cameron would, Clegg would, even the BNP bloke would have done.

Dunkirk Spirit, eh? Excellent evaluation of the situation. The Dunkirk Spirit, when Britons rally together against a common enemy. They don't rally against a sodding volcano, and they certainly don't #voteLabour when that means another five years of the same or worse, and as far as I know NOBODY asked for the idiot-in-charge anyway. Good God.

Or perhaps what was meant was a reflection of what really happened at Dunkirk in 1940? No. Because at Dunkirk, loads of Brits were rescued by pirates and fishing boats. Loads were killed. Many of the French resistance were left behind to surrender to the Germans. Had Hitler not decided to hold off for three days (and as far as I know nobody knows why he did), the whole bloody lot would've been massacred.

So no. The people abroad, unfortunate as they are, have been playing sandcastles and drinking sangria. They are not oppressed (not by anyone across the channel, anyway). Their lives are not in danger.

#brilliantBritain my arsehole.

But, one day, after we have despatched this bunch of troughing self-serving hubristic tossheads, it might be.


BBC Business Editor Robert Peston said, apparently, that the government will probably have to bail out a couple of airlines.

They won't have to bail out BA, because BA have a line of credit, and a few bob under the bed, and they can lay their hands on four billion pounds if they need to.

The banks cocked up on an almighty scale a couple of years ago. It now turns out that this cockup was engineered by a couple of chaps who decided that selling Bad Loans and then betting that they would be Really Bad was a Good Plan. For them. Sod the rest of the world. So the government bailed them out. Handed them, on a plate, several billion pounds of YOUR money.

Now, I am having a few problems with this bailing-out.

Firstly, the government isn't in a position to bail anything out. They're borrowing five grand a second which, to my tiny mind, is a lot - the five grand, obviously; a second is NOT a lot. And they have no plan whereby this amount gets any smaller - indeed, because of the way the world has worked for a very long time, the amount increases at a heck of a rate and the only winners are the people who lent it. These will be people with oil, I suspect.

Secondly, the government isn't in a position to bail anything out, because they don't have any money, apart from that which they forcibly take from people who work.

Thirdly, people who run businesses should be aware that the value of investments can go down as well as up. The volcano nestling in Iceland, the one nobody can pronounce (apart from Icelanders), has been there for quite a long time. It erupts now and again. There are quite well-defined geological reasons for this, so it shouldn't be a surprise. I suggest that if the business you run can be easily affected by volcanoes then you should maybe put some cash aside for the Rainy Day which has clearly arrived, and which is rapidly turning into a Rainy Week.

Let me test the water here by giving a couple of examples of why the government MUST not bail out these poor hard-done-by airlines.

I put some cash on a horse in the Grand National. I guessed, incorrectly, that the horse in question was fit, had four legs, and a jockey with some commitment to win. At least some of these turned out to be wildly inaccurate guesses, and I was eighty of your earth pounds lighter. I do not expect the government to bail me out. I was not intending to give them any of the thousand-odd pounds which I was destined to win, had I won.

And now, just in case I am not alone here, let me stick out my neck further. Some people buy houses. There is, according to people whom I know in the world of finance and banking (spits) a situation (for want of a better word) known as "undermortgaged". Undermortgaged is the state of earning more than the size of your mortgage permits. So, if you are happy living in a house whose mortgage consumes about five percent of what you earn, you "should" buy a bigger one. If you don't want a bigger one, you "should" buy some others and let them out. Fine, if that's what you want to do. You may be lucky, you may have good health, you may not live to 115. Then you can leave this "property" to your kids. They can do what they like. But perhaps you will be unlucky. Your horse may not win. The six numbers you chose may be a bit duff. A volcano might erupt. You may, in fact there is an odds-on chance you WILL, pick up at least one of the very many disabling illnesses such as Alzheimer's or Parkinson's, or worse. Or you may just get old, and your body is only a machine which, whether or not you eat five fruit and veg portions per day or drink ten pints of beer and smoke twenty fags, is very unlikely to perform as well as it did when you were a lad, or a lass. Fact.

At the moment, and I know this for a fact (although I needed a lot of evidence to believe it), the government will bail you out. If you have paid for some sensible insurance, you can use that to pay, or help pay, for someone to do some cooking, gardening, etc. If you have shoved every last penny into a Very Big House in the Country, you can keep it. All of it. Your kids can have it or, if you prefer, a cats' home.

