Don't Believe Me?

Gordon Is A Moron!

Looking every inch the very model of a modern 20th century Eastern European dictator.

Fuck off!
Fuck off!
Fuck off!
Seig heil!
Seig Low!
They seig that fucking creep all over!
Is he in 11?
Is he in 10?
Does he keep awake listening to Big Ben?
Does he drive his Government Rover?
That damned, exclusive pimple.

Nice And Friendly Like!

Looking for jaundiced amusement at the Labour Party website, I was drawn to an apparent invitation to comment on the question of the day, about 'Your NHS'
Imagine my laughter when I discovered two kinds of comment were allowed; Members and Non-Members.
Non-Members have to register.
They don't have to include an e-mail....
only their post-code and house number.

Fuck you,Brown!

It is your NHS, not mine!

Farewell To Arms....

For two and a half years this van is where I've eaten, drunk, even slept- and especially worked.
It came to me with 6 miles on the clock, and has been around the world three times.
I have delivered an estimated 500,000 newspapers all over the North from Sheffield to Scarborough.
I have nearly lost control on several occasions at speeds which were above the National Speed Limit; I have had two parking accidents and reversed into one telegraph pole.
I have run over one pidgeon.
I have run over one badger.
I have collided head-on with one owl.

The machine is now in the hands of another torch-bearer.

When I get to the gateway to the South, I will say 'I have served my time in Hell'.
Half of it without even a tape player for my AC/DC collections.

Homer Simpson, report for a better life.

Apparently Something, Something Apparently

It is official.
I have obtained useful paid employment in Engineering, somewhere near the English coast.
I will have to relocate.
It gets better.
My salary will double.
I am viewing my first flat next week, and according to descriptions, it has a harbour 300 ft to one side and a beach 300 ft to the other, with a train station 300 ft inland.
The flat is 'large' and split-level.
The kitchen, bathroom and lounge are on the first floor and the bedroom is on the second.
There is nobody above.
Apparently I can afford it.
Apparently I can get all my stuff in.
It has a phone line already and free Sky tv(Freeview is dodgy on the coast).

I won't take it necessarily, without seeing the competition, but it sounds promising.
Could be things are getting better.

This Summer, Everything Changes....

Coming soon to a movie screen near you, a toy advert is made into a feature film.
I mean, for gawd's sake. Do me a bloody favour.

Government Planning Reviews-What Fun!

One of the very many aircraft companies in Britain was Saunders Roe.
As an example of the sheer engineering genius abundant in Britain in those days, this flying boat company turned its minds to producing a dual powerplant supersonic (Mach 2.35) fighter, due to fly in 1958.
It had a De-Havilland Gyron Junior jet engine, and above that on the centre line, a rocket engine drawing fuel from the same tanks.
It would reach an altitude of 60,000 feet in 2.5 minutes (as required-probably much faster) and was equipped with radar-controlled missiles.

Because the government was listening to 'experts' who had never flown in combat, fought an air war or built anything, all future fighters were cancelled in 1957.

The picture above is of the Saunders Roe 177 approaching completion at the time.
The SR53 prototypes actually did fly during the fifties.

You Stupid Sons Of Bitches.

This was the Avro (A.V.Roe) Canada 'Arrow', which flew around 1958 at speeds in excess of Mach2.
This was ahead of the Americans, and it is alleged that Eisenhower put pressure on Canadian PM Diefenbacker to cancel it.

The Arrow was the first aircraft to use computer control and fly by wire, back in 1958.
This was twenty years ahead of the YF-16.
An aerodynamically similar British aircraft would have been the thin-wing Gloster Javelin; when they cleared out the wind tunnel storage in 1983 at Cranfield, they found the original models for the thin-wing Jav.,which I could probably have bought for a pittance.
Mug!

You Expect Me To Believe That?

This aircraft was built in 1954 as a high-speed research ship; according to Wikipedia it only achieved Mach 1.88.
It is the Bristol Aircraft Type 188.
Bit of a coincidence eh?
It was built of Argon-welded Stainless Steel honeycomb, immensely strong and easily able to exceed the limiting Mach number of aluminium(2.2). Apparently fuel consumption prevented the craft from exploring thermal soaking fully, and was one reason that Concorde was built of Al.

Starting to add up to something?
Concorde was basically a Churchill baby.

Delusions? Of What, Exactly?

