So, three toffs and their wives go to this wedding...

Sorry, did I say three toffs? I meant two toffs and a hypocrite.

Still, at least they're all friends. Sweet. 

Who you callin' racist, whitey?

"Black racist" is an oxymoron because obviously only white-skinned imperialists can be racist.

In the Marxist sociology which underlies all British public policy-making, especially in education, discrimination on the basis of race by people of any other complexion is always merely wholly legitimate defense of their human rights resulting from their historical oppression by whitey who must just suck it up.

What? Oh. Well, since you ask, no. White people may not organise themselves into any form of association with a name which includes the word 'white'. Obviously, an inflammatory phrases like 'white activists' would constitute an unequivocal direct threat to non-white people. To prevent the resulting (and justified) rioting which would destroy large parts of South London, Bristol, Birmingham and South Manchester and several  Northern England mill towns, Inspector Knacker would be obliged immediately to arrest the leaders of any such organisation who would find themselves spending a few months, if they were lucky, behind bars. Outraged MPs on all sides of the House would put down Urgent Questions to the Home Secretary and Prime Minister, the first of them possibly being tabled by the Right Honourable David Lammy MP.

The chairman of Ken’s re-election campaign, David Lammy MP, was guest of honour a few weeks ago at a meeting of Jasper’s new front organisation, Black Activists Rising Against Cuts (BARAC – geddit?) Jasper himself spoke alongside him.

Telegraph - Gilligan 

I'd intended to provide a link to Jasper's personal website but his account has been suspended.

Polecat goes for the jugular

After all the nauseating (if realpolitik) lovey-dovey rose-garden pixie-dust coalition-partners crap which can never mask the on-the-ground reality of the self-serving, lying nastiness of the Liberal Democrat Party, what a relief it is to see good old Tebbit back in action, swinging with his Right and landing a good 'un right on one of their nastiest wannabes, a gobshite (my word of the day) who runs Hoon  sorry - Huhne a close second.

Thank you, Norman. Your Lordship, you are a welcome breath of fresh air in this foetid stench of stale flowers.

I'm a big boy, I am

I received a spam this morning from some kind foreign gentlemen offering to enhance my... prospects. Hadn't heard from them for ages. I wonder why they stopped writing to me? Maybe word got out.

No, really? We're shocked. Shocked, we tell you.

Pondering The Affair of the Marred Reputation, I find myself mildly amused at the outraged clamour of the media about 'all these appalling superinjunctions' - and more than mildly curious about the position of some BBC top bananas.

Everyone with even a passing interest in the political circus, in whose wagon-train he and his media friends (sic) are first class passengers, has been aware for years of Mr Marred's hypocrisy-on-the-high-wire turn. It would be vaguely interesting to enquire how many highly-placed hacks and editors have savaged him in private, and how many of them conspired with him to keep him up there at his big-top vantage point from which, to great applause from, erm, Righteous people like himself, he has shat upon people with proper jobs which pay a lot less than his but carry terrifying life-and-death responsibilities. You know, Prime Ministers, Home Secretaries and suchlike, people charged with ensuring protection for the helpless, keeping the country solvent, defending us against our enemies (yes, I know... but we'll do that another time), war and peace and all that. Stuff involving more heartache, headache and stress and many fewer dinners at the Ivy than Mr Marred's own grubby trade.  

Naturally, I consider Gordon Brown a political criminal and borderline lunatic but recalling his humiliation at the hands of Marred, forced to subject himself to interrogation about his private life and his suitability for public office by a man he knew to be a whited-sepulchre gobshite, and on the ethically-challenged BBC too, one might almost feel sorry for the bastard. I said 'might'.