Someone will be able to point out to me that this is the way things are supposed to be.

In the meantime I propose that the word "bail" should be applied to those things on the top of wickets.

Shit happens.

Friday, 16 April 2010


It seems to me that what really matters in the General Election is that Eddie Izzard and that authoress woman I blogged about a couple of days ago - I forget her name - are actively supporting The Party.

I know this, because they've both written inane articles in some tiny corner of a guest spot in the MSM, and subsequently everyone and their dog has Twat about them.

It is important that everyone votes the same way as Eddie Izzard (who I seem to remember was a camp/TV berk, but I googled him and now he isn't, so maybe he's a different bloke) and that authoress (Potter?) because she was skint and now she's rich.

I know it is important. But I can't for the life of me see how, or why.

So I have started a Twitty campaign, where you say something like

"What does actor Hugh Grant think of Labcondem? Or Cambrolegg? Only I'd be interested, as he played opposite Julia Roberts once. #justasking"

And I will carry on until someone answers.

Please feel free to join in. I have to know.

Thursday, 15 April 2010


I've read lots about Mr Devil in his Kitchen and a BBC bloke called Brillo.

As far as I can gather Mr Devil was (is) a LPUK chap, and Mr Brillo is a BBC reporter?

If I wanted to start a fight with someone I'd make sure it was on my turf. Mr Brillo wouldn't (couldn't) have a go at him on his blog, because he'd then get flamed by all the others. Sadly, all the others weren't in the TV studio. And Mr Brillo is a highly trained, experienced interviewer, and Mr Devil had no chance at all.

That's my summary. Good, isn't it? All I'm saying is, when it happens to you, you won't tell Mr B to fuck off. You'll shit yourself.

Perhaps I need more information. All the stuff I've read assumes I know more than I do.

A completely unrelated non-political thing but I wouldn't mind some feedback.

Apropos nowt much, I wonder if either (or even both) of my two readers would have a useful opinion here?

Two of my many daughters, A and P, are 10 and 8 respectively. One is 10 going on about 13, the other is 8 going on about 20.

Both of them make jewellery, as a hobby (as do I, which is probably why). They are both getting very good at it, putting me to shame with my old tired eyes, although I still get asked for a bit of help now and again. They humour me.

Anyhow, P has decided to design and print (using Word) some bi-fold leaflets advertising her services, which she is going to punt round the town on her bike, offering to make stuff for little profit to keep her in beads plus a few bob over for sweets and stuff. So I'm using the firm's toner. She calls it "P's Pearls".

A, not to be outdone, is setting up a web site using FrontPage. She will have to use my PayPal I suspect, or arrange for cash to be sent in plain brown envelopes. So I'm sorting our her hosting. She hasn't thought of a name yet.

Question: which is the more likely to succeed, and why?


The computer I use at work is stressed. There is a reason for it, I write stuff that needs stress-testing, so I load it up with a heap of M$ apps such as Outlook Express (an oxymoron), TweetDeck (blindingly bad memory hog) and so on.

When you stress a machine like this, it slows down considerably if you stress it more.

My blog comes up pretty quickly. So do many others.

But some are SO loaded up with widgets and adverts and graphics that I sometimes get bored waiting and close them down.

I f anyone would like to get a stress result on their blog page, please whack a link in the comments and I'll give you an honest lowdown on performance.

I'd hate to do this to you if don't want to know.

Morning, all!

Wednesday, 14 April 2010


I note with much interest that the authoress of Harry Potter, to my mind one of the greatest kid's books ever written, is poking in her two-penn'orth on a blog in the Times.

Many people have tweeted this link. Most of the ones I've seen are either dyed-in-the-wool drones, or people far too young to really remember the last Tory government. Nearly all are female.

Not knowing that much about the lady in question, I have taken the liberty of Wikking her, and it revealed that she married a Portugese bloke, in Portugal, and had a child. She was married for a year and a month. After 9 months of marriage she had the baby Jessica, and a further 4 months on, separated. None of which is any of my, or your, business.

What could be construed as my business is that she wrote this first best-selling book, which I have read twice, and which is awesome, whilst on welfare. She wrote it in Edinburgh, mainly in cafes, allegedly.

