Staggering Staggered Staggering

And so, properly fortified, I set out to liberate Toronto single-handed.
I marched towards the CN Tower.



It just kept getting bigger.

I crossed the footbridge which crosses the Union Lines.

I paused; looking up and down Front Street, taking a deep breath-then I plunged into the heart of the Beast;below is the bit where they shoot a news show, but there was no show to invade that day.
Besides, all this Canadian politeness stuff is wearing off on me, and I was in a good mood after all that beer.




So I sat underneath.
And watched TV.

Then I went for a little lunch in the basement, sat and had coffee in the core, and took this picture; apparently the CBC is losing hegemony over this building, and may soon no longer be downtown.
With the cheeky recommendations of that blasted liberal-stuffed committee last week, if I were Harper I'd pull the plug.
Let them eat ratings!

Slowly I Turned....

And saw the old engine roundhouse from the days of CN carrying out its own locomotive maintenance.
This building is now home to the Steam Whistle Brewery. Steam Whistle is a Pilsner with a dry, clean finish and no artificial anything, about 5% strong and available on draught or in bottles; looking at the entrance to the brewery I surmised that this walking business was thirsty work, and that I might try to buy a bottle here, fresh off the lines.

I needn't have worried. I bought some souvenir bottle-openers, said 'how much?' and the man said '$4 each.Wanna beer?'

I said I would if there was time before the tour.

He poured me a fresh one.

'How much?'

'Free.Hey man, this is a brewery.'

So I sat down in a corner and sipped my ice-cool Steam Whistle.

Anyway, after five minutes a buxom native-American beer-maiden calls out for the tour.

Four of us gather round.

She freshens up our beers(!), and we sit outside in the Sunshine, listening to her tell the story of the brewery.I won't repeat it; go there yourself whenever you are next in Toronto.

She explained that if you're ever in a barfight, choose Steam Whistle, because the bottles are 30% heavier.
We got to pull the actual steam whistle; and they will just keep on refilling your beer glass, for nothing.

Yes.That's what I call a tourist attraction.

Good beer, too.

I Was Walking Down The Street One Day...

From Union Station, in search of legendary Canadian beer. The rumour had it that there was a fair-sized local micro-brewery within walking distance.

Bremner Boulevard was the street address; all I had to do was follow the signs, rather as in the Omen, only my reward would be beery souvenirs and a tour which would show me beer being made-a bit like watching a beautiful woman getting dressed.

As I drew close to the point marked on the treasure map, I couldn't help but notice the CN Tower.

Sure it's big.

So are these buses at the base.

Hundreds of yards from the tower.

And tomorrow, I will show you what I found.

Which Was Nice....

This is a picture of Garibaldi, the man who liberated Rome from the 'Infallible' pope.
A man so fierce they named a biscuit after him.
Crunch!
Anyway, back in England we need liberating too.
Britain is the biggest open prison I know of, with walls of citizenship 100 years thick and 10 years high.
It restrains every aspect of natural life and channels it into distorted deformations of social convention which allow enough light into people's lives so that they can feel the agony without it ever letting up on them.
After sixty-five years of being struck over the head, suffocated and led by the ear, the British finally retire and have the time and freedom to realise what a bunch of crap they've been sold; by which time it is too late.
But hope springs eternal in the human breast, and these humans are no exception; they hope, beyond all education, truth, facts and reality that their children might do better, or even their grandchildren, and so they educate them to the ways of the beast, bequeathing ineffective bitterness and out-of-date ideologies, sending the young into energetic departures tempered by non-existent understanding and bound by elastic chains into returning to the established order of orbit.

And so the farce continues, and the fairly secret controllers see the sympathy with which the world treats the trapped, British downtrodden, and become Hugh Grant every time they are seen in order to make foreign people thing they are imagining it all.

Well; it's not good enough.
Not for me.

Wilderness Tales...

You know you've arrived when you find yourself on a Sunny day by the lake, with a big barbecue balcony looking out over the water; trees to stop the sand blowing in provide the perfect frame for the setting Sun over the water, and the combination of small towns with big butchers and beer stores makes for the ideal evening meal.
Burp.

Sidewalk Scenes......

...And Black Limousines,
In Places,
Small Faces.....

Now It Can Be Told.

You can take the man out of England....

and you can have a damn good try at taking the England out of the man!

This toilet was at Manchester airport and I got straight to work.

Of course, they want you to come back for more, so 'pour encourager les autres'.....

A collection of expensive shiny things in the departure lounge.

A large Triumph motorcycle and an Aston Martin. Let's face it, you'd have to be crazy to leave behind these Grrreat Brrrritish icons, wouldn't you? Especially when they are raffling them?

Hey man, stick them up your arse for all I care.

Like the young mister Burns when he was adopted, I arrived in Canada and it was a case of "Let's drive!"

Stakeholders Find The Silver Bullet.

A few days into my Canadian idyll and only hours after meeting various wolf-like creatures in London(wahooo!),I was struck by the nature of modern political conflict.

