As long as they keep it within the family!

As the old joke used to go, ‘There is nothing wrong with incest, as long as you keep it in the family’. Seems as though the Redbridge Muzzies from Pakiland have taken it right on board.

 

Strangely enough, I reckon that they should be encouraged to interbreed ever closer, so that they will genetically die off within two generations, and, of course, their tribal and religious ideas will perish with them.

So, no French kiss for Maria?

Readers of my occasional diatribes and wild rantings about so-called ‘sports stars’ will have gathered I am, in general, no fan of any sport. As a very young boy, I accompanied my dad and my eldest brother to a local football match, but disgraced myself, and of course; my dad and my brother for cheering the wrong team’s goal. They might as well have held up a large banner, which said ‘He is definitely not with us!’ But I digress. I accept that, to many millions, the sporting heroes are as ‘the gods who have consented to live amongst us’: those talented people whose skill, perseverance and native talent have made them great at whatever sport or game they excel in can, virtually, do no wrong: in the eyes and minds of their legions of supporters, of course. Whether in activities on the sports ground, or indeed off it, they are given a ‘free pass’ because they are ‘special’. Whether football, athletics, tennis; the top people are courted, hunted and acclaimed, and paid huge sums of cash just to get them to perform: and I just honestly do not get it. I cannot see the draw, the pull, the very reason why people, in all other aspects perfectly reasonable and normal, travel huge distances, spending ever-larger sums of cash, to watch and support a team, or an individual, who excels at the endeavour, sport, game or hypnotic event of their choice.

But the one thing which I do, in very great detail, really ‘get’ is the general attitude of sports administrators towards sports ‘stars’ when they are found to have gone beyond the rules, and enhanced their activities on the pitch, or the field, or the track; or indeed the court, by the judicious use of any type of illegal or synthetic drug. The administrators usually fall over themselves to make excuses for these druggies, using such lame terms as ‘They have served their sentence’ / they have made amends’ or any other of the totally bland words which quietly demands that everyone should forgive and forget’, or to use that other well-worn cliche ‘to move on. Its all about ‘bums on seats’, or the ‘draw of a big name’: conveniently forgetting that that same ‘big name’ has been shooting steroids for years, or injecting or swallowing the latest ‘designer’ drug which is guaranteed to metabolise out of the way of the urine testing regimes within fifteen milliseconds after the medals have been awarded.

So I am more than entranced to be able to report that the DRUG CHEAT Maria Sharapova has been notified that she will not be allowed to compete at the French Tennis Open, as the administrator (cheers, Bernard Giudicelli) has firmly stated ‘There can be a wildcard for people returning from injuries, there cannot be a wildcard for people returning from doping,’. So drug-free players can compete in the knowledge that they are only battling against other human beings, with no ‘hot sauce’ added to the mix!

Two deaths, two very different messages in Memoriam.

Just about a year ago, a woman was murdered. Her killer was either a) a hardened Neo-Nazi activist, an extremist agitator and Far-Right-wing Britain First supporter who planned this act as the beginning of the Fifth Reich: or b) a lone mentally-unstable fruit-and-nut-case, a sick and worried man who sought mental health help, but was turned away with the advice that he should make an appointment. That advice trained this sick individual’s mind towards revenge; and Jo Cox died because he had access to a weapon. She was a mouthy left-wing  Labour Party MP, and her death was immediately turned into a Left-Wing-good / Tories and Right-wing supporters evil, bad and Europe-hating nasty bastards circus; with The House of Commons recalled so that everyone could sing ‘KumbaYAH’, and tell stories about how good, and kind and caring and-on-and on-infinitum she had been. Her death was labelled, with of course the guiding hand of her lefty-breathing husband, as a political murder (I mean, what else could it possibly be; like, innit?”) but fortunately the voters of this Nation of ours were not taken in, and the Referendum vote was not swayed: but not for the want of trying!

Some twelve-odd years ago, a young Scots lad was walking down a street, he died because he was white, and because he was there. Kriss Donald, a slightly built, 15-year-old White schoolboy was abducted from the streets of Pollockshields, Glasgow, on March 14, 2004. His kidnappers were five British Muslims of Pakistani descent, intent on exacting retribution on a white male in revenge for a previous fight, although Kriss was believed to be a stranger to his five attackers. He was taken to an area of waste ground where he was finished off after being tortured. Before he died, it is alleged that he was castrated, burned with cigarettes; his eyes were gouged out and he was stabbed repeatedly. Once on the waste ground he was doused with gasoline and set alight whilst still alive. He crawled a few metres and then, mercifully, died. A walker who discovered his body the following morning was unaware that it was even human, remarking, that at first, he thought it was the carcass of an animal.

