Genius.

Genius isn't intelligence. Not purely. No.
Genius is moral, at the root.
This is what I am saying.
The root of all genius is moral.
What made me say this? I'll tell you.
As I parked my car and got out, to walk back to my flat, I saw a fifty-sixty-something chap come puffing and blowing down the street towards me.
I'd never seen him before, but here he was with an air of staring but not looking, mouth open in utterance but not speaking, in fact bearing somewhat in my direction with an air of vaguely injured aggression.
When I looked at this person, I saw a life lived in thrall to others, a life of interest in his fellow man; perhaps a few shameful, guilt-ridden moments at work amounted to the allegation of productiveness that had possibly informed his no doubt long and boring career.
The chap was wearing shorts and a shirt, freshly laundered and ironed. he was probably prosperous, probably a home owner, probably very sheepish in his social endeavours.

But every action he was making at that moment was pursuivant to an obsession with other people. In no sense were his thoughts his own.
And this is why genius doesn't succeed in England.
Because people like him do.

The Dumbening...

So horrible, thinking people and their thoughts were locked in dungeons on the outskirts of society for two generations.
America bans Ecstasy. America introduces draconian measures. Production rises.

Vicious Fraud On The BBC.

The BBC has just started a new series of Mitchell and Webb.
This is a funny, 'adult' funny, show, and the guys making it are talented.
On the other hand, there is a show called 'Horne and Corden'.

Horne and Corden is presented with all the common trappings of a witty, well made sketch show.
But the fact is, I get bigger laughs reading the telephone directory.
Horne and Corden charge everything they do with homosexuality of the militant kind, even if they are straight. Which they may or may not be.
They are unfunny, untalented and unappealing.

And what does the BBC do?
That's right.
Mitchell and Webb sells itself.
Armstrong and Miller sells itself.
Horne and Corden is so unremittingly dreadful, the BBC sells it at every opportunity, as though they are afraid of admitting a dreadful mistake.
I would rather that the BBC produced 10 series of Glam Metal Detectives than 1 episode of Horne and Corden.

Stop. Look. Listen.

Iran.

Unbelievably Excellent.

How the world works June 15th

Strange Days Dream.

So I'm in the pub again. A corking girl is looking over her partner's shoulder at me, then at the mirror. Meh.
So I drink my beer and I'm not bothered particularly.
Two guys tell me I've dropped some money when I'm paying for my next pint.
Cheerful exchange.
Sit down.
The neighbour has been gone for four days.
When I get home, the noise starts. From a distance at first, then for a few seconds at a time.
Little loony is playing his crappy game.
So my stereo is back to moderate volume, full base and on all the time, partly to drown the cunt, partly to let him know I know.
If he breaks the rules, I'll floor it at midnight and when the neighbours complain he'll get the blame.
Little gobshite. Easier and safer than cutting the little bastard's head off. But not as satisfying.

More Tribute.

Can yer guess who it is yet?

North Korea.

Short of just blasting the little freaks off the face of the Earth, all we really need to do is launch a big, shiny satellite into geostationary orbit over North Korea.
Make it useless, apart from being easily visible from the ground with the naked eye.
Let them build whatever they want.
But if they ever attack the satellite, then we bomb them all to hell.
It's simple.
It would work.
They will never do it, because it doesn't give them a chance to busy-body their way into all our (North Korean) lives.
Tossers.

No, Really!

So I go into the Swan.
Get my pint of Theakston's, sit down at an empty table, and start sending a text.
So I hear the common spotted idiot going 'eh he' on my left, and there is this lanky, super-neat, super mid-fifties git, with his head twisted nearly off so he can glower at me over his shoulder.
I say, 'Shove it.' and go back to my text.
So this big, cowardly creep, keeps on going 'eh he'.
So I laugh and go 'eh he' in an exact mimicry of the cretin.
Eventually, his utterly plain wife joins him. He pretends he needs a menu, so he reaches over to my table with a thick, slowly-moving arm."Mind if I borrow this?"
"Sure, go ahead."
As he moves I go 'eh he' a couple more times.
Then he goes down the bar. As he does, I go 'eh he', behind his back.
Blow me if when he gets back, he doesn't turn his chair all the way round so his back is turned, then sit hunched as if he is about to burst into tears.
I mean, this piece of shit is what passes for a 'man' in England.
Fuck off. It's a bloody disgrace, an embarrassment. 60 going on 12. Pathetic.
Or as Johnny Cash said, in Fulsom Prison Blues, 'I shot a man in Reno, just to watch him die...'