The father of that child is as responsible as she for the upkeep, and the baked beans required to feed her. If he was in Portugal and our authoress had decided to return to England, then the upkeep of the child, by the television journalist Jorge Arantes, was still his responsibility. Throwing yourself at the Welfare State is not the answer. You takes your choice.

The Welfare State was not owned by Labour in 1993-1995. Nor was it owned by the Tories. The Prime Minister at the time was John Major. The benefit system worked and people could afford baked beans. They could also afford something in cafes, apparently, unless it was all right at that time just to sit in a cafe and not order anything.

I suggest, because I don't live in a communist regime yet, that the benefit money which was dished out whilst she wrote that best-selling book should be paid back. In spades.

But she thinks she should bung the labour Party a million quid, based on what could, at best, be described as a dodgy memory.

I have been skint. Much more skint than that, largely because I was paying to support my kids who were living with their "single" mother. That's the way it should, and mostly does, work.

Live with it.


Tolerance of people regardless of race, creed or colour is essential in a civilised society.

It is clear why. It is because people have no choice as to their race, or colour. And they are entitled to their beliefs.

Homosexuality is the same. Apparently (I don't know, because I am heterosexual, and I can't help it) a homosexual can't help being so. I expect he/she doesn't want to be the way he/she isn't. I don't.

So I am civilised, as both of my readers will be aware.

I wear glasses as well, as a result of eye damage from working on VDUs for more years than I care to remember. I am also going a bit thin on top. And I have a small penis, as attested to by the emails I get daily offering me extensions and substitutes.

I don't actually care. You can call me anything you like. Slap-head (even though I'm not), specky four-eyes, anything. If I see that you have anything I can take the piss out of, such as a huge pair of bristols, I will call you "chesty" or something. You started it.

Now then, Mandy, this says that you, at 08.46, said that Cameron has a long nose.

I hope you're thick-skinned. You started it.

Oh, oh, oh. I am so looking forward to this.


Sorry. I couldn't think of a better word.

Today I feel like Winston Smith at the end of the book. I think I might have to come out and say I love Big Brother, and submit to the grinning pack of statist tossers, for they have clearly won.

Yesterday the Conservatives announced the best manifesto, in my opinion, since I can remember. "Join us", they cried.

"Coo," quoth I, and "Gor Blimey."

I was chuffed. At last, someone had the balls to say what I think needed saying. Enough of this bansturbation, Big State Red Tape and such.

"Yay!" I cried again.

Then I listened to the BBC, Radio 4, Eddie and the team. They interviewed some typical fellow-countrymen.

Interviewer: "You know who David Cameron is?"
Idiot: "No."
Interviewer "He's the leader of the Conservative Party".
Idiot: "Yeah."
Interviewer: "What do you think of the idea of taking control of your own life?"
Idiot: "Innit."
Interviewer: "Would you be prepared to volunteer?"
Idiot: "I dunno, like, naah, don't fink so."

This was obviously an isolated incident.

This morning, Radio 4, Humph and the team.

Interviewer: "What about setting up your own school?"
Idiot: "Sounds good."
Interviewer: "Would you like to help?"
Idiot: "Naah, had too many nephews and nieces."
Interviewer: "Do you think it's a good idea?"
Idiot: "Naah, government does all that. I just get along. Other people can do stuff and think."

And I conclude one of the following:

  1. Big Brother has won. He has, in only 13 years, reduced us to the state-dependent idiocy that he wants us to be.
  2. The people who I now feel ashamed to call my countrymen have always been pigshit.
Both of my readers will know that I am not normally given to losing it and resorting to the rant. Nor targeting the unfortunate.

In this case, I make an exception. Fuck the lot of them. I give up. I mean it.

Tuesday, 13 April 2010


... all the pies.

Labour drones, not my moniker. But I see it (probably incorrectly) as meaning people who are Labourites (whatever that is) and drone (as in spout meaningless cobblers).

It's difficult not to drone, on Twitter, because 140 characters isn't even enough for a good character assassination. And most people are more interested in how many people read what they write than in reading anything anyone else writes. Same goes with bloggers, I suppose, although I don't mind as long as both of my regular readers turn up now and again.

Eton. A school. Not my bucket of ferrets, actually, although I did once go to one of those schools (not Eton) until I was slung out for being a bit of a naughty boy. I have to say it was a horrible place, although most of the buggery and fagging had stopped by the time I went there. I believe that they're better now, although in some of them the uniforms resemble those of a manservant rather than a captain of industry.