The results of the investigation was that three Muslim Pakistani men, all born in Scotland, are serving minimum sentences of twenty-three years or more for the unprovoked death of this defenceless young man.

Cox’s husband has yapped about, like a terrier after a bone, and is begging for an an hour’s postponement of all Election business, so that his mouthy wife can be ‘remembered’. I am still awaiting a similar exercise to the memory of young Kriss, whose murder was, if anything, more pointless and random that that of that dead Labour MP: or is that possibly the real difference, he was just a young Scots boy from nowhere in particular, and she was a politician?

 

…and the ice-cap over Hell grows ever thicker!

I believe that, in the past, the ONLY time I have ever agreed with Labour Leader Jeremy Corbyn was when he stated that it was, indeed, a nice day. We hold such opposite ideas and views, of politics, of the very definition of terrorism, of economics, of everything concerning the governance of this Nation that it would be impossible to list the entirety of our disagreements.

Taking our disagreements as read; I freely acknowledge that the leaked Manifesto rings certain bells for the starry-eyed Corbyn supporters; the ones who paid their cash to join the Party and swept Jezza to power against the wishes and will of just about all the sitting Labour M.P.s, and many Labour elders, (at least, the ones who actually think) who can actually remember the contortions which the Labour Party had to accept and accomplish before a certain Anthony Blair took them to power back in 1997.

Those, who, like myself, can remember even further back in time, to the days when large stretches of the British economy were State-run, and, far from the glistening polish placed upon the words of that same manifesto, the stark reminders of the Union-run so-called industries resound ever louder. I can remember when entire shipyards were silent, struck down by union disagreements over such intricate activities as ‘who actually twanged the chalk-filled string which denoted where the boilermaker was allowed to flame-cut a steel plate. I also recall the miners’ strike, where thousands of bully-boys were bussed to attempt to stop coal being delivered to power stations, and the near-anarchy of the Union who attempted to bring down a Government.

The manifesto, an open call to bring Marxist philosophies into play by a Hard-Left would-be Government reads pretty good to the ‘faithful’, but it is a clarion call to a failed philosophy, a beacon which leads the path to only one end; defeat on such a massive scale that should spell doom for Corbyn, his side-kick McDonnell and his Communist Momentum buddies. At least the Labour leader is honest, and has nailed his colours, the Red Flag of Communism and Socialism; firmly to the Labour flagstaff; so that no-one can allege that anything was hidden, or disguised, or merely hinted at.

The Suicide Note has been written, and all that is now needed is for Corbyn to kick the chair away by placing his name to it, and the Tories will rule for a decade or more!

Guardian columnist finds plot, then loses it!

The Guardian now can reveal: Brexit; the local elections; Prime Minister May’s ascent to eternal power (bit like Kim Jong-Un but with less bloodshed, nicer hair, and not too many rockets on display); they are all due and down to one man. Yes, it can now be revealed that Donald Trump, along with his alleged hidden backers such as Nigel Farage, American billionaire Robert Mercer, Steve Bannon, along with a host of shadowy extra players, a Data Analysis firm and, again, multiple anonymous players, caused Britain to vote to leave the European Union.

Or, so Carole Cadwalladr reasons, or believes, or asks the reader to take her fantasy notions as gospel.

If you plough through the massive threads which our Carole has spun, you will see that not much proof is printed, but lots are hinted at. I did read most of it, but blanched when asked to believe that a billionaire funded various projects and companies who stated that they could actually change the way people thought, reacted, and indeed voted. I know a small amount about subliminal advertising, which is possibly one of the tools allegedly used by the companies who took on the gigantic task of influencing British voters to leave a politicised and highly-centralised bureaucracy without fairly astute British people detecting that their thought processes were being fiddled with. Many eminent psychologists, one of whom I worked for while at Durham University, categorically state that sub-lim adverts cannot work, because all human beings have different mental thresholds, and if just one ‘hidden’ message is revealed, the resultant uproar would see the guilty advertiser bankrupted within weeks.

