I Didn't Think I Had A Nanny.

But evidently, I have.
Before I went to Canada for a holiday in June, my Personal Fascist(like a Personal Trainer but involuntary and cheaper) had started resorting to threats; subtle threats to be sure, but when one of his big friends stands in the garden staring up at your window at 11 PM, and then they start a dog barking(apparently that time I got bitten was precursive 'conditioning'), which had no effect at all other than to tell me that the Personal Fascist was in breach of his tenancy(no pets allowed), the threats are real.
Anyway, I was given a number to ring to complain sometime before this, and I told her about the situation, and told her I would be in touch after my holiday.
So I went to Canada and had a pretty good time.

When I came back, I decided to give it two weeks before starting the eviction ball rolling; on the first Monday I rang the special number and there was no reply.
The Personal Fascist started up again.
On the next four days the aggression got worse and worse, until I cracked and replied in kind.
This quietened the little shit down; in fact he was escorted from the building by three women, and I watched because my TV is connected to the internal surveillance camera at the public door.
Every day I rang the number and nobody answered. So I assumed she had gone for her holidays, and rang the police; they actually mocked me.
And did nothing.
I rang the Council Noise Hot Line.
They promised to send me an advice packet and give me a case number.

Two weeks later and still no package, so I rang the day shift; the case number didn't exist, but they did send me the package; this was worse than useless, as it was an address for mediation and suggested writing 'care-bear' whiny complaints("you are making me feel bad") to my Personal Fascist, who was quite clearly acting with skilled deliberation.
Meanwhile,I'd been adopting an Israeli attitude to the terroist upstairs; when my confederates played the radio at midday in my apartment while I was at work, somebody rang my landline at 1205 and 1210, leaving no messages; except the 'menacing silence' was ruined by the sound of a busy office, so the slag was giving away more than he intended, even though the number was witheld.
They wanted to see if anybody was actually in, and if a woman, try to frighten her.

Today I tried the number again.
Still no answer.
Tomorrow morning I'm going to the office in person to find out where she went.
If I don't get a satisfactory answer, I'll publish her name and number here, so that anybody can ring up and complain.

I must say,I have to wonder what the Liberal Democrat Council candidates were talking about when I attended my own count on election day; I was incognito, and I distinctly heard them using my name in vain.

If necessary, I know the leader of the council(a Conservative) personally, and I will place the facts before him.

What's The Point?

This is a rather disturbing video of a police action.




One wonders what the point of all this un-enforced law is; why are thousands, millions of Britons breaking laws that are rarely enforced?


The point is this:
The state is using the camera and surveillance systems(which we cannot use-that's illegal!)to find out the identities of as many non-caring law-breakers as possible.

They have no intention or even desire to enforce the law-they merely want to know who we are for future reference.
They can make us lose our jobs; they can give us a bad reputation with the immigration and admission authorities of foreign countries(to stop us escaping, even for holidays).
They can let us out of the law on license, a license they can choose to rescind at any time(since it has no legal existence).

By these means they hope to control us, with the truncheon of Damocles ever swinging about our heads.
They don't care that we abide by the law. They only care that we do as they say.

It is no accident that the man murdered by the Metropolitan Police on the Tube was Brazilian;Brazilians know all about corrupt police, and only a Brazilian or similar would carry himself in such a way as to excite a murderous response in armed policemen, people who responded against all their official training like mad dogs.

Part of the farce is the amount of space given to 'crime reporting' on TV; the facts(the obvious ones) are stated and spokesmen 'appeal for calm', we the so-called law-abiding majority becoming stone-faced killers of our own consciences in the effort to blind the cracks of our vision with video polyfiller.

And so the real coppers of the past are held up for ridicule while the procedural numbskulls of today are supposed, seriously, to be the real thing.

I can't wait for the UN observers to arrive.

Drama In Detail.

Evidently Superman was wearing nylon underpants when he did an emergency change....

the house on the terrace end was totalled.