In England, and in any other ostensibly English-based culture, there is a killer app, a silver bullet, something which will guarantee victory.
Victory may come sooner.It may come later.
This silver bullet would put a final end to De Cicco-Time all over the world.
It is called Liberty.
All over the world, dictators and malfeasant governments watch with bated amusement as the 'West' employs thousands of people to play games with liberty, shaving and diluting, playing as close to the wind of change as they can without actually changing tack, or if they do, not sailing towards freedom.

All the mainstream parties ignore the silver bullets lying in the dust at their clay-covered feet, but instead prefer to shoot blanks, safe in the knowledge that they will never hit anything.
In America, the Republicrats shoot Winchesters full of blanks.
The British shoot a large Webley full of black powder; Canadians go hunting loaded for bubble gum.

But not everybody shoots blanks;Pym Fortune shot for Dutch Liberty, and got shot in the head for his troubles.
The Ignorant Sheila's Party(One Nation) of Australia, struck a blow for stupidity with the plain recognition of Western Liberty, and succeeded because nobody else tried.

In Britain, the BNP loads up with the silver bullets-and fires at justice. And they shoot to kill.

My belief is that it is up to individual politicians to establish their own reputation, free from the thumb-bummed slags of the status quo.

We can no longer rely on trickle down from political parties, when the crooks in control are merely drenching us in stolen piss.

We have to go it alone.

38 Minutes of Bliss.....

So here we are in Sunny Harrogate, when I decide to get on the train to London and meet the people.
Apparently the team from the London Fog was in town for the hols, so I met up with them at the house of a mutual acquaintance.
Beer flowed, stories were told, and a song was composed to celebrate the benign rule of Ken Livingston.
A good time was had by all.
Except Ken, who didn't like our song.

Preposterous Proudhon's Prosperity Trap.

The White man's burden in North America is a burden of guilt.
Most people are in denial, of course, but the fact is that Property is more than just a construct drawn on a piece of legalistic paper.
It is more than something 'invented' by government to keep boundaries clear.

Property is a real thing, and property is established by land or title belonging to Man long before it is recorded or ratified.

The Native Americans 'owned' the land they lived on, long before the USA and Canadian states said so.

And this was recognised by the individual White man, who traded for much of the land he now owns, rather than stealing it.

Perhaps the Native Americans were bad businessmen, but that isn't the White Man's fault.

I'm not saying that we all don't need laws to make property work; we do!

But what the denial of the White Man means is that they have an unreasoned and guilty adherence, an excessive and unwarranted adherence, to the structure of the State, as they see this state as the sole excuse and justification for any excesses that they may, historically, have committed at the expense of Native Americans.
They confuse government with civilisation.

Thus it's continuing and growing dominance in man's affairs becomes tolerated due to the guilt that this concession engenders.
And so the original functions of government become usurped by a state apparatus that seeks to distance itself from crumbling cultural motivations by appearing to defend those Natives more energetically than previously.

Thus, when the glorious day comes, and the White Man's culture is finally crushed, the state will go on, God help us.

On R&R From Keepin' Russia....

When this film comes to England, I will be one of the first to see it.
It is called 'Thank You For Smoking', and it is a brilliantly witty and intelligent treatment of the bullshit-bigotry surrounding state aggression against the poor twits who smoke; the tobacco industry is portrayed as a great defender of liberty, in an entirely nefarious way.

Of course, knowing the bowdlerisation of genuine American culture that serves to keep the British yokel yoked, we probably won't get it.
That will be a pity.

Finally, A Chance To Rest.

Having a lovely time resting from the trials and tribulations of truck-driver world, here in Sunny Harrogate.
Almost missed a chance to see William Hague doing his thing at the Conference Centre.
'Tis a pity he isn't the leader of the pack any more.
I don't like Cameron any more than Blair.
What can you say?
A vote for Cameron is a vote for not-Blair.
But under no circumstances must it be regarded as a vote for the Conservatives, as this is nasty.
And you gots to be nasty.
I see you baby, shaking that ass....

Such Lovely People...

Good evening. I would like to introduce you to some people who may be closer than you think.




The neighbours.
Yes. Look at them, smiling in welcome.
They look almost normal.
One of them even has a dog. Blondi?
Anyway, I digress.
In the liberated 21st century we don't talk in terms of non-agression pacts, guarantees and so on.
We simply turn on our televisions and tune into 'Neighbours From Hell'.
These are typically very rude louts who never smile at all.
Which makes them rather pathetic, and not at all a serious threat to anybody's peace of mind.
One can close the doors and they parade around for a few moments before feeling rather silly(which irritates them even more) and then they likewise disappear indoors.

But the real neighbours from hell are far more selective.

They choose their victims carefully, seeking to expand their miniature empires by stealth, threat and degree, incrementing their aggressions to dispose of those around them who might constitute resistance.

They start their campaigns in the rather naive belief that they can attack everybody else and nobody can attack them.
Well, I've got news for them; they have sewn the wind, and now they will reap the whirlwind.