There Goes The Neighbourhood.

You'll never guess who I had in the back of my cab the other day.....

Yes.

That's right.

The Australian Head Of State.

Artistic Memorial

Shhh. Don't Tell Anyone.

I thought all this 'green shoots' mullarky was the biggest load of bollocks I'd ever heard.
But then this happened:
I got three different jobs sent to me by three different agents in three different locations.
Today.
On a Saturday.
Either the horrible quiet of the last month has finally broken due to an upturn - something I'll believe when I see - or things are so bad that the guys are working Saturdays to try and make ends meet.
I find the latter hard to believe though, as if there are no jobs out there, working a Saturday won't make them magically appear.
There is just one more possibility, however.
It may be that I have finally cracked my presentation by appealing in the right way and for the right reasons to the right people.
Let's see what the new week brings.

Ever Wondered...........

what Obama would look like if he was a white man? He'd be just another cunt.

OpenCV is embarrassing.

Everybody loves to hate Microsoft.
Intel wrote OpenCV.
Their documentation is misleading. The 2d pixel peek methods possess REVERSED INDICES.
I just wasted TWO HOURS debugging in order to discover that.

Why I Don't Have A Job.

I apply for jobs where a clever person could see I am ideal. Also a person with no brain at all could see it, because choosing me is a 'no-brainer'.

But I don't get the jobs, because the 'people' in charge aren't even no-brainers.

They are ruptured, pathetic, miserable specimens, that dwell in a pit of resentment, surrounded by the pus of envy, and paralysed by the hate/fear reflex.

So, when they see my CV, the only question remaining to them is how to exercise their little brains in such a way as to deny me what I want, while making it appear reasonable.

This is what is usually going on at any time there is no immediate response.

Vote Winner.

I think I could win the next election. I'd start an emergency programme to launch all the so-called celebrities such as Katie Price and Peter Andre and all the people from BGT into outer space to help reflect the Sun and so reduce global warming.

But not Simon Cowell. He would be sacrificed to the volcano gods in order to appease my aching head.

Any remaining wannabes would soon get the message.

Racist Slur.

This from the New York Post.
Day of pride for Latinos?
Oh yeah. We get to regard them as just another race, thereby accepting the slur that we are racist, and generating the fresh slur that they are too.
Nobody is American of course.
But there's more; we get to regard them as a pathetic sub-race that feeds off miserable encouragements, so that they are still lesser beings than us.
I'm sorry New York Post. You don't even begin to understand how offensive this is to even the least rational persons among us.

Anyone Notice?

The price of gold has quietly put on $100 per ounce in the last few days. Nobody is saying anything, but it is headed towards $1000 again.

What goes on?

I've been in a bloody mood for a week or so. Then this morning I went to the pub. I had a pint of Ruddles, plotted sending a postcard to an old girlfriend, and felt great. The second beer slipped down as well as the first, and the post office was easy.
So then I went home, hoping for an easy time of it.
I got a call from an agent - possible contract with a satellite manufacturer - then went for a lazy doze.
Pretty soon it's 'thump-thump' from the mental-case neighbour(who seems to have a death wish), so I just turn up my own to drown it out.
This goes on and off for a few hours, then my mum Skypes me. And suddenly, the problems don't seem too big.
The noise no longer bothers me.
I just feel good. I can make noise too.
Cool.
Strange, but cool.

This is a joke? Isn't it?

The leader of Burma (the real leader), is to go on trial charged with : 'harbouring an American who swam to her home'.
What? Harbouring an American? Are Americans banned, like drugs?What next?
Is she going to be charged with thinking impure thoughts?
These pathetic junta bastards should all be shot.

Genteel Poverty of Thought

And Spirit.

Charles Moore thinks he is begging for the life of parliament. Why does he do this? Because he doesn't have any guts? Because he is one of them? Because he thinks that a fatally, disastrously flawed governmental system, a system of quiet oppression and exclusion, should be saved?

I see only one fitting end for this heap of rubbish;

Prague Spring!

But I won't be holding my breath.