I learnt Latin at mine. I learned that Latin is a dead language, as dead as dead can be. First it killed the Romans, but now it's killing me. And I learned what a gerund was. And dative, ablative, nominative and accusative. All cock, but handy when you're trying to learn your own language so when you write something you don't come across as an uneducated twonk. I also learned that, when Mr Latin walked across the room chanting ambulo, took out an unfortunate boy and told him to walk, chanting ambulas, and so on through ambulat, ambulamus, ambulatis and ambulant, that laying on the desk saying "ambulance - I ride" gets you six of the esteemed and whippy cane, as well as the due respect of the other boys.

I didn't go to my school because my Mum and Dad were rolling in it. I went because I passed the eleven plus and the other school was a comp.I was hated for that, by the other boys, especially the one on whom I got my own back - the reason I was expelled.

What I can reveal, in case anyone is still labouring (ho ho) under the misapprehension that these schools are rubbish, is that the opposite is true. They now have better facilities, better teachers (largely) more activities, that kind of thing, than most state schools. I emphasise "most". Most. Most people who go to them do so because one way or another, Mum ad Dad have ferreted away a bit of cash and they want little Johnny, or little Ellie,  to get on in life. And there's nothing wrong with that. And there's nothing wrong with getting scholarships, like little Ellie may have done, or assisted places, or bursaries. Nothing wrong at all.

Now my chap of the day Twittered "Eton". Like it's a bad thing. Yes, Etonians will have a better education than the blokes from the comp down the road, all in all. They will also have been sheltered from reality.

Many Old Etonians will get on in life through contacts with other Old Etonians. Many through opportunity. Many through education, determination.

Same with little Johnny from the comp.

Half of the Labour Party had a good education, at schools such as Fettes. Some are educated beyond their level of intelligence, which is scary and dangerous. Some are just thick and should still be delivering the post.

I personally think that I'd rather have someone running the country who's had a good education.

I'd definitely like someone who can talk without rolling his tongue round his mouth like he's got a bit of wine gum stuck in his teeth.

Apart from that, I'd like some freedom of choice, some liberty, some control of how my money is spent and lastly, I'd like someone from England, you know, the country that makes up more than the rest of the other bits put together.


PS, I'd also like campaigners to be able to make coherent arguments, rather than smacking the constituents in the face, and then being proud of that.

Monday, 12 April 2010

Twits: Bevanite

I'm bored with the smoking ban, election manifesto promises, even the Grand National. Other blogsters are dealing with them well.

I Twit, therefore I am a Twat. I see various Tweets, some of which amuse me, some of which are propaganda, most of which are unresearched Twaddle - so unresearched, sometimes, that I just wonder how successfully the brainwashing process has worked.

Tory Tweeters, beware, you are not safe either. But Labour Drones are a breed apart, so I will start with one.

I'm not saying who. Both of my regular readers, and Twittees, know that I am not terribly biased, save for against stupidity. Any indications that I am against the Labour movement are mere revelations of my detestation of certain of the establishment because of their self-satisfied smugness, not the ideals which they have chosen to follow.

Anyway, the target of my ad hominem attack today is a follower of one Aneurin Bevan's "teachings" or, more accurately, ideals. He or she is far too young to remember Nye (as he was affectionately called), as am I, although I was at least around when he died.

Nye Bevan was pretty thick, as are most of the politicians in the Labour cabinet today. Broadly speaking, the ones who aren't thick are lawyers.

Nye was born, and lived, in The Valleys. The Valleys are a pretty part of the UK but the economy there was pretty much based on digging black rocks out of the ground and burning them to generate the new-fangled electricity needed to make everything work. As such, there was work there, for ever and a day. Except that there soon became better, cheaper and cleaner ways of making the electricity and the black rock wouldn't last for ever. The way out of the Valleys was never to dig harder or longer. The way out was to become something else, in the same way as a postman (for instance) could. And the easiest, most direct route, was (and still is) via the unions, so Nye joined and worked his way up the ranks. As there was little competition, this was a speedy process. After a bit of kerfuffle involving incitement of the workers to revolt, Nye went to the Labour College in London, where he was duly brainwashed with the Marx manifesto, as they all were, and still are. He then returned to the Valleys where he was instrumental in starting the General Strike. From there he moved on to Party Politics, where he was a pain in the arse even by Labour standards, and subsequently proposed, and implemented, the National Health Service which was a Good Thing In Principle.

