Jeremy Corbyn: The Anti-Trump #hungparliament #corbyn #GE2017 #May #Trump #Etc


At the time of writing, the United Kingdom is a bit of a divided kingdom. Is it even a kingdom? Isn’t it sort of a queendom? Thanks, Patriarchy! And even then, is it a kingdom/queendom at all? Well, apparently it is, because whomever wanted to be the Prime Minister had to give a sort of note from their mum to Her Maj, saying how great they’d be at it, and if anyone else wanted to have a go, they had to give their own note to her. But it didn’t really matter that much, because she wasn’t allowed to say no anyway. Thanks, Cromwell! (Probably).

How does the British electoral system even work? No one knows, really. Certainly not the general public, or the press, or your friend Kev who hates the French but has a French flag on his Facebook profile, because he hates Muslims even more. How can there be coalitions in a First Past the Post system? How can there be a minority government when a coalition is a choice? How can Labour lose by 60 seats and it feels like a win, or the Tories win but it feels like a disaster? That’s the beauty of it. No one knows. And you should just stop asking now, cos Auntie Theresa knows what’s best for you, and you should just eat your gruel, shut the fuck up, and be glad you don’t live in a tower block in Kensington.

For people outside London who were confused by how a high-rise full of poor folk and brown people could be in a place you normally associate with Lady Di and people driving Rolls Royces, that’s because of a thing called Cheek By Jowl, which means that no matter how exclusive your postcode is, or how many millions your house is worth, you often get sent through a council estate by Google Maps on your way home from Waitrose. This is because, a long time ago, town planners knew that the rich would need to buy their drugs somewhere local, and that one day someone would invent Ocado, so it’d all work out fine.

What is the state of affairs in the UK now, then? Well, we all know the Strong and Stable Tory government ain’t happening. And, unless Theresa May has a massive change of heart and resigns on the spot, the Corbylition of Chaos isn’t happening either. Brexit talks are going to be a disaster for Britain, since she has nothing to bargain with, she’s relying on the support of a bunch of climate-change denying, gay-hating murderers, who think the earth is less than 6,000 years old, and people are genuinely suggesting that Nigel Farage be involved, despite the fact that the only place he can get elected is to the European Parliament. You know, the one he thinks shouldn’t exist. At least Sinn Féinn have the decency not to turn up for their Westminster jobs, but I guess Nige just can’t resist the complimentary croissants.

And what of Corybn? Did he win? Is he going to stay? It’s all very odd. He may be nothing like Donald Trump in morals, politics, integrity, or suit choices, but you have to admit he did take a few leaves out of the Donald’s book. They both were given no chance, they both were attacked constantly by the press, and both of them did the relatively smart thing of riding out the bad publicity, never shying away from the spotlight, in the hope that the ordinary people of their countries might think ‘Hang on a fucking minute here, this doesn’t seem fair. Maybe I WILL vote for him, just to piss you lot off.’ On top of that, while being laughed at and told they were ‘unelectable’, they both made decisions to hold rallies in places where their support was already strong, rather than try to win over marginals/bell weathers, and the result was a constant stream of footage of them in front of large crowds, cheering their names. Worked for Hitler. Still works now.

So who really won this election? Can we quantify it in terms that don’t involve seat numbers, swingometers, fancy graphics, and Jeremy Vine struggling to work an iPad? Yeah, we can. If you voted with your brain as well as your heart, no matter for which party it was, you won. If you ignored the bullshit and bullying of the press, and made your own decision, you won. If you realised that the real majority is always a silent one, because empty vessels make the most noise, so it didn’t matter how many ignorant comments rose to the top of every social media post on the internet, because there were far more people out there like you, and you weren’t alone, and your vote was going to be a vote for hope, for love, and for a future that we might not quite be at yet, but might be soon, you won.

And obviously if you’re poor, you don’t come from any sort of wealth, you were completely aware that the Conservatives had no real manifesto apart from the bits they stole from Labour, they costed nothing, their entire campaign was built on delusions of popularity and smears against the opposition leader, but you voted Tory anyway, because you think they’re going to get rid of all those Muslims and immigrants who are definitely the reason that your life is so shit (not the rich who are bleeding the economy dry and blaming it on dole scroungers/migrants/gays/Muslims/Russell Brand while keeping their money in tax havens and whatnot), you also won. Cos your guys got the most seats and stuff. That’s just maths.

If you voted UKIP though, you lost. And for that, you have no one to blame but… Muslims, probably. And queers.