Naughty Boy's College-Compulsory Naturally

This is Armley Prison, the 'Big House on the Hill', Leeds.
The little speck by the wall in the third picture is a human figure.
Note the rounded mouldings on top of the giant curtain wall.
They stop grappling hooks from working.
But I'm surprised there are no cameras to watch the outside; somebody could bring a large Cherry-Picker right up and park it adjacent.

Anyway, it is not a pleasant place at all despite all the complaints of 'human rights' and molly-coddling', as the suicide rate indicates.

This is the resting place of so many young people in Leeds, but it has to be said that they are made to fit on the outside, not the inside.
Let's just hope there's a good sprinkling of genuine old lags to keep morale up, eh?

And let's also hope that the outside world remains sufficiently different that good people aren't tempted to continue their research with the 'bad machines' circuiting behind all that stone.

Incidentally, in the Yorkshire Evening Post this week was a little article about a man buried in the cemetary opposite the wall; he was a VC in WWI for rescuing comrades under fire, a big ox of a man who built his muscles working at Timothy Taylor's Brewery. He was killed by a police car in 1953; at the wake, Timothy Taylor supplied all the drink.
Apparently Timothy Taylor's is latterly known as Madonna's favourite beer.

Wa-Hoo-Ooo-Ooh!

Looks like my baby gave me a surprise!
Al-Zarqawi was blown up today.
By the US airforce.

Splendid!
Quite a morale-booster if the pictures of celebrating Iraqi police are anything to go by.
Meanwhile, Summer pours it on in Yorkshire.
Here are some sights from the roads.
I know that one of the cars is an E-type V12 Jaguar(my favourite), but the others are a mystery to me.

Wa-Hoo-Ooo-Ooh!

Looks like my baby gave me a surprise!
Al-Zarqawi was blown up today.
By the US airforce.

Splendid!
Quite a morale-booster if the pictures of celebrating Iraqi police are anything to go by.
Meanwhile, Summer pours it on in Yorkshire.
Here are some sights from the roads.
I know that one of the cars is an E-type V12 Jaguar(my favourite), but the others are a mystery to me.

Back at the ranch.....

The apeman cometh.
Go to bed early to catch up on my Z's, when I am kept awake for three hours by door-slamming and floor tapping.
Obviously the rubbish is trying to provoke me as it has allies around.

I drift off.Wake up at 1110 in a cold fury, so I listen; all quiet, they have given up and gone to sleep.
Slam my doors and put on the infamous 'For Those About To Rock' album at high volume.
After ten minutes the tapping starts:"I put the finger on you..."(tap), to which I shout "Wanker!You couldn't put your finger up your nose!"

There is a hell of a lot of incoherent screaming from the fire escape, so I turn the volume up.
Then one of the slags stands out in the garden looking up at my window.
I walk to my window to let him see and to get a look and stare him down.
Tosspot.
Anyway, I'm going to tell the Social Services the story about how they are turning threatening.
That ought to get them kicked out.

Meanwhile....

back at the fount of organised thought which is the West's defence against religious savagery:


we have 'The Omen', a pile of superstitious crap designed to appeal to any remnant of prehistoric terror that the poor children have had drummed into them by upbringing; the sign of the Beast, '666' looks like circular quotation marks in this photo.

Which seems to reveal the endlessly self-referential bullshit which this story undoubtedly is.
Hell.
I read the bible as a child and never came across any of this rubbish.

Notwithstanding verses 12-18 of Jockarama 54.
Or just 'follow the signs'.

In circles, apparently.

Burqa's Law

This picture is from the Toronto Star by Lucas Olienuk.
Clearly this woman (in the anti-terrorist investigation)is taking extreme Islamicism to another level.
Even her eyes are covered, whereas most of her peers only wear the Burqa.

Still, she needs gloves.
I suppose if she walked under a truck like this, the headline would be 'Coverup Suicide-does anybody really care?'

Magical Mystery Tour

Here we were in the hobbyist's paradise, near Pool in Yorkshire.
As you can see from my photo of the Birchfield Farm Shop(great range of fresh veg, Yorkshire cheeses and sausages), the weather is glorious today.

Which brings out the motorcyclists.

This machine?
Can you guess?

It's by a bloke who builds bikes like some people build computers.
I looked at the engine, and guessed, correctly as it turned out, that it was based on a BSA 500 single.

The rest comes from all over, but the engine started life as a 1943-Model.

Sounds good too.

Capitalist Road-Candy

The only way you could tell(if you didn't know) that this was a Bentley, is by the radiator grill and badges.
Labels are so vulgar, don't you think?
Interestingly, this delivery-mileage, unregistered example is some kind of saloon; four doors and proper back seats.

Goon-Baiting

The knock on the ceiling was supposed to be a threat.
This time, it wasn't imminent destruction.
This time, they were threatening cutting my power off.

Desperate.

Naturally, I put on AC/DC's 'For Those About To Rock' album, very loudly, whereas I had just been sitting quietly.

The lyrics were such that the goon would think I had selected this album specifically to get at him.
Me?
I couldn't give a shit.
I wanted loud music, I got loud music.