Plus Ca Change, Plus C'est La Meme Chose

The more things change, the more they remain the same.
A news article on the BBC started tonight with the announcement that some guy, the prime minister's 'Change Secretary' or something with the word 'change' in his title, had resigned.

This stinking pile of filth which is the British government has appointed more cronies to fake positions with grandiose-sounding titles than any other state in history. It's as if the Soviet state had taken over and then taken drugs which caused an explosively virulent cancer, making the body politic swell and inflate beyond all control or recognition.

There is no longer any use of the word 'sleaze'. Sleaze belongs to an age where moral outrage was faked over trifles, to bring about the encumbency of the present heap of shit. What we have now is the gradual inability to hide any longer the rampant, stampeding riot of little boys and girls that have suddenly realised that they are in mummy's bedroom and daddy's study, and they have gone away no-one knows where.

Like dogs, they instinctively sniff and choke when they meet a scent they cannot fathom. Usually the scent of a Man.
On a personal level, I see job descriptions, where the title might be 'software engineer', but the job is baffling and unconnected to any technical skills, usually paying much more than any market rate and as near as can be told, demanding social skills and the ability to understand the (public sector employer's) private verbal messages.
There are thousands of jobs like this, the legion of the useless busybodying their way into prosperity and safety and influence and property, all at the increasing expense of the diminishing real work force.
Not that I would apply, but I could not in a thousand years get such a job if I tried.

For example, I walked into a college yesterday for a public lecture. What did I see? On the way up from the car park, a nasty, grey, shabby little old man, probably a lecturer, coughs (from behind of course) with such a fakeness and tone that he actually seems to believe he is expressing ssomething; this is the ultimate reaction to a human being, this supposedly 'unanswerable' critique-by-dint-of-saying-nothing.
Obviously I say, 'my god, look what they're letting into these places'.
When I get to the lecture hall I see a notice board, plastered with communist propaganda posters; this is a history department.

I have more than a passing suspicion that youngsters are being taught to frame their world views in such terms.
If civilisation is to survive, the 'Gulch' time may be here.

Business is slow.

All's Well

I go down to the town centre pub at lunchtime and have a pint of whatever special they're running.

It's strictly no children and today's was Theakstons Best.

The thing is, when you go to this pub you see the usual mix; but there's a high proportion of middle-aged guys like me, wearing inappropriate casual clothes, unshaven and generally letting it all hang out in their beery corners.

We chat up the lovely serving girls, none of us with any serious chance, but enjoying the light-hearted flirting and taking in the scenery.

When I got home, I saw a loony Christian on TV talking about his experience of Jesus Christ.

Fucking nutcase.

Be Seeing You

I Must Escape.

I have been the victim of mental illness all my life.
Other people's mental illness.
I MUST escape.
I find the thought that I might actually begin to understand the English quite frightening. Because understanding is only a short step from empathy, which is only a short step from sympathy.

Which is the Stockholm syndrome.

I Need To Take A Shower.

It's Really Very Simple.

The beautiful Afro-English girl, 20 years old, accused by a sick, communist regime of carrying some Heroin(so what?), has been raped and is now pregnant.
They threatened to shoot her.
It is really very simple.
Send a coded maessage to all our diplomats to drive across the border.
Then send a detachment of Paras(sorry, no longer trust the Marines) down to the Laotian Embassy and take them all prisoner.
Then threaten to shoot all of them if she isn't released. At the rate of one a day, finishing with the Ambassador, or if we wait a few days, the Laotian Minister.
I guarantee the crisis would end, and Gordon Brown would win the next election.

Come Again?

All the labour ministers seem to be agreed on one thing; 'we cannot seem to get our message across to the public'.
This is rubbish of course.
The fact is(and I'm sure that they find this 'horrifying'), that they have indeed succeeded brilliantly in getting their message across. And their crappy message is what is being rejected.

They have been deluding themselves for so long without any success, they seem to think that by deluding us as well, some imaginary success will follow.

Well I've got news for them.
We don't like them, we don't like their messages, and we are tired of listening.

Microsoft Gets It Wrong

Trying out Internet Explorer 8; much quicker and more responsive than the last disaster.
Another good idea is the ability to edit (remove) browser list entries manually.
However, they have got this badly wrong.
They have a delete button on each line at the right.
If you are used to scrolling down the list on the right, you will not select the destination, you will delete it.
They should have done it with a right-click option.