Election 2016 : Is Trump the New Al Gore? [a blog]#whatiwrite #clinton #trump #election2016


Well, of course he isn’t. He didn’t invent the internet, for one. And he thinks Climate Change is something your mum made up so that you’d go to sleep early on Christmas Eve. Not his mum, though. Donald Trump doesn’t have a mum. He wasn’t conceived, he was processed in a Juice Tiger, from satsumas and the stuffing out of cushions. That was a joke about someone’s appearance, guys. It’s just as cheap and lazy when we do it.

But well, yes. All this outrage about The Donald saying he’ll refuse to accept the outcome of a rigged election, that he’ll sue everyone, that the system is unfair… we all have short memories. Because I seem to recall an event in 2000 where a certain Democrat (you know the one – Bill Clinton’s VP, loves trees, hates petrol cars, looks like a fat Data from Star Trek) got a bit huffy about losing the election to a certain Republican (you know the one – loves petrol cars, hates spelling tests, looks like if George W Bush had early onset Alzheimer’s), and basically sued America, until some judges told him to cut it out. Because The Donald is right – the system is unfair. It may not be ‘rigged’ in the way he puts it, but then he’s probably just favouring one word over the other because ‘rigged’ has fewer syllables, ergo it takes him less time to repeat it over and over at rallies until the average Klansman Gump in his crowd can absorb it.

Is Donald Trump a completely new entity on the GOP ticket? Well, apart from him not really being a politician, no. He doesn’t have any views that are outrageously different from candidates of previous years. He’s just much ruder. And he’s not actually as right wing as most of them. There are state politicians in certain places in the USA who would make you drop to your knees and plead with God to send you a Trump instead. Trump was a Democrat for many years, he’s technically a New York liberal, he’s not a fan of the sanctity of marriage, he’s probably an atheist, he doesn’t hate ‘the gays’, he’s more than likely pro-life, his casual racism is derived entirely from a combination of his nouveau rich privilege and the fact that he is fucking trash. But don’t think the worst man won the GOP ticket. Not even close.

The rest of them, who will now forever be known by their Trump-appointed nicknames, were all varying degrees of abhorrent, ignorant, racist, sexist, homophobic vileness. Most of them just had the media training or the nous to keep it under wraps until it was unavoidable. The most important thing to note about Little Marco, Lying Ted, Weak Jeb, etc, is that they are career politicians who couldn’t beat the guy from The Apprentice, in their primaries, or on TV debates. Smart as Trump secretly is, and staged managed as his gaffes and slip-ups are, the new guy should never be able to take the job you were trained for. Which is sort of Donald’s entire mantra now, ironically enough. Except for ‘new’, put ‘Chinese’, ‘Mexican’ or ‘Caitlyn Jenner’.

Is there a positive side to Trump? No. The only positives I ever think of with him are ‘He isn’t as stupid as I thought he was’, and ‘Oh, that’s actually quite clever, how he’s manipulating them.’ These are not positive things, people. These are are like high scores on a pack of Dictator Top Trumps. Wait a second… Top Trumps? Trump? IT’S A SIGN. Of course, after the election, one of The Donald’s first executive orders will be to re-brand them as Huge Trumps. It’s in his platform. I’ve done the research.

Is Hillary crooked? Of course, but no more crooked than anyone else who works as a politician or runs a large charity. Did she sort of know that Saudi and Qatar were funding Islamic State while she attended lavish dinners in Riyadh and Doha, eating roast panda, selling them some Christian-seeking missiles, and taking generous donations to the Clinton Foundation? Probably. Is that in any way as (or more) crooked than the shit the other guy gets up to before the rest of the world has even had breakfast? Nope. Although he has an advantage there, as he only sleeps for 3 hours every night. The maids vacuuming up Melania’s post-coital vomit keeps him awake.

Is Hillary a good person/candidate? She has done many good things, long before you were born, all the way through your life, and also in the future, where she regularly travels to fight crime, using the ‘Private Server’ Bill keeps in the basement. There’s no point in even listing Hillary’s good points though, because you’ve already decided that there’s ‘something about her’ you don’t quite like, and that’s enough to send her to the Recycle Bin folder of history, while you ‘vote’ for that stoner guy who cannot geography, or that Jamie Lee-Curtis-looking woman who thinks vaccinations cause invisibility.