This is a Fairey FD-2.
In 1956 the FD-2 captured the world speed record, flying from the South of England to Edinburgh at a speed in excess of 1130mph, piloted by Peter Twiss.
The French Dassault company was impressed enough to build the Mirage.
Fairey doesn't seem to have built any more aircraft, apart from the revolutionary Rotodyne helicopter(which used tip-jet driven rotors with no torque), but I believe that they are still a systems integrator.
The FD-2 was adapted to become a flying testbed for Concorde aerodynamics, with the compound taper wing added.
It already had a 'droop snoot', so that would be one-up for Fairey then.

Now It Must Be Told.

Driving today up to my favourite Chinese restaurant, I thought back over the past two years; fuck me sideways with a plastic prawn if I'm being obtuse, but there comes a time when you simply must put all the facts on the table and see what, if any, pattern emerges.
The facts are these.
In 2002 I began publishing under my own name various opinions and statements of truth which will always remain anathema to communistic types of all colours and persuasions.
In 2004 my job was revoked by a soft socialist company owner, who then tried to lead me a merry dance over the money owed.
I got the money.
In 2005 I tried, without success, to obtain sensible work.
In January 2006 a new neighbour moved in upstairs; he set straight to work in a sustained and sophisticated manner to try and destroy my morality, my mentality if you please.

I would not have been hard to find, either by repute or my name on the ballot slips for two years running.
Simple brute intimidation was the first method used, and when this was stood on end and counter-terrorism employed, reinforcements were called in, until one day they tried to provoke a fight on the staircase.
I ignored them, but after I reached the outside I saw three people, one of whom had threatened me before, come out and get into a van; presumably I would have vanished for 'resisting' the commune.

All through 2006 I went through channels; the first complaints were met with sympathy, then without reason the council contact stopped talking to me(or answering the phone at all) and the officials tried to shut down my complaint entirely and in writing.
The police actually laughed at me and said I was paranoid or delusional.
They ignored all attempts I made to ask for rehousing, except for the bare minimum 'busy work' to make it look as if I was being dealt with fairly, and this only after I had written to my Conservative Party colleague heading the council.

Then, finally, after sustaining this intolerable state of offence for far longer than they intended me to, mainly due to my personal developments in professional skills in my own time, I was offered work by an avowed member, a real communist of personally known repute.

At this stage, this person tried to destroy my abilities in any way possible, especially with the threat of financial ruin hovering over me.

I quit and they still haven't paid me for the work done.

Now.

There are several ways to look at this;
one says that this is all very unfortunate, a consequence of living in a poisoned world where 'shit' happens.

Or?
Or one could conclude that when after 15 years of the quiet life, all hell breaks loose as soon as you gain even the slightest peer recognition for being one of the good guys, that there is definitely an organisaiton, an octopus with tentacles spread throughout the usual places, such as local government, universities, the medical profession and various other hospitable locales, an organisation that delights in playing a deadly serious game to gain control through the holes which have been driven in the bulwarks of Jeffersonian civilisation, which seeks to behead the heads above the parapet, secretly, stealthily, and even overtly.

They have limited resources, but they are not afraid to commit them, and they have an endless supply of sympathisers who can be cajoled into committing atrocities by the application of a few select lies about their victims.

I think that it is long past the time when we can permit the pretence that nationalistic boundaries and political parties and soviets represent the threat; they are a communist diaspora, the ideologue equivalent of a fleshy internet, spread across the world.

I'd just love to know who controls them.

Cry Me A River, Drink Me A Brewery.

This was Tetley's Brewery yesterday, source of delicious, burnt caramel-flavoured bitter, with the golden-copper colour that tastes like frozen apples on a hot day when the beer is cold.

Apparently it isn't trading as Carlsberg-Tetley anymore, only 'Carlsberg'.
It is also very likely that they will close the brewery in a couple of years.

As the Kaiserchiefs say, 'Everything Is Average Nowadays'.

I Want I Want I Want...

Saul Bellow wrote all about a bloke called Humboldt, unable, despite his travels around the world, to find the answer or the cure to his perpetual inner voice saying 'I want' without naming what.
Just 'I want'.
I read this when I was about fourteen and thought it was a rather long-winded trifle, something about nothing.
I was able then to say 'I want' and make it stick.
I may have wanted the wrong things; I may not have got them; but I knew what I wanted when I wanted it.