Where is the 'respectable newspaper', apart from the entirely honourable and courageous Private Eye, whose editors and proprietors have even considered dismantling Marred's dirty armour, pro bono publico? Oh, there has been the occasional impotent splutter but, in the meantime, why has Marred been so well-paid by so many media moguls who, when criticised, protest that it is their job to 'speak truth to power' in defence of Liberty, against the malignity of over-mighty 'justices' and the mendacity of corrupt and inept politicians and 'opinion formers', the latter including themselves, and especially hack-royalty anchors on the flagship political interview programmes of the main publicly-funded terrestrial (and world-reaching) TV channels.

It would be outrageous to even imagine a quiet Green Room exchange concluding with, 'Say that again, sunshine, and I'll see you in jail for contempt'... because that could and would never happen, obviously.

If Guido's little poll is any guide, the tide of anger is gathering strength. Any waves lapping at the doors of Broadcasting House, yet? And would it matter to those within, anyway?

Breaking: whiskery old story that everybody already knows

If you set today aside for clearing out your sock drawer, feel free to skip this item and carry on with what is obviously more important business.

Subs and headline writers on all newspapers were pissing themselves last night as they made up today's first editions. The BBC staff bar ran out of Glenlivet.

"A leading journalist lift his own gag on the press freedom for which he has fought all his life."

Having used the coercive force of the High Court against his colleagues, thereby preventing them from reporting stuff which he would have reported himself if it had been about someone else, the A-list hack said last night that, while his own sickening hypocrisy was obviously threatening his professional credibility and damaging his earning potential, this was a principled decision. He insisted that it had absolutely fuck all to do with current public fury at the behaviour of certain perverse and senile judges who smack their lips at their own power every time they threaten the citizenry with imprisonment just because they can, whenever a rich bastard such as Andrew Tosser asks them nicely.

Mr Tosser also denied that his action has anything whatever to do with the fact that incredulous jeering from 100 per cent of his media colleagues had reached such an intolerable level that he now has to buy his own drinks, nor with the dawning realisation that the dimensions of his marital and extramarital equipment have featured regularly in pub quizzes for the past eight years.

Mr Justice Eady is a fine upstanding gentleman. Andrew Tosser is a wanker. Ian Hislop is 94.










  

New barricades going up

A new group blog launches today: Orphans of Liberty, at which a group of libertarian/conservative or at least anti-socialist-statism bloggers will post intellectual sorties against the enemies of liberty, both here in the United Kingdom and elsewhere.

Take a look sometime. It might give you ideas.

Give me liberty or give me...  no, just give me liberty, you bastards. Death will come in his own good time. Meanwhile, where's that referendum I was promised by, oh, everyone, wasn't it? No, not that referendum. The other one.

QOTD, cc. whatisname... Labour leader... never mind

Like it or not, no country can pretend that they don’t need to show their creditors that they have a plan to pay them back.

Pointless gesture, political mistake - and bloody rude

Cameron really should get a grip. Of Hippy Hilton. By the balls.

It is simply not on for a Prime Minister to show up at a state occasion - any state occasion - dressed 'down' simply because it suits his personal political agenda to do so. This is not about you, Mr Cameron.

The marriage of a future king is as formal an occasion as one could imagine, short of the coronation or funeral of the monarch. There are rules about these things.

At a wedding, no matter who you are - or think you are, you take your cue from those organising the ceremonials and dress to compliment and show respect for the senior members of the wedding party, as well as the marrying couple. The senior person on this occasion is the Queen in her role as Queen. One dresses accordingly. Especially if one is a Conservative.

Is one a Conservative, Mr Cameron?

This stupid insolence reduces Cameron to the level of Gordon Brown with his dismally chippy insistence on wearing his office clothes when his host, the Lord Mayor, and all the other men present were in white tie, as specified on the invitation. It made Brown look... exactly what he is. A rude and obsessive arsehole.

One is also reminded of Michael Foot in his labourer's clothes at the Cenotaph on Remembrance Sunday. Everything else Foot ever did, for good or ill, was diminished by his petty-minded public behaviour on a national occasion at which everyone else was formally attired. This sort of rudeness led the electorate to deem Foot unfit for high office and got Brown kicked out at the first opportunity. Now there's a thought, Dave.