Good for him, I say. Needed doing. Shame it was done in the way it was, whereby the government took it over and messed it up, as they tend to do with anything they take over. I wonder what Nye would have thought had he received one of those propaganda leaflets on his 62nd birthday, saying that he could "see someone" in the next two weeks to help him with his cancer (from which he died shortly afterwards)?

The major problem with the Welfare State is that it could never have been implemented in the way in which it was, without removing responsibility of individuals for their own welfare. Nothing that has ever been taken over by government, ever, in any country, has worked. A government should be aware of this but, of course, each successive one knows better than the last.

The Drone to whom I refer today is sadly deluded, as was Nye. The only real difference between the two is that Nye was well-known within his own Party for being a dissident, not toeing the line - he often said things contrary to the Official Party Line, resulting in his suspension more than once.

I read the drone's blog once, but after a few sentences, one of which began with "I was sat", following which an apostrophe appeared as incongruously as a rabbit from a hat, I gave up. English being my natural language, I maintain that a prerequisite for a "good read" is that the author knows the difference between a tense and a participle, and the difference between a grocers and a grocer's. And indeed a grocers'.

But, Drone, I admire your commitment. Read more. Take off those blinkers, research a bit of history. I'm not naturally a follower of anyone, but I know which way lies success, and failure.

And get an editor. I hope you do well.

Friday, 9 April 2010


Inspired by the Fausty post linking to something that Mr Smith wrote. He's talking cock, IMHO, but there we are.

Short post. Dentist beckons. The lovely Wendy. Then Belgique, and chocolate, but don't tell Wendy. And considerable Leffe, and chips. So.

This is what I think about jobs. Civil service jobs, that is.

I want one.

Actually, no, I don't. I'd like the pay and pension, hours, T's and C's, lunch breaks and responsibility it entailed, but I couldn't do a job if I didn't believe in it.

But what I would like to see, and I think others might too, is a list of them. And what they are. And what they actually entail.

I don't think there is such a list.

I would like to see a list of all the civil service jobs in existence. How many of each there are. How much they get paid. What the pension is.

I'd like to see this, because I think I have the right to see this.

And if I can't see this (all right, forget the spies and stuff, who are secret, there can't be many of them), I think that I should not have to pay for them.

I shall use that in my defence.

I would appreciate an opinion from either, or both, of my readers.

Thursday, 8 April 2010


DEBill, as it now seems to be called. Digital Economy. Stupid name for a Bill. But I've read too much. I've been quoted-at more than enough.

I can't find the bill. I must be at the wrong end of the duck.

However, I have (easily) found the amendments, and it's a right carve-up. It's here, if you want to read it. And it's dull.

"Clause 18".

"Leave out Clause 18".

I think Clause 18 said "it is a criminal offence punishable by death and buggery, and not necessarily in that order, for anyone to knowingly, unknowingly, accidentally or otherwise, to take the piss out of a government minister especially Mandelweasel"

But it probably didn't. I have no idea. It's gone, anyway.

I don't agree with infringing copyright. I am by trade a programmer and I write software sometimes. I'd like to be an author; I occasionally write books but they're rubbish, mostly about talking haggises, but sometimes they are action thrillers with helicopters. Sadly they never have endings, because I can't do endings. Do feel free to ask if you want one, it will be a word document so I can email you it, then you can ignore it. I'd also like to be a composer and performer of music, but I have less than adequate talent in that direction so I stick to playing cockney songs on the piano in the pub. For beer.

If my livelihood depended on these things, as it probably will in the near future, I would be distressed if I found that people nicked more copies than they bought. I don't have a problem with people who do good stuff, whatever it is, being paid for it. Even handsomely - if it's that good, then it's worth it.

Wht confuses me is the kerfuffle about the DEBill though. Did everyone pirate software? No. Music? No. Books? No. I see the point about the "innocent until proven guilty" paradigm. Does anyone honestly think that's applied to the legal system in Britain in the last ten, if not twenty, years? Per-lease.

