Scousers Unite!…..or, How to win at the ‘Blame Game’

I slept late this morning, as my usual routine had been varied. I usually awaken  around 05.45, switch on the radio, listen to the Farming Programme, and then the Toady Programme, with news and comment by the BBC and its Leftist cohorts.  I still listen to the Toady slot, mainly because they cannot actually screw around with factual news; although they do try their level best to give any item the old BBC/Liberal/Socialist/Britain’s wrong again angle: but if you are even semi-alert, you can navigate your way to the truth. But this morning was different; all because of the ‘Effing Inquest’. As it had been mentioned some seventeen times in the first seventeen minutes, and my blood pressure was rising, I decided that ‘enough was enough’, switched the radio off, lay back and fell asleep again until I woke up just before 08.00 a.m. and made some tea for my wife and myself, before helping my wife get dressed.

I have written before, upon my own blogsite as well as on ATW, about the maundering thickly spread sentimentality which covers the obscene larceny which is ‘Scousedom, the very capital of all that reeks of reminders that ‘everything is someone else’s fault’. But the sheer lunacy of giving these maundering clowns an Inquest, the mind actually boggles. It was a sad day, for sport, for football, for the clubs; but the truth is singular. Those unfortunate people died because over a thousand drunken Liverpool ‘fans’ attempted to crash a gate to get into the Hillsborough ground because they did not have tickets. True, a panicked Police inspector authorised the gate to be opened because he feared for his own life, but he did not kill the 96, it was the thuggish actions of those thousand extra people which caused the deaths by asphyxiation and crushing! It wasn’t the lack of planning by the Police, it wasn’t the badly-planned access, policing and layout of the stadium, which was the cause of the deaths, although that bad planning may have been a contributor.

The whole absurd path of the Coroner’s Hillsborough Inquest, and the subsequent verdicts, including the sentence ‘The jury concluded that mistakes by South Yorkshire Police (SYP) and South Yorkshire Ambulance Service on the day had “caused or contributed” to the disaster but the fans did not.’could have been written on the second day of the farrago, thus saving all the Coroner’s time, as well as the vast amounts of cash paid to all the QCs who had settled around the honeypot of cash which had been generated immediately the Government caved and authorised the Inquest after years of pressure from ‘the grieving families’. Grief, possibly; at least for a while: but then the search for ’Justice’ began, and then ‘Accountability’; and then, finally ‘COMPENSATION’. It has always been about the Money, who gets it, how much there will be of it, and when can they spend it!
Scousers; I’ve poured better down the toilet!

Not really ‘Royalty’

We read and hear about, and watch all the tributes pouring in after the ‘death’ of yet another ‘superstar’ of the pop generation. I honestly will admit that, with my somewhat limited knowledge of; as well as interest in; the pop music scene in general, I thought this rather strange clown had actually died years ago. He was listed as being ‘eccentric’, but, there again; it all depends what the ‘fans’ like, (as long as it is understood that ‘fan’ is but the short form of ‘fanatic’).

As I stated before, my interest in this kind of noise which masquerades as music is minimal, with my memorable modern tracks being comfortably counted on the fingers and thumb of my right hand. My kind of music stirs my soul, illuminates the paths ahead, and lifts me into a higher plane every time I hear the majestic tones of the introduction to the slow movement of Beethoven’s ‘Emperor’ Concerto; or any one of a thousand different compositions: but I accept that many others have drastically different ideas about the music which they cling to, and if their choices differ from mine, that is, indeed the ‘Human Condition’.

But please, I beg you, no more bunches of bloody flowers, no more dressing in purple T-shirts in reverent respect of someone who, while possibly having a talent, also exploited it ruthlessly; no more stuffed toy bears, and definitely no more half-empty bottles of vodka, ‘a la Amy’, no more ‘showing respect’ for a man who probably looked upon the fools who worshipped the ground he floated upon as mere suppliers of the cash which gave him the lifestyle he thought he deserved. A talent? Possibly; but the true measure of a man is how he is remembered; and if the outpourings of ‘grief’ are such a measure, he didn’t really stack up at all!

The weighty debate

My mate’s wife was fat. She knew she was fat, but, as most of us all do, just didn’t do anything which might change her girth and her health. Bad diet, lack of exercise, no self control when it came to the treats; the cakes, the booze, the chocolate, the cigarettes, the mega-sized bags of crisps, she fitted all the negative symptoms. She was diagnosed as being in need of a replacement knee; but was told, quite firmly; that no operation would be performed until she lost a lot of her weight; as her weight was a significant factor in the problems associated with her knee. She took the lesson to heart, and in just over a year, lost seven stone in weight; but also persuaded her equally chubby husband to diet alongside her, and my mate lost weight as well. She didn’t complain to the BMA about the delay to her operation, despite the resultant time she suffered the pain in her knee, she didn’t run to the BBC Today Programme, she didn’t cry that she should have been given ‘advice’ on weight loss techniques, and best of all, she did not believe that she should have been treated differently because she was ‘vulnerable’!

Azra Bashir thinks and stated differently; her bodily problem was gallstones; she was refused an early operation, in the Consultant’s words, because of problems with her BMI (Body Mass Index), which was probably the Consultant’s way of saying, “We cannot operate on you yet because you are too bloody fat”: as was discussed, at length, in the BBC Toady Programme at 07.30 this morning.