David Cameron and Margaret Thatcher at the Cenotaph

So will David Cameron never again wear formal dress? Can he envisage no occasion at all which would warrant his digging out the stripeys or the soup and fish? It will be interesting to see whether any occasion will arise in the future which, in Dave's view, proves more important than a state occasion in the presence of the Sovereign. I am racking my brains to think what on earth that occasion might be. The wedding of one of his Oxfordshire county set? One of Samatha's grand cousins? An OE dinner, perhaps?

If Cameron were to treat his personal friends as casually as he treats his Sovereign and the watching nation, and show up at their sons' weddings dressed any old how, there would pretty soon be precious few stiffies on the Cameron mantelpiece. Is Dave prepared to be blackballed by just about everyone he knows? Is Mrs Cameron?

The entire Conservative vote is watching you, Cameron. Has it crossed your mind to wonder how this will be viewed? How many otherwise bankable votes you might be trashing by behaving like a political weasel and an utter social arse, in the tradition established by Foot and Brown?

Hello, Mrs Cameron? Is that you? Look, I think the old man's lost his grip. Have a word, dear girl, before he decides to dig his heels in on this. I mean, social and political suicide, over a bloody suit? Put your foot down. It's for his own good.

Balanced survey by entirely reputable pollster.

Question:

- Would Gordon Brown make a good IMF head?

Possible answers:

- A. Yes, his experience as chancellor make him perfect for the role

- B. No, I agree with the current PM

No bias in the phraseology, obviously, in the choice of 'Brown is perfect' or 'Cameron is right'.

What? Really? Well, I.... d'you know, I would never have spotted that. Astonishing. And in a respected national paper like the... oh.

Remember, this question is put to GUARDIAN READERS who, in addition to being mainly taxsuckers under threat from 'the current PM', are genetically predisposed, according to Guardian editorial SOP, to laud any Labour PM, especially McDoom, Saviour of the World, and to curse to perdition disagree on principle with any Conservative PM but particularly Old Etonian Dave.

So anyway, the survey result is entirely predictable, no?

Mwahahahahahahahahaha.

POGWAS.

The Guardian. (Wrong about everything. All the time.)

Damn. Marmalade-y toast crumbs everywhere

Catching up with some book reviews over breakfast, this caused some unfortunate spattering:

This is a book which it is quite impossible to review. All a man can do is quote, then walk slowly round the room touching the furniture.

Which book? you ask. Here's a clue.

... husband who is portrayed as such a force for good he is virtually an extra-terrestrial being intervening in the affairs of men.

I suppose it may have caused a brief upturn in sick-bag sales before it was remaindered.

Political essay of the week

By commenter Tayles at Toby Young's blog

One of the reasons the Left hates Thatcher so much is that she debunked the myth of the 'working class struggle'. Rather than depicting working folk as members of an oppressed group, exploited by a wealthy property-owning class, she made them realise they were part of a broader social hierarchy through which they could rise by the application of skill and hard work.

This denied the chippy inadequates at the bottom of the socialist movement of any meaning or purpose. Their moral outrage became exposed as envy and self-pity. Meanwhile, the political elite at the top of the socialist movement were robbed of a class of pet proles who they could dote on and control, and with it went their sense of righteousness and their right to rule.

One of the achievements of New Labour was to reinstill the notion of vulnerability among a large part of the population, and to convince them that they needed the helping hand of politicians and bureaucrats to cope with the rigours of life.

It's little wonder that the Left continues to spit Thatcher's name as if it characterises some dark age of human existence. For them and their interests it certainly did.

What he said.

Dear Mary Wakefield,

I write in the hope that you may be able to help me.

The thing is, Mary, the little woman, fickle bint that she is, has moved on from sighing over your man Fraser Nelson (sorry, Nelson, old bean). Her latest dream-squeeze is this telly historian wallah, name of Ferguson. Niall of That Ilk. Maybe you recognise the name?