Why Google Sucks.

Google installs viral software on windows systems.
When it is unistalled, it causes system crashes.
This is childish, unprofessional vandalism.
Since removing the google toolbar from my IE, it is faster and more responsive. And doesn't have lousy, unwanted fascist input on each and every page by virtue of corruption of the design.

Oh, Darling!

Darling really has come up with the most pathetic subterfuge today.

Apparently, spending is now called 'investing', so that we can confidently expect him to 'invest' £6 billion more in the health service; he doesn't mention anything about ROI(Return On Investment) or even whether we can expect improving mortality rates from this( a presumed Government ROI), so I guess he's just talking through his arse as usual to give his hinterland of useful idiot followers something to parrot in the imaginary discussions that he supposes these fools to influence.

Of course, nobody is giving either airtime or credence to the regiments of fools any longer, so he is beginning to resemble a man whose insanity is driving him to build a brick wall around him with no doors or windows, from the demolished wreckage of the society he inherited, and is now spinning round in smaller and smaller circles of denial like a latter-day Hitler in a bunker of social insulation rather than concrete.

Talking of concrete, I have to wonder what, if any, the effects of this miserable budget will be.

"It's for your own good!"

The Toronto Sun 'Sunshine Girl'.

This is Lesly from 19th April.
I like Canada.

The Time Is Approaching

I Can Finally Reveal....

I am in fact a super-hero who has beeen around since the thirties.

In Case You Don't Understand America.

The Giant Prison

Hero of the Revolution.

Traitor.

Fucking bastard.

Let It Be Said....

Truly, Gordon Brown, the sub-prime minister, is a skidmark on the underpants of history.

When the world finally carries out its laundry, he will be washed away in a stream of lukewarm suds tastier than the beer at a New Labour wedding.

More Tricks on TV.

Turn on the TV. Within 30 seconds your tired of it.
So, you start tuning around to try to find something that doesn't bore to offensive, impossible to watch, levels.
You find a list show. Top 100....
Today, it's Top 100 Couples We Love To Hate.

Actually, these people they are trying to lynch are actually mostly completely forgotten. But they nevertheless pretend we are interested, and we endure the talking heads and crummy library shots until we reach the stage of actively disliking what we see.

But here's the trick.

We don't hate the TV company, or the programme, because there may be just one couple we remember with distaste, and want to see again, to see where they appear in the list.

So our hatred of the crap programme is sublimated to hatred of the couples.

And lo and behold, we think we've seen something good.

But we haven't, it isn't, and after one or two such programmes, we return to avoiding them at all costs and switching round again.

Why do they bother? Why is television so chronically flatulent and flabby that it must go on all the time, pumping shit out at all hours? It isn't television entertainment any more. It's a tool of mental illness.

I Like This One.

Please do go on!

Sorry to Go On

The Home of the Grave and the Land of the Flea.

This Little Pig Killed The Market.

Gordon Brown put a 'big three' points on the agenda today.

1)Agree a strategy

2)Organize a worldwide financial stimulus

and last but not least,

3)An end to Tax Havens.

As power plays go, it is pretty transparent. Don't you just love the way this criminal thug puts the tax-haveny bit at the end?

Still, at least they reported it.

It was ever the complaint of socialists that the rest of the world didn't practise what the socialists preached, and that is why we're all alive.

But Gordon 'The Moron' Brown is aiming to change all that, once and for all, and bring about worldwide socialist hegemony.

The Russians couldn't do it alone; Brown was one of their 'useful idiots' back in the day, as all of New Labour was, most of them with MI5 files.

They have penetrated good and proper, and now we're all getting screwed.

1960 Deville as in Mad Men

Boring! New!

Some Government Spending works!

But not because the government did the spending.
Today I went to sign on to the unemployment benefit office, so I can receive my pittance from the monopoly state insurance scheme.
Grim.
They said "Why don't you try the job search consoles while you're waiting?"
I remembered these from the nineties.
Advanced, but not terribly useful.
So I had a go.
Within twenty seconds, I had over a hundred Software jobs on multiple screens.
Touch screen, with a GUI that I completely approve of as meeting my standards of simplicity and transparency.
Three of them were worth an application.
So I hit the print button, and a long piece of paper rolled out of a slot, cut to exactly the right length, with the job details on.
The contact methods were all customised too.

