…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


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!


Good on Geert!

I am a fan of Holland’s Geert Wilders. He tells the exact truth, which of course gets him the ritual ‘Far-right’ benediction from the BBC and the rest of the hanger’s-on. He holds the high honour of being banned from entry to the United Kingdom (later correctly overturned by Immigration Appeal Tribunal) by a certain Jacqui Smith, who was impersonating the British Home Secretary. He was heading for office in the Netherlands’ elections, but one of the Euro-clones opposing him commenced using sound-bites giving the impression he would be hard on the Muzzies; the voters fell for it, and Wilders lost out.

But, we live in hope!



‘Twas quickly done, with none to see,

Some forty-odd years ago, I was running the engineering operations of a brick factory in South Africa. The bricks were burnt in either a five-hundred foot-long tunnel kiln, or in a set series of twenty static kilns. The fire to burn the bricks was produced by gas produced by the Lurgi-process controlled burning of coal in three massive gas producers, and the temperature when burning was usually around 1200 degrees Centigrade.

Occasionally, the mechanisms whereby the coal was hoisted to the tops of the three gas producers broke down, and manual labour, in the form of Black labourers, had to shovel the coal into the chutes until the mechanical feeders were fixed. The older two gas producers had constant problems, and the task of monotonously shovelling large quantities of coal were both costly to management, and decidedly unpopular with the Black labour force, as the areas where they had to stand and work, although in the open air; were full of fumes and smoke. I had recently been promoted to run the engineering side of things, and, after standing alongside the men shovelling the coal; decided that every effort should be made to remove the problem by renewing the hoist and feed mechanisms for both old ‘producers’. But in the meantime, I decided to make things a little easier for the men doing the hard work shovelling.
I searched around, and located a full head visor-helmet which was fitted with a breathing tube, sufficiently long to get fresh air to the ‘shovelling position’; bought three, and issued them to be used immediately. I thought no more about the purchase, as, to me, it was simply a matter of allowing workers to perform their duties safer and more comfortably. The actual effect was dramatic, as, suddenly, every black labourer who spotted me as I walked past commenced smiling, saying ‘good morning’ or ‘Yeybho inkosi’, or even the Afrikaans greeting, ‘More, Baass! The opposite effect came from some of those same Afrikaners, who simply reckoned I was spoiling the Black labour force rotten!