During Ferguson's last stand, I swear she breathed the wistful words 'alpha male' on a badly-suppressed sigh. Quick as a flash and in a marked manner, I riposted with 'What?' This finely-honed witticism elicited a heavenwards stare, the full slowly-raised eyebrows job, then a throw-away tsk and a withering glance before my beloved swayed dreamily kitchenwards, bloody well sighing again.

First Nelson, now this Ferguson. I mean, Mary, exactly what have these handsome, fit, virile, right-wing, brainy, politically sound, intellectual Caledonian types got? I mean, that I haven't. Eh? Eh?

Is it the accent? I am... ah... cresting the hill, Mary. Is it too late for me to essay the North British accent and bone up on a bit of history, do you think?

I have been practising Ferguson's beetled-brows meaningful stare in the mirror. I have to say I find myself quite convincing. With regular practice in the bathroom (power-shower full-blast) I am also close to mastering his pedagogical end-of-sentence downward inflexion - the one conveying, 'This is a statement of the bleeding obvious which only a socialist thicko like Willy Hutton could possibly not get'. Goes with the brooking-no-argument sustained glare. I can do that quite well, although it does not yet elicit the correct response from the dear spouse. Think of ghastly Xanthippe and poor old Socrates.

I suspect I have a rather better chance with my 'in-the-half-light-I-could-almost-be-Ferguson' than I have with my version of your man Nelson's glittering-prizes-await-me-school-prefect persona which has, I am afraid, proved elusive so far.

Oh, yes, and the little woman has mentioned 'decent haircuts' - in tones of asperity, I might add - and I can't help noticing that both my new rival and his illustrious predecessor are both rather well-coiffed. Any idea who their barber is? Or where Ferguson gets all those blue shirts - assuming it's not always the same shirt, of course. Wait... there's a thought. The old girl is a stickler for personal hygiene and punctilious laundry habits. If she thought... but of course a bastard like Ferguson would have girls falling over themselves to take in his washing. And, given the times we live in, the odd bloke too, I shouldn't wonder.

Pathetically grateful for any tips, I remain

Yours,

Prodicus

Promoting the Rally Against Debt

The Rally Sign-up page at Facebook. The Rally News page at Facebook.

Feel free to use these graphics. Other people will come up with better ideas... check the Facebook pages.

More here.

See you there.

The Rally Against Debt.

I have a dream

This morning, of all mornings, I leapt from my bed full of joy and hope for the future.

Picture it, my friends comrades! Edward Miliband in Number Ten, President Balls in Buckingham Palace. Britain leading Le Plus Grand Projet forward into the long-foretold flowering of Socialism, when sisters across the entire continent will be brothers! *

I see the last worker laying down her tools and running smiling to the altar of Glorious Saint Harriet, there to receive her very own token of the wonderful reward foretold by Prophets Marx and Serwotka, the communion awaiting every one of the proletarian faithful: a tiny faux-silver platter bearing the shrunken head of a banker nestling in a bed of now-abolished despised 'banknotes' - a riot of colour! It will look lovely on the sideboard, Mother.

Street-parties across all the former and now obsolete nations will celebrate worker-control of… everything! Only of course there will be no actual workers. Sod that. Big Brother can pay, out of all that confiscated capital. For a while, at any rate.

Yes, yes, tsk - look, there are flaws in everything if you look for them but let us not be small-minded about this, comrades. All things are possible because the workers, united, can never be defeated! Rise up and share my dream! Riot Now!

None of this will come about, friends comrades unless we all work for the Glorious Day. It is our duty and I shall not flinch. I'm off right now to the local Labour Party Rooms to join up. Then it's on to the local UK Uncut squat for Chablis and nachos sponsored by Polly Toynbee. Day One of the Revolution! Yay! Vote Labour! Come on, you re-Eds!

'The People's Flag is deepest red... ' Anyone know the rest of the words?

A worker toasts the death of capitalism.

* and vice versa. No discrimination here, comrade.