They haven't necessarily spent all that wasted money on this. But what they have spent has been spent well.

Time's Passin'

O.M.G.

90210 is so, like, shite!

I'm going to write an episode.

Tiffani brings her boyfriend, Luke, back to the apartment, but her roommate, Eric, is snogging Robersha on the Davenport.

OMG!

She is so freaked out, she tries to look shocked! Then Eric and Robersha stand up, looking embarrassed and rearranging their barely disturbed clothing.

"How could you!", says Tiffani."I trusted you!"

"Aw, fuck off and mind your own fucking business." says Eric.

"Why do you think they call me Psychedelic Eric?"

"Yeah, but I've got my squeeze and you've got yours!"

"And this is a problem, why?" Says Robersha.

"Er....."

Pan camera round to each of their faces in turn, as each one says 'Er.....'

Run credits and title music.

Don't forget folks, this is 'all new'!

Zombies. Everywhere you look.

Truly there are zombies in Britain.

Even Bloomberg Is Going Mad.

On Bloomberg TV last week was a 'pundit' who was offering his expert advice on the alleged benefits of the 'stimulus package'.

He claimed that it took four dollars of debt to produce one dollar of growth (an utter absurdity), and so the trillion dollars would produce about $250 billions of growth, or about 2% of US GDP.

This insanity is a self-referencing non-sequiteur. If it were true, debt would be sufficient to account for all growth. The insanity that this represents is beyond parody; in fact, growth comes from moneys which are generated additional to costs, and debt has nothing to do with this, except that debt allows the redistribution of money from one group of spending to another.

Lunacy.

Alban's Fat Wife Disgusts Me.

And I'm not the only one.

Alban Is An Idiot

And I mean that most sincerely folks, I really do.

As Irish As Wellington(s)

Sad farewell to P.McG.

MadMen is back.

Watched MadMen tonight, and I'm happy to say it went very well, apart from underwritten children's dialogue.

Now.

On TV and in the papers, Staffordshire NHS has killed 1200 patients through incompetence and shoddy practise allegedly resulting from trying to meet government targets.

Scrap the NHS now!

So There I Was....

Minding me own business, and that Roland Beamont parks his bleedin' TSR2 in me front room.

Altruism.

Altruism is always referred to as if it were a belief system, an idea which is one among many, and is available to us as a potential choice for a code by which to live our lives.
This is rubbish.

Altruism best describes a psychosis, an actual and commmonplace mental illness that takes the form of psychological dependence on other people for a sense of existence.

The sense of existence is revealed to the sufferer as a sequence of psychological mechanisms which implement emotional responses and thus perpetuate an illusion of life.
The altruist illness requires the subconscious and unchecked, obsessive delusion that all behaviour is socially orientated.
While essential humanity stops this from reaching psychotic episodic levels sometimes, commonly it doesn't, and entire belief systems of delusional type are built up around the impulses generated.

The altruisitic belief in social metaphysical reality is thus, through the subconscious guidance of rationalising thought processes, able to produce complex and express theoretical systems promoting the value of overt altruism.

Thus, a mental illness, typically caused by lack of employment, the lack of independent experience and the cowardice inherent in group behaviour, leads to such things as Marxism and Christianity.

However, it is the exploiters of the illness, such as Marx and the church leaders, who have sought to acquire political power by expressing theories and moralities which lend psychological validation to the altruist psychotic. For this reason alone, without further examination, their claims of humanitarian benevolence may safely be disregarded.
Any person who seeks to exploit the mentally ill is the most evil of individuals.

I look forward to the day when altruism is recognised as a treatable mental disease.

Second Version

Merging With Thoughts You'd Never Dare To Dream.

This line from a Tubeway Army song of the late seventies summarises the state in which huge numbers of the people in this country live.
For example, I took a day off from spending money today, and so I didn't go out.
And my neighbour didn't go out either. As if he was afraid I'd get some privacy, something I thrive on but something which terrifies him.
He stayed in all day, and tried to 'relate' to any random noise coming from my flat, like some sort of leech or poison ivy, sucking the life out of a host which isn't actually there.
If only it was. Then he would have something to resent, something to energise his dead body into pretending that it was alive, a way of leaning up against something else like a poorly built shanty.