So, was my mate’s wife wrong for not crying out that she was being discriminated against because she was fat, or was Azra wrong for believing she should have been spoken to more sympathetically, or given ‘weight loss advice’?


“Pecunia non olet” or “Money does not smell”

Lad from tough part of town makes good. It is a good headline, but the real story is somewhat disguised behind a fuzzy layer of pious bullshit and garbage disguised as filler material; but not too many people are either knowledgeable or alert enough to query the headline, the photograph, or that slightly grubby story behind the photo.

The Royal Military Academy, or to use its colloquial name, Sandhurst; is the training ground for British Military Officers, as well as candidates from many other Nations. One of the more imposing buildings which form the Academy is the Mons Hall. The name commemorates the First World War Battle, a battle which cost the lives of some 1,600 British soldiers, a battle which was fought against an enemy with a numeric advantage of over three-to-one, a battle where the Germans discovered the true mettle of highly-trained British riflemen, who shot their enemy dead at ranges of up to 1,000 yards. But we were too few, the French retreated too soon, exposing the flank on our Right, and the British Regiments had to retreat in order to prevent a wholesale slaughter if the Germans had succeeded in that flanking manoeuvre. Compared to the wholesale slaughter of the Somme, of the whole idea of advancing across a barbed-wire-strewn ‘killing-ground’ swept by machine-gun bullets, the Battle of Mons was a small scale affair, fought against an over confident enemy; but it was a small victory, and well worth commemorating in the name of part of the place where so many British officers had trained before being sent to the ‘slaughterhouse’ which was the Western Front.

But the Academy has fallen on hard times, cash is in short supply, especially from a Tory Government which prefers to give £12.7 Billions in so-called Development Aid to a bunch of larcenous dictators, quangos and middle-men, instead of funding worthy Defence Force projects within the UK. So the Royal Military Academy approached the blood-soaked rulers of Bahrein, that sandy stretch of the Gulf which holds a veritable ditch-full of OIL, and begged for the leavings from the table. So King Hamid, the tyrant who brought in the Saudi heavy mob to help crush the protesters who, stupidly and boringly thought that they might have a say in how their mis-managed Nation was run, dipped into the petty cash, which is what £3 million is to these goat herders who sit on a veritable sea of oil, and all he wanted in return was his name on the Front Porch. Oh, and the chance to hand over the Sword of Honour at the final Parade day!


So much for our nation’s history and sacrifice!


Nothing sounds louder than Silence!

I have often considered the simple truth that we no longer have ‘free speech’ in this benighted country of ours to be the best hidden, least understood, and of course least challenged fact of modern times. Consider the scanned photo of the ‘AA Gill Comment’ page of todays Sunday Times reproduced below. The simple mechanism used by Mr. Gill, alongside the willing Times Editorial staff does one thing, and one thing alone. That blank space demonstrates a story which the paper’s lawyers have successfully told their editorial colleagues must not be even referred to obliquely, but that silence, that ‘blank, empty space’ speaks with a louder voice than anything placed in print. It screams, it shouts, it hollers, louder and louder, that the Appeal Court Judges were, are, and will be held in the utmost contempt themselves if they do not reverse their injunction on Monday morning.


I doubt that there is a single person within England and Wales, with access to T’InternetWebThingy; who does not know, for a definite fact, who the two celebrities are who have successfully besmirched their so-called ‘Wedding vows’, and I also doubt if there are more than two who actually care about the olive-oil trysts, along with the unprotected anal sex, allegedly ‘demanded’ by that the junior member of that same ‘celebrity’ pair. Apart from the gross waste of olive oil, along with the detriment caused to the Capital’s sewage networks by the flushing of all that used oil down the drains; the only ‘damage’ is to the image of this allegedly ‘loving’ couple, whose ‘vows’ were splashed across the headlines and pages of the Gossip Magazines as though they were the ‘First Couple’, or some other celebrity status icon.

The solicitors who leapt to persuade this ‘couple’ that an injunction was the only way to go have obviously never heard of the Streisand Effect; and, as with Ryan Giggs, would have given better advice if they had told the ‘slippery one’ that he ought to keep his todger zipped up, and just lie back and enjoy the Furnishing. The Appeal Court mob ought to be shown, in detail, how the Internet actually works, and how their supposed injunctions do not even stretch across the Irish Sea!

Olive Oil Slider

The Canadian-born film producer tells MailOnline (04April16): “I am for 100 per cent equality across the board for everybody, in all walks of life,’ David Furnish, 53.

“So the designation of a title is an example of something we need in order to get there. The reality is, if a woman is married to man with a title, she gets a title,” he argues.

‘”I think everybody should have the same opportunities and the same privileges and the same honours,” reveals David. “I think if we could just level the playing field in life as much as possible, then we’d all be in a much better place.”

Sir Elton, 69, was knighted by Queen Elizabeth II in 1998 during her New Year’s Honours list for his services to pop music and his work for Aids charities.

David argues the honours system should be made more relevant to the modern age.

“I don’t really understand the history of titles and the aristocracy in this country that much,” he admits, acknowledging that he is not even sure what his correct title would be if he was given one.

Tell you what, David ducky; how’s about ‘Slippery Pillock of the Year’?