Now, on a lighter note, what is the argument for not giving the British guns?
Well, if you are a ruler, the argument is that those few(!) with guns would perpetrate massacres like 'Dunblane' on the innocent public; if you are a member of the innocent public, the argument is that fires would be the least of our worries.

In today's Sunday Express it was reported that a shopkeeper had surveillance cameras installed to catch thieves; he printed out the photos of the scum caught in the act, and put them up by the till.
Every single thief was identified by members of the public buying from the store.

So he called the police.


The police told him to take the pictures down and stop using the cameras, as they represented a breach of the thieves 'human' rights.

We must be fucking thick.

No guns, so we can't stop anything from happening.
No police, because all we've got is a bunch of fucking clowns with Noddy cars.
No safety, because guns are 'unsafe'.

A couple of rapists walk free; we are told not to approach them.
Because they are 'dangerous'.
They don't look dangerous.(Official press release via the Daily Telegraph)
They were in an 'open' prison(a special type of so-called prison for 'low-risk' criminals).
We are supposed to be stupid suckers to make the stupid fuckers appear to be effective when they don't lift a finger to protect us.

The cop-cars around here have sprouted slogans:"Protecting Communities".
Not people, actual individuals, against criminals.
No.
'Communities'.
Of criminals, presumably.
Or communities of good volken, people whom you don't interfere with or know more than is advisable about.

Except when they defend themselves, so whining grows up around the creatures stopped, the criminals, who are the sainted receptors of all police benefit in this unholy alliance.

Underground Fires Burn On.

This photo was taken in an area of Leeds which has a large Sikh population.
Also Moslem, as witnessed by the minnaret extreme left.
A week ago the local health centre was destroyed by fire.
Here we can see further evidence that 'something is going on'.

The shop-front was totally destroyed by a fire so fierce that the adjacent public telephone box(made of stainless steel) was also destroyed.

The wreckage has been sitting there for a few days now.

Big Brother Is Really Little.....

....but he's got big ideas.
There comes a time in life when the sum total of the weird, sick and unpleasant appears to be posessed of a pattern; when this time comes, we get a little corner of the big picture in the TV set of our minds, if they still work.
So what do we do?
Do we get scared?
That would be sensible.After all, we have all brushed up against the bruising walls of flesh that police the nether world in which we are all starting to live; and we all have the experiences which tell us that 'something' is going on.
But what, exactly?
And why should we be scared?
We all have to operate under the contsraint(but not the dictat)of the law;they are many, but we have friends in low places too, and always enough in the bank to buy that critical pair of legs, that stay in hospital which would warn any sane man to leave us alone.

And this is understood.
But we are not dealing with any sane man.

In the mid to late 20th century, an awful lot of nasty little people came very close to running the world.
But people like George Orwell blew the whistle on them. And when that happened, the wall was built; the wall of evasion surrounding the self-realisation that lay at the heart of the prize.

Resorting to desperate measures soon follows any big battering; see the Hizbollah, the Palestinians, the Japanese Kame-Kaze, the Bin-Ladens.
What they all had in common was the desire to inflict harm beyond the bounds of reason, beyond even being around to 'enjoy' it.
What they all shared was the desperation of method born of defeat.
And the mid 20th century statists were no exception to the rule.They learn the lesson of viciousness at bay, and turn to 'unconventional' methods in their quest for domination.

They seek to extinguish the light in our eyes.
Without ever having to raise a hand against us. Except in uncontrollably provoked rage, such as when we are enjoying ourselves.

So the answer to Israel's Air Force is the 'suicide bomber'; likewise the answer to George Orwell's pre-emptive definition of 'Big Brother' is personal, micro-managed individual human(not technological) fascism.