After being forced to spend yet another year in Britain, a country which has become, long ago, entirely foreign to me, I find the pressure to co-relate, that chain which has other prisoners of this place at its end, is forcing me to understand the 'positivism' which infects critique of the realm, the idiotic optimism that tries to make the best of a thoroughly bad thing; I caught myself comprehending what was meant by all those 'qualities' of Englishness, the 'thorn-ridden roses' among women that are really just yellowy nettle-beds that sting the hell out of you, but will, if absolutely essential bear you children.

What for I can only guess.

But this is what struck me in a spare moment today:
I don't want the rose. I don't want sophisticated banter. I don't want humour if it is a stand in for despair, not joy. I don't want wit. I don't want all the curlicued fenestrations that block out the light and surround us with black weeds choking the life out of us by petty degree on a day-to-day basis.

I want plain speaking people in a place where the plain speaking people rule, or are so numerous that 'sophistication' (needless twisting) would be wasted on them; I want plain beauty where beauty isn't sacrificed or slandered as soon as it appears.
I want honesty.


And I won't get it here, of that I am quite sure.

One More Time....

An officer arrives for a 6 month tour of duty in Afghanistan.
The sergeant shows him around the camp.
"Hofficah's quarters over there sah. And the sergeant's mess is just here. And that there is the canteen sah."
"Excellent sergeant. And what do the men do for recreation?"
"Well, sah, we have satellite telephones, satellite TV and radio and computer games."
"Very good. What about sexual frustrations?"
The sergeant leads the officer around the corner to where there is a tired-looking, flea-bitten camel.
"They use the camel sah!"
Time passes.
After 3 months the officer is getting frustrated himself. So he tells the sergeant to bring the camel around.
The sergeant leaves it behind his tent with a little step-ladder. The officer climbs up behind and starts to shag the camel.
He spends the next hour making insane love to it.
Eventually he climbs down.
"Is that how the men do it, sergeant?"
"No sir. They generally ride it into the village and find a woman."

I Always Knew It.

This is the view from the 'work' face, according to the Telegraph.

So Far, Yet So Near.

So Near, Yet So Far.

Boris Johnson writes in the Daily Telegraph
about the regulatory nationalisation of pre-school education.
In particular he writes about the use of regulation to ensure that all nursery teachers have a degree.
It makes no sense to him.
It makes sense to me.
Universities are the living(dead) repository of the science of co-option and intellectual inversion by means of semi-commercial induction.
I have recently quit a contract with a University-sponsored company, where it became clear that the boss was operating under instruction to subvert and destroy my independent intellect.
The pleasure she took in it was merely gratuitous, but the direction was apparent.
The whole purpose of putting '50%' of people into 'University' education is simple.
They are to be brainwashed by the legions of criminal, beyond-political creeps, the insane demograph with no cure or disease that anybody cares to name, both overt and covert, so that the entire society can be overturned.

Permanently.

Excellence is not a monopoly.

This from Nanny Knows Best.
A really superb piece of thinking which had entirely escaped me.
Burke and Hare were body snatchers in Glasgow who turned to murder to produce 'organ donors' for the medical profession.
Which is the greatest possible argument against the wish to assume that we are all donors unless stated otherwise.

When they make it compulsory, I will systemically wreck myself, or wait until I am dying anyway and take poison.

A Funny Thing Happened On The Way...

Don't give up on Russia - yet.
I have several thousand music tracks on my computer currently.
The collection is eclectic.
Sometimes the juke-box mode falls out of the quick-fire pop music sequence and lands on something more substantial.

Tonight it was Scheherazade(movement 3) by Valery Rimsky-Korsakov.
The original recording is Russian, so the information displays (quite comfortably) in Cyrillic.
While decoding the phonetics, it suddenly struck me; Russian culture was so independent, so resistant, so persistent that they maintain their own alphabet.
They are outside the Latin idiom in a way that even Germany isn't.

This makes it all the more appalling that they were so thoroughly suborned by the bastard offshoot of English Agrarianism called communism; if any serious investigation is to be mounted into the methods by which this filth infected the world, it should start with a look at how Russia was taken.
Not for nothing did Sidney Reilly think that the future of Russia represented the future of the world.

We Interrupt This Programme....

While there has yet to be an official confirmation, celebrations have been starting among the war-weary Britons; rumour has it that a large enemy surrender will be announced after three years of war, after a crushing victory for our forces in the Southern sector.
The invasion and liberation are expected to progress rapidly.

Now we must turn our minds to reconstruction.

Can You See This Happening Again?