There are millions of creatures like this in Britain; they have no self, no mind, just a collection of gelatinous reactions like something bred in a Petrie Dish.
The reason why Howard Roark was so quiet was that he had never had sufficient privacy to allow himself to express.
Because a Human Being expresses things of value, things which are immediately attacked in the attempt to bury them under the weight of fraudulent assertion, the assertion that the expressions were for anybody's benefit but his own.

Well get this, altruists: they aren't for you!

Good News!

From the Toronto Star of all places; safe smoking!

Alive alive-oh!

Uh-Huh! You Tell Em, Boyfriend!

Infantilism In England

Resistance Is Futility

Sometimes.....

London on the eighties was fun. Finding a place to live was often hell, but at work we had fun.

There were masses of big office builds then, and I worked on a few of them. London trades were booming, and loadsamoney was real.

I was watching the Daily Mirror advert today, where the tic-tac man at the race course is given subtitles, saying 'I dance like this at weddings'.

It reminded me of a goofball, a right lads lad we had working for us on the partitioners team; one day Kate Bush was playing on the radio, and he and his mates all started dancing like Kate Bush. It was bloody funny. It still gives me a good feeling now.

Or another time when an old Sparks and his apprectice were told to 'shape up', so they started doing star jumps - the kid jumped up and down and the oldster flung his arms out. They split it between them, they were a team.

A little later I cut my hand, and the old timer showed me how to make a dressing out of a cigarette paper.

Glorious. God, I love work.

Apologies.

To all those jolly good English people who aren't cunts.
We know who they are, but we will say nothing.

Interesting Telegraph Article

This is about the attempts to murder Castro.

No Surprises There.

They murdered Morgan's wife.
They probably meant to.
They probably won't do anything about it.
Because they would probably do the same to any of us if we get out of line.

I.T.M.A.

This Is True.

The British electorate returns to the Labour Party like a dog to its vomit.

What Gives?

I asked for the documents from the Irish Embassy three weeks ago.
They said they'd put them in the post.
They haven't arrived.

The Shame, The Shame..

So the Movies For Men channel was showing an old history of Winston Churchill. It was okay until they got to the bit where WSC addresses both houses of Congress.
Then I remembered that Brown-job was 'only the 5th Prime Minister' to do so.

I couldn't watch any more. The thought of that gobshite Brown being compared by the corrupt Americans to WSC in order to synthesise 'good repute' for the miserable bastard was too much.

If Callaghan had asked for it he would have been laughed out of Washington, and Callaghan was twice the man Brown-job isn't.

Disappointment

I just can't watch MadMen any more.
Too many terrible continuity mistakes are completely wasting everybody's efforts.
It is set in 1961.
Last week I heard somebody say 'hit the ground running'.
I remember that phrase. I think it appeared in the eighties.
Then today, Mrs. Draper tells her son to leave the 'stereo' alone. Now I know for a fact that while we were not rich, we didn't get a stereo record player till 1976, and my parents were so alien to it they went around for three years calling it a 'steer-ee-o' and placing a speaker in each room to 'spread the sound out'.
I don't recall my parents being especially thick, but then again.
So Mr. Draper would not say 'hit the ground running', and Mrs. Draper would probably say 'phonograph' or radio because that is what they were in 1961.

It is bad writing. Couldn't these kids take time to ask somebody who was actually alive?

Ha ha ha ha ha ha !

Pots calling kettles black?

The ITV journaholic was spitting with viciousness, referring to the 'old boys network' when conducting the nightly 1984-style official hate minute against hero, Fred Goodwin.

Of course, television is all merit, right? There's no old boys network in television at all, now, is there?

Ever tried getting a job at a TV company?

The first thing they ask is, 'do you have any relatives working for us?'

What Were They Thinking?

How could anybody vote for Labour, the four-time losers? How? What is wrong with people? How?
In 1945 they kept Britain on rationing for nearly ten years, said 'no more war' and went into Greece, Palestine and Korea.
Scum.
In 1965 they destroyed what was left of the aircraft industry, destroyed the steel industry, destroyed the car-makers, destroyed the few rich people in the country, destroyed the pound;
in 1975 they destroyed the entire national wealth and went to the IMF for help.
In 1997 to today, they have pauperised millions of pensioners, created a huge fake economy, destroyed the City of London(the last world-class bit of big British industry) and introduced to the world the 'policies' which have caused global economic collapse.