Fascism as the policy of small groups of cognoscenti, clued in to the threats posed by the existence of any individual.
They know the signs, they don't understand them, but they know them, and act to obliterate the mentalities of these victims, spreading through society like the robots in that Will Smith film, applying individual coercion on behalf of a cause rather than a fixed organisation.
But they do associate.Assiduously in fact; for they need to feed off each other's festering virulence, in order to power through the normal human reactions of boredom, the reactions that drive them past mental health concerns and into the realms of psychopathology.

Why do you think solitary confinement is regarded as punishment-by criminals?
Criminals live in a permanent balancing act, trying not to go over the edge.
But they do.
But 'Little Brothers' don't; they are cold and deliberate, and act with determination tempered by fear, chronic and eternal, like a music of their souls which they have to strike at by violating the innocent.

In a world being infiltrated by garbage like this, 911 was a betting certainty.
And the conspiracy was visible to anyone not intimidated by the 'Little Brothers'.

Bully The Bullies.

We in this benighted nation live in an age of chronic fascism.
The fascists have taken over, like the scions of the 'Boys From Brazil', a rampant( slightly), thriving(apparently), aggressive, fearful, cowardly bunch of youthful trash, the sort of rubbish that nobody wants to grow up to be, the sort of rubbish that everybody else seems to be growing up to be.

The point is not that they are tough.
They aren't.
They are pack-animals, even when alone, carrying the indelible imprint of the pack in their shrivelled minds wherever they go, awaiting with boredom the moment of 'joy' when they acquire a new victim.
They see me and feel very defensive, because when they see me they see someone who doesn't live by their rule of thumb.
They also see someone who isn't a victim particularly.
If they see me at all.

Anyway, they do not seek to develop courage; they seek to destroy it in others.
They do not seek to prove anything to themselves; only to make others forget what they already knew.
They do not seek to win a conflict; they seek to perpetuate it.

They are the enemies of life; they are the enemies of the living.

The bully isn't big;not all the time.
The bully will be big once or twice, to catch us out.This is supposed to put us back in our box.
Stop us from getting angry ever again with the lice.
Who can then dance on our living graves and faces.

But it doesn't work like that.Not when you're a man.
We men thump a few bullies; hit them hard, kick them in the balls and forget it, only to be capable of remembering whenever we like.

We never do the obvious.We never do what's expected.We never do anything if they are calling the shots.
We never forget that the only reason these bipedal turds aren't dead, is because of the law.
And we use the law.
The conflict becomes a contest of who breaks it first and most often.Our way of fighting is to keep putting them back in their boxes, and never forget that they are evil.

So when my pet (disabled) guy listens to everything he can through the neighbouring wall, I make sure he doesn't hear anything but provocation.
When he makes clattering noises, I shout out"next door has dropped his crutch again".

Believe me it won't change the way he thinks, but it will make him think twice; and when he does, he won't be under any pet illusions.

The fascist may be planning psychic invasion;not much fun in Stalingrad!
And when I finally get the garbage evicted, victory will be total.

Today's Briefing

This is a picture(from whatawaytodie.com)of one of the 'Briefs', a contemporary American Punk band with that authentic 70's sound; not acid rock or nu-punk or any of a dozen apologies for genres-these guys are Punks,pure and straight.

Take in their 2004 album 'Sex Objects'.Take it straight or on the rocks with a cold one.
Excellent.

Round Up The Usual Suspects..

Speaking as someone who wanted to leave for so long it is almost as if I'd been vitrified-seriously, my nature is truly incompatible-I forget who I am and who the scum are from time to time.

One such time was today.
Finishing a triple-shift, I parked up my stinking truck, got into my old banger and drove out to 'the pub'.
In through the side door as the rain begins to fall, get the usual bullshit from some crappy old git in the corner, for which I don't have time, and order a beer.

Behind me some big bloke walks in with a vision of blondness, like Jessica Simpson(above) in a short skirt with a halter top and legs forever.
So any way, I sod off to my corner and sup my beer, surreptitiously surveying the blonde beauty from the corner of my eye.
Anyway, I am smiling at myself and drinking my beer, when I notice her doing the same to me.
Our eyes meet, she gives that little flutter that says she'd rather be having fun with me than her hosts(there are now five of them) and we let the moment pass.