Fred Handley-Page (Sir Frederick) started a 'band' in his garage in about 1912.
Then, the new Rock'n'Roll was aircraft.
35 years later, his corporation produced this:


This is a prototype Victor, a bomber which was designed to carry Britain's nuclear weapons beyond the ability of interceptors to intercept.
It could also carry 35 one-thousand lb bombs.
Okay, so bombs aren't exactly something to boast about, but what a technical tour de force this plane was-and a civil airliner version was designed.
Along with the corporation's own transonic(Mach 1.1-1.5) transport.

Nobody was interested.
But the Victor was built.
And ended up only a couple of years ago looking like this:


It still looks so modern, that when it was deployed to the First Gulf War, US aircrews thought it was some brand-new type that the British had just released on the world.

Thing is, there were three competing British Strategic Bombers in the fifties; four if you count the Shorts Sperrin(built in Belfast).
They were completed in about ten years of development.
They were completed without Churchill's government being asked to submit to embarrassing budget scrutiny.
They were all designed and jigged/engineered for mass-production- in time of war.

They were built because we weren't ruled by a bunch of faux-nappy-wetting health-and-safety wankers, with oversight by a treasonous press corps.
They were built because engineers still knew what engineering was.

Then came 'the white heat of technology'.

The rest, as they say, is history.

Encouraging.

Because, contrary to popular prejudice which is designed to make us give up, most of these men did their greatest work and made most of their fortunes well into or after middle age.
Their one defining characteristic was that they never gave up.

This article courtesy of the New York Times, and the page is superbly executed, showing the sort of web-skills they don't teach in your average self-help book.

The Tyranny Machine

I read complaints from time to time, which are commonplace enough not to quote, that people lack the will to exercise their rights and freedom effectively.
This is usually described as 'apathy'.

In fact it isn't.
What it is, is a lack of confidence bordering on mass pusilanimousness, a kind of disinclination.

What causes it?
Well, in this country there is a large number of alleged people who take a delight(just watch them smiling as they do it) in destroying confidence, ability and willpower in others, such as employees or people who can't really fight back fairly because they are desperate for money, or work, or the quiet life.
The fact is, like the BBC on the media, in this country they have a grip on authority, with a fear of any real ability bordering on paranoid and obsessive.
They, like any Nazi plotter, are subtle and persistent, beating down minds for the creation of mediocre little self-replications; their victims count themselves as lucky still to be able to appreciate any part of their existences, even if it is only the kids or the car or the carpet.
So they keep their heads down, and do nothing to rock the boat.

Just don't call it apathy.
This note on the current holocaust is brought to you without quotes.
If you need quotes it is because you have already lost your mind, the ability to span time with ideas.
If you need quotes, check out who got you into this state; then you will see the reality.

Well It Was Like This Yer 'Onner...

Apparently an Indian doctor has been arrested in Australia.
When asked why he helped Al Quaida, he replied:
"It goes boom boody boom boody boom boody boom boody boom boom boom..."

Conspiracy? Hardly. ?

The civilised man, having isolated and removed all that he can of 'society' from his life, will still need to work.
And it is here, in a world vastly more sinister and real than a Dilbert cartoon, that he will find himself assailed by what is patronisingly referred to as mediocrity, but which is in fact the essence of the subjugation of the free man.

On starting a new job(one that involves the acquisition of sensible amounts of salary, responsibility and talents), he will find that he is inducted on a one-to-one basis via the application of arbitrary and unfollowable instruction, the use of authority itself as a blunt instrument with which to beat him about the brain.

This in itself is not the major attack.
This just serves to confuse, demoralise and bore him.

The next stage is to inject small and controlled amounts of responsibilty into his job, and then take it away again as soon as possible, with the proviso that he may lose his job entirely.

The giveaway at this stage is when the boss tries to claim he or she is doing the employee 'a favour'.
This is the lie that proves the rule.

When the bluff is called, and the job continues, the next step is to keep on distributing little snippets of work that cannot possibly be integrated into a whole, and then come down to the side of the employee like Moses from the Mountain, and demonstrate (preferably while proving the employees incompetence) the 'right way'.

Obviously, now that the boss has established the rules, the playing field, and the ownership of the ball, the boss is Pele and employee is made to appear(in remote context) as stupid and incompetent.

At this stage, the boss believes that the employee is 'at their mercy'.