NOW WILL PEOPLE FINALLY GET THE FUCKING MESSAGE ABOUT THESE CRIMINALS?

Seeing Another Atrocity - As You Do.

So, needing a pint of milk I went to the newsagents.
The cornflakes with fresh full cream were delicious, thank you, but not so delicious were the Morale Conditioners at work on the front pages of the Sunday rags.
'MI5' (no less ) is reportedly worried about the possibility of riots in the Summer over Bank Bonuses being too large.
This is sick bullshit, designed to mobilise the so-called 'free' press against any working man who has the guts to stand up against the evil, thieving, bullying thugs that impersonate the government in this devastated country; they are using the press as another agency of policy to intimidate the population and particularly the City ( which was for 20 years the saviour of the economy until the bastards milked it to death), so that we will accept any or all of the nasty surprises they have planned for us, under the guise of 'emergency'.

MI5 should definitely be concerned - as they were over Harold Wilson last time it was tried.

Time

Arbitrary dictatorship without limiting principles.

Tetley's Tinned Bitter.

Full Flavour Tetleys in cans; I used to drink it by the gallon.
Since then I've had a couple of months off, only drinking real beer in pubs.
Tried Tetleys tinnies again yesterday; god how awful my stomach feels.

Tetley's; goes well with food.
In either direction.

Gordon the Moron speaks?

Good News And Bad News

The government is powerless to steal Sir Fred's money.
Excellent.
However, U2 has played a rooftop concert at the BBC.
Quoted(not really), Bono said "Wuy wanted to do somethin' that's never bin done before. So we thought of this."
A spokesman for the BBC said, the Beatles are nothing without U2, and U2 is nothing without the BBC.
No.
Me Neither.

What A Hero!

Sir Fred Goodwin.

Hero.

The bastards are gathering. They made the deal, now they're whining. The journoholics state, plainly, without evidence and slanderously, that Fred 'ruined' the bank.

Scapegoat.

And now they're trying to persecute the victim. He's absolutely in the right.

Tosser Brown says he didn't know(surprise surprise).

And isn't it funny, we now have a City Minister, just as the City collapses. 

Coincidence?

I think not.

Ha ha ha ha ha ha

New Zealand Herald ha ha ha ha 

Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha

Hah hah ha ha ha ha ha ha ha

This country is Impious.

Filthy Bastards!

In 2002, a musical bench was placed in Poet's Corner, near Pembroke Lodge, within Richmond Park, South-West London, being a favoured viewing spot of Dury's. This solar powered seat was intended to allow visitors to plug in and listen to eight of his songs as well as an interview, but has been subjected to repeated vandalism.

This was Ian Dury's memorial seat. Vandalism? Hang the little fuckers. Slowly.

Ho?

I Take It All Back.

Mono is as shite as it has ever been.

Why don't they just give up and stop wasting everybody's time?

Hilarity

Hilarity Clinton made some prize lunatic remarks in China.
Ignoring the essential murderousness of the Chinese Communist regime, she appeared to state that America needed to create business for China by going further into debt; this apparently will have the magical effect of boosting the Chinese economy by causing Americans to spend money they don't actually have.
But wait.
It's all right, because the Chinese government will buy the American government debt!
Yes!
Hilarity has invented the Perpetual Motion Machine!

The Game Is Up.

When we defend British Citizens, we are the Little Satan.
When we don't, it is 'collusion'.
Pull the other one mr. 'Hassan'. What do you take us for?

The Game Is Up.

If there is any future which regards this period as history, then there will be some confusion over why so few people were allowed to realise that this, today, is a Dark Age.

Example: I sit downstairs for a change and decide to watch some TV.
Everything looks hopeless. I am not in sufficiently charitable a mood to allow myself to flatter the producers of this pathetic selection that their 'produce' is interesting, so I select Channnel 4 News.
The very first image that strikes me is a useless picture of the back of a politician's head, while the alleged personality that sometimes describes the 'news' sat there facing both me and the politician while nodding his head and wearing that special, composite expression that British news creatures have, namely, respect, insolence and seriousness all at the same time.