Next beer, I am close by, and I hear her speaking.

Surprise? Well, I get this 'Young Frankenstein' effect, you know, the bit where he says"hello handsome" and I, the monster, wonder who he's speaking to.
Well I used to anyway.
But when I hear her talking to her friends, yep!
You guessed it!
American.

Which brings me back to Earth with a bump.

This particular Homer Simpson needs to leave sector 7GB and move to a better life.
Wherever and however.

How The West Was Won.

A man (?) called Omar Bakri Mohammed gained notoriety in the UK a while back for being one of those Muslim Clerics with British passports who preached violent hatred of the British.
Now that's quite understandable, if, like me, you wish to go somewhere more amenable to your style of life.

But he didn't.He wanted to wreck the country and stay in it.
He wasn't granted his wish, and he was exiled to Lebanon. His children are still here, but he no longer holds a British passport.
After being kicked out(for preaching violence and cultural hatred),you would think that he would be as happy as a pig in shit at being able to wallow around Lebanon with all those Hizbollah Homeys of his; but that isn't true either.

You see, the Israelis have given him a taste of what he claimed to want for us.

So he turned up at the port to try and beg passage to Cyprus on a British warship.
He wanted to be taken to safety, mumbling something about 'human rights' or something.

Trouble is, this wasn't the Wandsworth Probation and Immigration service, this is the Royal Navy.
And they told him to get stuffed.
I can almost see him now:

"No no! You don't understand!These are the Israelis!There's no stopping them!"

Yes.We do understand.
Good luck.

Here In Computer Space

When I get home, Oona, my lovely cleaner, is usually standing by my computor consoles draped in silk and lace and trying to look alluring.

I send her to the shop for mushy peas and Tetley's Bitter.

Anyway, I had a wunderbar time last night, as I finally networked my two antique computers.
My NT4 workstation can now output print via my main 2000 Pro system; the little C62 is now a network printer.
And all I had to do was switch off the firewall for a minute.
Aren't computers brilliant!

That's The Anti-Intuitive Spirit!

We hold these thruths to be self-evident?
Can't do that....what about this? Or that?They're true too, and they prove that your truths can't be true.
So there!

As they say of contrarians here, "Ah,but!"

The world-famous technique is getting altogether too obvious it must be said.
Any truth which is immediately apparent, anything from the justice of Capitalism to the desire for an ice-cream, is open to challenge.
You can't want ice-cream;you've got to want Brocolli, since you know(having been told), that Brocolli is 'good' for you and ice-cream is bad.

They win whatever you do, since if you then choose ice-cream, you will give them the benefit of guilt, and if you don't, nothing at all is supreme.

Over you.The individual.

Everything they tell you must have the apparent weight of proof and therefore truth, so every point they make is second hand, not an assertion of a reasoning mind, but always received and proven by some respectable-sounding 'group'.

They are the shitehawks of reasoned debate, hoping to crush by intimidation any resistance to their unwavering (and equally non-intuitive) party line.

Don't look for a party though. All you'll find is people who smile at each other behind your backs or over your bowed heads.

Another Great English Product.

This car was based on the Triumph Herald, the most maneouvrable car in its class which could be assembled off-line in ten minutes by a few workmen.
This is a Triumph Vitesse.
The main difference with the Herald Convertible?
The little engine was replaced by a two-litre straight six, with or without Injection, it had four, slanted headlights(which I think look superb, and which were not fakes like the modern Jaguar X)and it had alloy wheels.

I used to hanker after the GT6, until I discovered that this drop-top had the same engine.
Mouth-watering.
Note the Rubber fender strips;years ahead of their time, and far more resilient than modern mouldings.