As an employee of more than one of these creatures at different times, I now hold them in a contempt so great that all that is required is perfect manners and the poise to ask the 'money question' at the right time, just to prevent the boss from enjoying any illusion that he(or she) is running my mind.
For example, after a session of instruction(given grudgingly with oft looked at watch, over an unnecessarily extended period)I ask exactly when I am supposed to carry out the work.

This ensures that accounts are kept.

In this country(and others) there are huge numbers of 'people' who exist in cells of irrationality and foster their ambitions to 'dominate' above all else.
Me?
I just keep earning until they sack me.

The proof of the type is in the actual outrage they feel if they think you have a selfish motive for doing the work.

That and the crap about doing you a favour.

The ultimate proof is when they threaten you with legal action for discussing any of this.

Happy holidays everybody

Visa.

Petrol-£25
Gas-£34
Second Hand Jeep-£1564
Watching two Al-Quaida terrorists set themselves alight- priceless.

Oh Yeah?

In Britain today there are millions of people who (dishonestly) believe that 'government' means the same thing as 'civilisation'.

As children, we (and Australian and Canadian children) were told of the Roman Empire, and how it brought the rule of law and was a civilising influence.
Also roads and buildings.
Of course, the fact that the Celtic road network was just as comprehensive and was designed for trade rather than military force projection, was not mentioned.
But the point is this:
an effort was made to equate governance with civilisation.
And this has persisted.

The world is filled with people who think the answer to (truly) receding civilisation is more government.
Their stock response to anything that strikes fear into their confusion is 'there ought to be a law about it'.

Today we have no civilisaiton, except perhaps a few thin remnants in America; there is no acceptance of a valid and overarching system of ideas to sustain the nations through the coming darkness, less so than there was in 1940 and certainly less than there was fifteen years ago.

What we have now is a clique of repressive states, some aspiring to the traditions of Liberty in name only, some less worried about niceties, all seeking to impose governance as the sole qualifier for membership of the group, as if this was defining civilisation.
Dimly, they sense that cultural connections need to be made, so we are confronted with chancing end-runs which attempt to snatch leadership for long enough to become a 'defining' moment, such as this weekend's Al Gore rock abortion.
Their eagerness to give way to any chance tsunami of bullshit is supposed to prove that they are 'democratic', something they have snatched from the mouths of their elders and betters as being essential.
But the fact is that civilisation is nearly dead, and it is civilisation that makes governance either worthwhile or possible, not the other way around.

Civilisation for example would be represented by the mass acceptance of Objectivist or at the very least, Libertarian ideals, although Libertarianism would leave us as vulnerable as the Celts to the Romans.
But we don't have civilisation today.

Oh Yeah!

My friend George once told me "The cops aren't the real cops. They're just the clean up crew. The real cops are all around you, watching you all the time." And he swung his hand around and pointed out all the people around us as we were walking through a shopping mall.
My friend Aggie recently told me "There is no government, just a bunch of guys in blue uniforms with guns who will get angry if you don't pretend there is."

From 'A Pox On All Their Houses'.
Read the whole statement here.

Oh Yeah!

My friend George once told me "The cops aren't the real cops. They're just the clean up crew. The real cops are all around you, watching you all the time." And he swung his hand around and pointed out all the people around us as we were walking through a shopping mall.
My friend Aggie recently told me "There is no government, just a bunch of guys in blue uniforms with guns who will get angry if you don't pretend there is."

From 'A Pox On All Their Houses'.
Read the whole statement here.

When After All It Was You And I....

This from the Daily Telegraph.
As you can see, the matter 'was dealt with informally'.
Wouldn't want to stir up trouble now, would we?
Let's face it, Politicians aren't supposed to make political protests.

Right?

Apology.

Sorry.
I had hoped to find some reference to a BBC tv series of around 1978 called '1990'.
It featured a woman PM.
It featured 'non-persons' who had been relieved of their identity cards.
Everybody drove around in 2CVs.
Only 30% of the electorate had bothered to vote.
A trade unionist made a speech in the USA calling Britain a rubber-walled prison.

I can't find any reference anywhere.
Google is almost stupidly obtuse.
Wow.

Somewhere....The Immigrant Song.

I'd like to hear experiences. Other people's experiences. The experiences they had while trying to emigrate.
You see, I have a theory.

The theory runs like this:
The Soviets had a massive project, rather like a KGB version of the Microsoft Campus; the purpose was to 'Russify' Western technologies, to crack the intellectual codes and render the hardware amenable to copying by the Russian equivalents of the National Coal Board, British Steel and the National Health Service.