And I thought, 'this is not news'. News is factual reportage of events, not the verbal masturbation of crooks.

So I turned it over to ITV3 rather quickly, where I saw a period 'drama' of some sort. One detailed facsimile of a 19th century gentlewoman spoke to another, then the camera concentrated lovingly on the actress doing actual embroidery.
Paint drying?
Far more interesting. What on earth possessed the director to delude himself that pictures of faked embroidering were even slightly interesting? And who gave him the money to pretend with?
I hope it wasn't me.

If there is a future, and it cares to look back on this age, it will be with absolute horror at the ignorance that gripped the will of the millions.
I say if.
Not when.

Arsehole Talking Convention Is Redundant

If you want to make Mono Visual Basic work on Hardy Heron, add the following repository:

deb http://directhex.mfgames.com/ hardy main

The GPG keyfile is inadequately documented, so if you click the link you get a display of the actual code, but no fucking file.

Wild goose chase; the lack of the silly file just means that your luvverly Mono stuff is 'Unauthenticated'.

It still loads and works just fine.

For VB go to synaptic, install anything found under 'vbnc' search string, and run your Monodevelop. The VB sample application will now actually build and RUN!

Yes folks! You can now do actual VB on Linux!

Ha!

From the San Francisco Chronicle

So It Goes.

Good news everybody.
I find out I'm qualified for Irish citizenship.
Not that the English cunts are monitoring me or anything, but when I phone a friend with the good news, the 'thump thump' starts up maximum volume, and the 'processing' continues.
Make mine a pint of Guinness boys. I'm off.

Keystone Address

Obama's Next Speech

My fellow Americans. I had an American Dream; this dream was one of hope, a hope that one day we can all pretend to buy our houses then complain to the government when we get found out.
I had a dream. An American Dream, a dream where there is an apple pie in every garage and we plug our cars into the street lighting in the morning.
We as a nation must dream the American Dream of putting a man on the Whitehouse by the end of this decade.
I see a dream in which all Americans can engage in rapid eye movement. I see a dream where we will all be Berliners in the Russia of tomorrow's Germany, a Germany which buys American. I see a dream in which the world no longer looks at America. A just America. A happy America. An America which sees the world as a sacred trust put there for its duty; a world of America which is no longer indifferent to the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners, but seeks to make them prosper, dreamily.
I see an America which owns all of its homes yet consumes only one fifth of the oceans by the end of the century.
I see an America which no longer sends troops to cover foreign wars, but instead obliges journalism and the internet to assume their proper responsibilities.
We must all dream the same dream.
It is an expensive dream.
A long and stable dream.
A dream of equal opportunities for both rich and poor.
The American Dream. The dream that we all want.
Thank you.

Eckythump!

The good old Yorkshire Post is on strike.
My sweet natured friends in the transport division are no longer there. The presses have been shut and now they're culling the reporters.

It's like seeing an old friend die.

The YEP was my home for nearly three years. The men and women I worked with were like heroes in a legend.
We all had nicknames.
I was the Nutty Professor. Or on a good day, Buddy Love.
They sacked all the managers who stood up to them. They killed the 'Post.
Johnston Press is in trouble. That's all. They can't make enough money any more from Newspapers.
I hope the old thing survives; I've great memories of the people and the job.
Scotty, playing bagpipes in the frosty air at one in the morning on a Saturday, whenever we were waiting for the presses to roll out the Post.
Driving like a maniac to Scarborough. Pitch black. The most dangerous trunk route in Britain. Hitting speeds of 90 miles an hour in a fully loaded Sprinter in the dark. And all through we were well within our abilities, because we became that good. Except once; I was going 88 round a curve on the A64 and misjudged. I had to tighten the turn. The heavily laden van started to fishtail.
Remembering an old piece of advice from flying days, I held the wheel rigid and didn't attempt to correct.
The vehicle recovered. Just.
I sweated. Then I laughed. Then I stopped at the all nighter for an extra strong coffee.
We always got through. If the vans got destroyed, too bad.
We'd check up on retired Post employees, popping in off our routes for a cuppa, to see the old lads straight.
It continued even after they installed satellite tranceivers in the vans.
We were a family.

Murder In The Comfort Zone