She claims that old-fashioned NornIrish DUP political stalwarts slapped all their cash down to fund Facebook and YouTube adverts to get their gullible electorate to vote to leave. If they did, their cash was all wasted, because the majority of Northern Ireland voted to stay within the tender tendrils of the EU.

As for the results of the Referendum, she claims that 1% of the British voting population was targeted with specially-moulded adverts. All I remember about both campaigns was the ultra-heavy threats from the likes of Cameron, Osborne and all the self-elevated ‘elite’ who think that they ‘know best’, and the fairly pedantic and stuttering attempts from the TWO campaigns trying to get us to vote ‘LEAVE’.

 

As for the alleged attempts to raise Theresa May to the status of a demi-goddess, unbeatable by anyone, she fails completely to mention the cack-handed manner by which our present P.M. rose to her position, which was not to make as many utterly insane mistakes as the rest of the candidates for the job; and then to ignore completely the lunacy by which the Labour Party contrived: by electing a Marxist / Pacifist / long-time rebel against his own Party’s beliefs as Leader, and then confirming the stupidity by bringing John McDonnell, a Marxist who lies about his long-term admiration for the Communist and Stalinist blood-stained figures from the past; to ensure that the Labour Party are simply unelectable.

 
Sorry, Carole; your thesis might help win you prizes at some weird ‘Conspiracy Theory’ get-together where the Illuminati reign forever, but as for real-life issues; you just got a large ‘FAIL’ stamped across your entry.

British sewage exported world-wide

saudiembassy

The building pictured above is the Embassy of Saudi Arabia in London. Inside those walls, everything is subject to the domestic law of the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, and is also the official home of His Highness Prince Mohammed bin Nawaf bin Abdul Aziz – Ambassador of the Custodian of the Two Holy Mosques. In terms of International Diplomatic Protection, if the Ambassador was to advance on a Saudi citizen, detained inside that Embassy; he would and could be able to swing one of those jewel-hilted but razor-sharp swords which the fuzzy-wuzzies so prize, and lift the head of that same Saudi citizen clean off his shoulders, and there is not a single thing that the British Government could do about it, because Saudi Law operates inside those expensive gates and walls, and that is it. The Brits could request the Ambassador’s removal, and declare him ‘Persona Non Grata’. But they would be obliged to let him travel in his armour-plated limousine to Heathrow, with only a peremptory check on his Diplomatic Passport, and he would then be able to fly away to freedom, a killer who had literally walked away free.

But all the foregoing words are mere supposition, because the Ambassador, for all I know, is totally against the use of force, and the very sight of blood might even make him faint. But the theory, the philosophy, of the Saudi Rule of Law is correct. The reason why I write these words, and the use of such an outrageous suggestion in illustrating them, is simply to express my own personal outrage at the actions of the British High Commission in Canberra, and Consulates around Australia, in furthering and promoting homosexual ‘marriage’ in a country which does not itself allow such perversions to be legalised. This is, to my mind, the outcome of the Cameron era, and the Foreign Office, itself a veritable hot-bed (to use an apt phrase) of homosexual connivance. But, because these celebrations of perversion are  behind the walls of British Consulates or the Commission, with their oh-so-careful observance of Diplomatic Protocols, the Aussies cannot literally do anything about the sewage which is being washed up in the midst of their cities.

Britain’s favourite flower comes a’callin’

My gardening techniques are, in my wider family, legendary. My late brother, himself a green-fingered fanatic, described them best as ‘Benign Neglect’. I accept that, every few weeks, I have to cut the weeds back to a semi-desert basis, and the moss thrives during the summer and autumn. I liberally spray all sorts of deadly poisons to keep the weeds down on my drive- and path-ways. When various bushes and other growing things intrude into my sight-line, obscuring my view of the roadside and of who approaches my front door, I bring out the hedge-trimmer and slash-and-hack until a respectable pile is dumped into the garden waste bin. I have absolutely no interest in planting, or trimming, or indeed watering.
So imagine my amazement when, over the past week, a glorious bunch of bluebells began to blossom next my very front door. I certainly did not plant them, but once again, Nature brings a gentle sense of order to the waste ground which is my front garden. Ain’t life wonderful, especially when random chance brings such transient beauty into my world!

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