My theory is, that in Britain, with its history of subversion, the clandestine, and co-option, there is a project which seeks to 'discourage' emigration.

It is very subtle.
It doesn't seek to discourage in every case.
No.
Some are positively encouraged, representing as they do the export of an image which would reflect 'well' on the mother country.
These people retire to warmer climes(no threat in talking about the weather), or want to play golf, or sail, or present to the newer worlds that bracing quality of Britishness that so infects foreign attitudes to Britain.
No.
These people are safe, and furthermore the ease of their escape allows the British to hold up their national liberality as an example of freedom, the ease with which, regretfully or not, the mother country lets go.
They are the proof, the rule which justifies the exceptions they make of anybody less...amenable... to Britain.
There are even organisations(both ends against the middle) which allegedly aspire to promoting the interests of the desperate.
Like the 'men who escaped' in Running Man.

My theory is that the truth involves the careful and untraceable persecution of the ones who have the very best of reasons to emigrate(such as American reasons), to beat them down until they no longer have the ability to know why they are leaving, or to simply prevent them by lack of resources, from getting to where they want to be by any legal means; once this happens they can't go legally, but if they go illegally they will be sent back!

Yes. I believe that Britannia is a sick and evil bitch that plays the psychopathic cow to any ambition, with the chuckle and chortle of the appreciative audience of fairly organised civil manservant-services in the background passing her intstructions down to the lowest squeek of the frightened collaborator.

Do they think we will appreciate them all the more?
They are insane.

Somewhere In Scotland....

Apparently the Glasgow 'bombers' are going to be charged with 'Smoking In A Public Space'.
The moment they lit up was even captured on camera.
And while I'm at it, does this photo prove that a Glaswegian will piss on a Southerner if he is on fire?

Somewhere In England.....

At a secret dispersal in England, the Tup-Tups are turned around and ready for action.

The NHS is Failing!

Consider this; the NHS considered the men who made the bombs to be BRAIN SURGEONS!
The bombs DID NOT WORK.
So much for the NHS.
I will definitely be going private if I need brain surgery.

Stranger.

This afternoon in a well-earned idle moment I thought of my works, rejected today, and how they might look in the world of the future, the tomorrow in which we have overcome.
I would be long gone.
I would be remembered as a hero of the revolution, someone who endured and persevered despite the knock-backs received from the entrenched, self-satisfied numpties that the security forces really appear to secure.

So.

What fantasy do the suicide bombers really depend on then?

I don't think it is 'virgins in paradise'.

I think it is the same as mine.
Mine requires that my works outlive me, which requires that 'civilisation' survive. So these people must also want civilisation to survive too, in order that they be recorded and preserved in repute for the future.

Which brings us to this; since we both fight on in the same hope, what matters?

Apart from the fact that I hope to have a good life anyway?

Simply this. We have to discuss and determine who is right.
Our Muslim brothers are terribly wrong.
But by their (presumed) motivation(and it is a fair one), they really are our brothers.

Interested?

So anyway, the white van had been parked outside our apartments for two months. It was beginning to show streaks of dirt from the rain, never moved day or night, and was almost brand new.

The full-page adverts in the press for the Anti-Terrorism Hotline showed this as precisely the sort of information they wanted.

So I gave them a try.
They weren't interested.

Then the thing last year with my criminally insane neighbour.
The police weren't interested.
Then the thing with last week's intruder outside my door.
The police weren't interested.

Today the police appealed for help.

Sorry.
I'm not interested.

John Bull(shit)

If English people had any self-esteem at all, I would walk down an English street the same as I would a Canadian one, and be completely ignored apart from people who wanted to make friends.
But there wouldn't be many of them.

Here in England, however, a myriad of pathetic resentments bubble up to the surface and manifest themselves in all sorts of fearful pig-noises, from the abuse of employers (which is rare in my case-I work for a decent company) to the little squeals, sniffs and coughs of the masculine thirty-going-on-12-year-old-schoolgirls which infest this island.

Fact is, they don't.
They don't have any self esteem.
They are so far from being anywhere, at any time, any kind of human being, that they actually hate, fear and resent the sight of it when one of us is about.

It would be lovely to take a swing at one one of these creeps. But only if the moment takes me.

Anyway, I went into my first house of shame today.
The beer was the same as last week.
But nobody was allowed to smoke.

Which was resented.
Especially by the barmaids.