American Classic in the Land That England Forgot

Here in the land that England forgot, the World Cup ended a week ago, for England two weeks; yet the flags are still flying.
They are flying in every street and all over England.
You'd think somebody would notice and tell them to remove them?Surely this might happen.
But nobody seems to be in too much of a hurry to try just yet.
Wonder why.

Meanwhile, I spotted this American classic on the street; it is a Pontiac Firebird, with two-tone metal flake paintwork and hood art.
For sale if you've got £15000($30000US).

I Went To The Levy But the Levy was Arrested!

His spokesman said the peer "vigorously denies any wrongdoing". He has been bailed pending further inquiries.

"Lord Levy has made it clear that he is ready at all times to cooperate with the police investigation," the spokesman said.

"He therefore complied with a request to attend today at a police station where the police used their arrest powers, totally unnecessarily, apparently in order to gain access to documents that Lord Levy would quite willingly have provided without this device."

-BBC NEWS-

Yeah.

But I bet it felt great to arrest the guy anyway.

Maybe the Plod has good days too. Maybe they'd love to help if only they were allowed to.
'Denied vigorously'-you can almost see the arm-flapping gesticulation associated with that;that's how well trained these bastards have us, and that's what they want us to imagine with their toad-swallowing, sewage-drinking meticulousness.

Hooray for Ploddy!

Yes,Ploddy!
He's a very big fellow who chortles when you get into difficulties; then he says,"Resistance is useless.." in a whining, resigned, Vogon sort of way, before telling you not to do anything.

Anything at all.
Except suffer.
Then, when the bastards have finished torturing you and finally decide to put you out of their misery, the police promise to look serious(snigger snigger) for the TV camera while promising to bring the perp to 'justice'.

The judge(go on?Yer 'avin a larf right?)will give the murderous ones a few years relaxing at the State's expense, retraining them as expert criminologists so that they can take good jobs(better than ours), also at the state's expense five or six years after we have rotted in the ground.

Jesus we must be thick.

The Brave New KiddyCaust Part 2.

News just on-'bright' children will be placed on a register to ensure that they don't escape,no, sorry, I mean to ensure that they don't waste their talents being turned into underachievers at traditional state schools.

The Kiddy-Caust.

Of course, all these college-victim/killer slags are now fully grown with children of their own; they are feeling a bit sick about 'all that'.
So they think,
"If only I'd been one of the 'popular' students...."
None of them really were, of course, especially not the 'popular' ones, but they see some feeble illusion of success in the booming presumption of the Law/Rugby/Ski/History students (or whatever the hell dopographic they belonged to), and determine that their children will not be 'left out' of the rabbit hutch.
For off to the hutch it will be;statistics determine it!
Children of graduates go to university!
It is undeniable!
And so, as soon as they can walk, the kids are saturated with things and influences which are sure to make them 'successful', in other words they are taught how to sell out from the age of four, not eighteen.

The better to fit in with the savages at university.

They want their kids to be 'ahead of the game'.
But there are signs that some of the so-called 'increasing sophistication' of children is enabling them to drop out of that at an even earlier stage; the parents are spoiling for a fight with the ruling sociopaths of a long-dead social cosmos, and the kids are accepting being spoilt but not showing up for the gig.

Maybe they really are the future, eh?
Or maybe the micro-social engineering of these aborted families is producing a newer, deeper and more far-gone layer of artificially ignorant ruler-fodder?

The College-Caust.

When I was a young sprog on his way to the big city to attend the big college in the big university, I couldn't wait to find the people there, not necessarily of like mind, although that was part of the dream; no, I expected to find my betters, people who were smarter than me,better than me in every way, braver, more mature, the kind of people who would be able to show me the way forward.

I was severely disappointed.