And yes, the MPs let us down, 40 of them turned up. It's not unusual. I have visited an MP, one who does a blog, actually, very much in the mention today. It was in his office in Portcullis House, across the road (or through the bunker) from the Westminster Gasworks. He was in the middle of talking to us when the "bell" went on his telly, and he just left and went next door to vote. A "whip", I think. Most of the time they don't. He hadn't heard ANY of the debate, as he had his back to the telly (which I was watching, as it was more interesting than him) but the sound was off. That's even more stupid than not voting at all. Hello, democracy.

But now, what I'm reading is going on about blogging, and connected purposes. Sorry, been reading too many Bills.

There doesn't need to be a law preventing people from badmouthing people who, quite honestly, need some badmouthing. There already is one, and it is a criminal offence, and it is part of the Telecommunications Act, and they can easily "prove" it was "you" and jail you for it. No, of course they can't, any more than the DEBill will allow. But I don't think there's cause for concern, any more than there was yesterday. And yes, there was cause for concern then, in spades. But nobody noticed?

The same Telecommunications Act makes it a heinous crime for you to flash you lights at an oncoming motorist to indicate that there's a speed trap ahead, incidentally.


Now, can we stick to the point? Or am I all over the place, as usual?

[expects posts from someone who thinks illegal filesharing is a Good Thing, oh, how jolly]

Wednesday, 7 April 2010


Either or both of my regular readers might remember Albert. If not, please look at the post before last - Albert is introduced there.

Albert is a minority.

We were discussing the policy of equality, and a future fair for all, "all" being Newspeak for anybody who is not a heterosexual white working male cider-drinking smoker with no disabilities.

Albert, a man of few words owing to his lack of ability to say many of them because of his stutter, says this:

"There is no such thing as equality. We should let society achieve equilibrium."

Interesting, Albert. I did science, so I know what equilibrium is. Equilibrium is the natural state of an object when all forces acting on it are equal and opposite. Or something.

So I looked it up. And I found, in the Wiki, this. It says that, in sociology, a system is said to be in equilibrium when there is a dynamic working balance between its interdependent parts.

Sounds pretty obvious. Sounds like common sense. Someone, though, has done a bit of research and a bit of thinking. It goes on to say that each subsystem will adjust to change in the other subsystems and will continue to do so until an equilibrium is retained. I think it means attained, but whatever.

Still obvious. That's the way of things, Albert. If left to their own devices, things will generally push and pull back until a happy, if not utopian, state is reached.

And then the crunch. The process of achieving equilibrium will only work if the changes happen slowly, but for rapid changes it would throw the system into chaos, unless and until a new equilibrium can be reached.

It's the same in physic, and biology, and any other science. You can't just throw raw power at something and expect anything but a mess. A railway train wants to travel at 70 miles per hour. There is plenty of electricity available to make it do so. If you take all the electricity (I know what I'm talking about, but I don't want to get geeky about this) and stuff it into the motor, the train will not instantly be doing 70 miles per hour. Parts of the motor will, the passengers will be covered in tea and sandwiches, the driver's neck will break and it will be on the front page of the news. So what the crafty driver does is to feed the electricity slowly into the motor, whereupon the train will accelerate slowly, then the motor will accept some more electricity and the train will accelerate further, and so on.

And so it is with society. I am all for equilibrium. As a heterosexual white working male cider-drinking smoker with no disabilities I don't have a problem with someone who is attracted to the same sex, who is black, who is unemployed through no fault of their own, who is teetotal, who doesn't smoke, or is disabled in some way. As long as they don't try to shove it down my throat, in which case I have a serious problem with it.

And, you know, Albert is right, again. We could have easily achieved equilibrium, and soon. A bit of explaining, a bit of education. Not big fucking posters the size of Kent saying


and then inviting me to get over it. I know that already. I don't agree with buggery or sodomy or whatever it's called these days, because I'm heterosexual, see? I don't suppose any gay people understand that. You do? Well, blow me down. So there never was a problem, apart from gay guys wearing the most ridiculous "village people" outfits, moustaches and hairstyles, and straight blokes having builder's bums and beer guts.


Albert, my mate, collected the golliwogs from jam jars. He has a fantastic collection, but he can't get them any more, which is a shame. He's what they used to call a coon, for God's sake. How can the golliwog be racist? I don't call him one (a coon or a golliwog), to his face or otherwise. To be honest, I don't actually notice what colour he is, because he has to wear a huge hairnet and when I see him he's usually covered in crap anyway - it's part of the job.