To begin with there was an overwhelming air of timidity; the kids weren't able to know what they wanted to do.
They thrashed around, trying to appear to be doing something;there were clubs and societies for them to join, places to which they could belong.
Essentially they recreated high-school but with public funding of their social ambitions.
The only bravery I encountered was the chancer's courage of those who decided to become group leaders of these little packets of aimlessness.
There was no grand scale society, no overarching community of the intellect.
We were left to do what we wanted, and most of them didn't do anything much.

It was the massacre of ambition. Too afraid to imagine, too scared of rejection to reject, they came to the time when they felt comfortable with their young deaths, and could look down on me with a sneer, or if they were kind, with a patronising smile.

There were a few like me; I didn't know it, but more than a few felt this without knowing how or why, and I only saw them when they sold out or made terms.

I didn't start to come to terms until my final year, when I could see an end to it.
My so-called 'friends' decided(arbitrarily, but actually at the pleading of their English group leader), to say that they had all 'gone through a process' at university-they hesitated to call it growth, or indeed to name it at all-but that I had not.
They asserted the superiority I already knew didn't exist-like maniacs drowning in a swamp and clutching at straws of self-esteem, the most pathetic failures of all.
So just as I was coming through it all, I was relegated to non-person.

It wasn't pretty.
I didn't get my soul back until after I learned to fly, escaped from 'college' and met my first Californian girl.

She showed me that they had been the non-persons.

But the traffic drove, the trains ran, the buildings were lit, so I still harboured illusions of the world; it took a further ten years to find it.
Elsewhere.

Yorkshire-Land of Contrasts!

Postman Pat was having a bad day.
The criminal fraternity had decided to declare war on all things postal.


Especially Post Boxes. The ugly mess on the floor is the remains of a modern, plastic add-on; the cast iron original survived.

Meanwhile in another part of the world. another original has survived.
This is a 1600 cc Hillman Mynx, a 1962 model no less.

It's in perfect condition.
And finally, proof that some people at the depot get paid a deal more than me;

This is a three-cylinder Triumph Daytona motorcycle.
And very nice it is too.
Apparently the Ginetta sports car brand is moving to a new factory.
In Leeds.
Thank gawd,eh?

"Drama."

This made me laugh.
Aren't big corporations like Google terrible?

Back In the USSK part 2

This song is just soooo good.

The State Of The Union.

In the nineties 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
Will Irish Guinness still taste better?

Whatever Happened......

to Belfast!


Strategic firewood and barricade store at the Loyalist end of the Falls Road. There was little 'Englitz' -style backbiting; the people are too glad not to be getting blown up and shot at. But there are loads of huge, tough-looking men. I felt very junior. And nobody bothered me.Except my agent, who suggested that I should go down the Catholic end of Falls Road where my 'conservative politics' would see me safe.
Sense of humour.


Town hall.

Harland & Wolf shipyard gantry-where Titanic was built.

Inside Belfast City Airport, built on the Shorts factory airfield; Bombardier Aviation still occupies the factory.
The Shankhill? Drivethru?Didn't that used to be 'drive by'?



The mind boggles; Nationalist Murals near the Falls Road.





All of the Crown Liquor Shop. The lights are gas. And they use them. The beer is fine, and yes, Guiness does taste better in Ireland. It's a very passable Stout.

This-Leeds Airport-is only 45 minutes away from
this-the Hotel Europa, which they tried to blow up several times.



The Leeds-Bradford breakfast was a fiver; the aircraft was Canadian, a Dash-8, from what used to be De-Havilland Canada.The one behind bars looks like some sort of late model Jetstream.

Let's hope I get the job,eh?

Back In The USSK....

You don't know how lucky you are, eh?


The view from the bar at Pearson was great, especially as everybody else was watching football.




But the other side -the side from where we would depart-had bars on the windows, not next to them.
Any complaints were duly reported to the carrier;Bastards!You flew me to England!

Going.....



Going.......


Gone! Toronto disappearing from view! What a bummer, man!

Crossing enemy coast, skipper.


Back in the land of industrial relics.

Continuing my studies with the bad machines.