I have a mate who was unemployed for ages. He is a printer by trade, and he developed a back problem, which was so bad he actually used to scream when he stood up. His name is Frank. Now he has got a job working at a desk, which is nothing like what he was trained to do, nor in which field his experience was gained. But he gets paid. Not as much as he's used to, because he has to now and again have some time off because of the pain. But the lady who employs him is really good about it, and she doesn't get money from the government or state, and nor does Frank.

I have a friend who is an alcoholic. That's like teetotal but more enforced. If he has a drink he will be back in the gutter. I respect him for his abstemiousness, and he doesn't have a problem if I get ratfaced on cider and talk utter bollocks.

Most of my friends don't smoke. Most never did. I smoke outside their houses and bury the dogends in their flower beds.

And Frank is sort of disabled, as are lots of people I know who suffered as a result of the thalidomide scandal.

So there's all my prejudices buried. I became mildly racist once, in the eighties, when a planeload of Indians took my job. It took some time to realise that it was the stupidity of the employer, not the Indians, who were the problem. And me who had the problem, obviously.

A bit of explanation. A bit of education.

Or shall we, say, introduce a bunch of laws, a squad of enforcers, suppress freedom of speech? Oh dear no, for that way lies chaos.

And so it came to pass.

Vote anyone but Blowndelson.


I was going to come up with a proper work of art today.

Then I realised that not only have I no talent, no original ideas and no readership, but Captain Ranty has achieved what I regard as the absolute BEST post in a blog I have read in the history of EVER.

And he's not joking.

Vote Ranty.

Tuesday, 6 April 2010


A guest post.

My mate Albert asks if I can post this on his behalf. A bit of background about Albert.

Albert is my age, which is quite old. He's been here in England since he was two. He is from Jamaica, therefore he is as black as your hat. He has dreads, and he is a rastafarian. He has no idea who his father is. He works as a cleaner and is on a pretty low wage, and lives in a council house on a rough estate that I wouldn't take my car into, because its wheels have monetary value. He has a terrible stutter, which he says is because of the skunk that he has been smoking since he can remember, and which is why he doesn't have a better-paid job. But he is a very happy kind of bloke, and he enjoys all kinds of music, doesn't have any prejudices that I know of, and is pretty bright. Albert doesn't have access to the internets, but he does have a telly.

He says this of New Labour:

"I wouldn't give them the steam off my shit, especially Brown (the bloke, not the shit) and that Mandelson. And I'm glad Blair's gone. Shame the Tories couldn't find anyone better than Cameron though, he's Blair all over again."

Just to point out that there is another point of view.

OK, Albert?

"Yes," he says. "Post it up."


I have been reading the news. There isn't any. Apparently we are going to have a general election, and Gordon will say that later. Maybe he has already. We all knew when it was going to be, so I'm not over-excited..

But I found another story, not even a newsworthy one, but something about it caught my eye.

I always thought that when New Labour was formed, the gang who formed it were all idealists who saw a vision, albeit a seriously wonky one in my opinion, for the future of this once-great country, where everyone would be equal, including women, coloured people, gay men, lesbian women, broccoli, non-English-speaking pregnant immigrants in wheelchairs, MPs with mental problems, burglars and smokers*

And there is nothing wrong with having a vision, even if it is largely based on a book by George Orwell. There is nothing wrong with seeing injustice in the world and trying to do something about it. I know there are things wrong. Some people disagree with my views on what should be done and what should be left alone. That's why we have democracy.

Some people seem to think that the vision of New Labour is somehow right. I think they're so far wrong that there's no path to right from it. So vote, if you're going to vote against New Labour, for God's sake. If you're going to vote for them, think about going to the pub instead, see if you can afford a cider.

But the news article I read this morning tells me that I was tremendously wrong about New Labour.

The news article was about a piece of burnt toast, and it is here.

It tells me that, after all the speechmaking, posturing, legislating, warmongering and, quite frankly, turning this country from what I knew into the communist shithole in which I now find myself, it wasn't for any noble motives.

Just look at the size of that fucking house!

*one of those is not entirely true.

Thursday, 1 April 2010


I need add nothing to this awesome piece of good news.

I thought it was a spoof, but Auntie Beeb says it isn't.

Tomorrow may herald the news that smoking is better for you than New Labour.

Fuck, I hope so.

Have a happy Easter, everybody. I'm off to the shops to stock up on healthy, nutritious breakfast meat products. And chocolate.