The thing is, Trump’s statuses as Pretend Billionaire, Pretend Successful Businessman, and Genuine Reality TV Star only take him so far in the world of making really nefarious social and business contacts. That’s why he wants the White House. Once he has the Presidential Seal on his Underoos, he’ll be able to arrange meetings with Saudi Princes, Russian Oligarchs, the King of Africa, etc, at the drop of a hat. Like most hatred, his dislike for Hillary is simply a projection of envy. He doesn’t disapprove of her alleged misdeeds in the murky world of international politics. He just thinks he could do better. Well, worse. He would have have done incredible misdeeds. His corruption would have been huge. He would have had ten private servers. He would have deleted the entire internet, not 30,000 emails. And he would have sent Monica to the electric chair. Bigly. Ask anybody, they’ll tell ya.

Vote wisely, guys. Which Commander in Chief is going to spend the next four to eight years being blocked by Congress at every opportunity is up to you. You’re going to make history tomorrow. Sort of. Unless someone wins the popular vote but loses the Electoral College. Then, you’re going to make history after Christmas. Maybe. Go to sleep early, or Climate Change will eat you.




Fucking 2016, eh?: A Guide (so far) [a blog]#whatiwrite #2016 #brexit #trump #hillary #stopit


Remember when David Bowie died, and you thought the year couldn’t get any worse? You were a fool. Pretty soon, everyone you’ve ever loved had died, including people you hadn’t thought about in years, like Prince, and people you’d never heard of, but whose death led to some really shareable Facebook quote memes. 2016 was so good at death, you probably think Lemmy died this year. He may as fucking well have, it’s all the same.

But what about those of us left behind, still living? Well 2016 isn’t going to go easy on us either. If you live in the UK, you’re now on your way to the early 1970s, in a Temple of Doom style, out of control mine cart. But there’s no little Chinese kid in it. We’ve sent that fucker back home, along with the traitorous monkey in his little waistcoat and fez. The dirty, radicalised, Muslim shit. No, The United Kingdom of Great Britian and Possibly Not Scotland or Northern Ireland has spoken out against the shackles of unelected MEPs (who they elected, in actual elections), and comfied up in the slanket of xenophobia, in time for a period of eternal, unopposed Tory rule, under a Prime Minister no one fucking asked for.

Elsewhere, the leading lights of the Leave campaign have since jumped ship. Boris Johnson, faced with the very real possibility of becoming the leader of a party torn asunder by BigEndian/LittleEndian disputes over how to be more efficiently cuntish to the common man, decided it wasn’t for him. He’ll wait it out for a bit, until the dust settles; passing time by attending conferences on how to best gas Syrian babies to death, or by fucking Steph from Gogglebox, while Dom watches – still holding her hand, still quaffing his Chateau Margaux 2009.

Nigel Farage – champion of the normal, decent, hardworking, unemployed racist – has decided his journey is over now, having had a hand in fisting the economic ringpiece of the nation; assured his legacy will live on in the fissured anus of what was the UK’s racial and religious harmony. No one knows what his next move will be, but as a man who longs for the simplicity of the old days, it will probably be to spray paint ‘PAKIS OUT’ on the shutters of his local Londis, or posting human faeces through the letterbox of a MegaMosque.

David Cameron has left us, his lasting impression on history doomed to be the mental image of him throatfucking a dead farm animal. It’s not yet known how he could apply his skills as a politician to jobs in the real world, but I’m sure there is some Hedge Fund out there looking for a man who can get out of any scrape by bringing up his dead, handicapped child.

America goes to the polls in November to choose a leader from either Hillary Clinton, who has the experience, the gravitas, the cunning, the hair, and the surname to be President, or Donald J. ‘The Donald’ Trump, who is the Breath of Fresh Air candidate, if you happen to live in a sewage plant, and the freshest air you ever get to smell is the the stench of Marlboro in the communal smoking shelters outside. There is of course a third candidate, one Bernie Sanders, but if you’re still planning on voting for that guy, you’re either a sore loser, a high-functioning retarded person (IT’S FINE, PEOPLE. I USED IT IN THE MEDICAL SENSE AS WELL AS THE PEJORATIVE), or you’re just really slow at working your way through your twitter feed, and it’s still February for you.

All in all, the last six months of horror have felt more like six years, and if you believe in the spiritual wisdom of 1990s Chinese tattoo designs, we may be in for 6 months of absolute bliss and contentment. We deserve a break after all that, right? I mean, how heartbroken were you when Bowie, Prince, that Russian guy off Star Trek, and all of those other people (who you forgot existed about 12 hours later again) died? How sad were you to wake up on the morning of June 24th to find out that well-meaning lefty voters hadn’t realised every vote in a referendum actually counts, and they’d accidentally delighted skinheads, Nick Griffin, and people who name their kids Lee, Dean or Aaron? How many times did you run to social media to send your worthless thoughts and prayers whenever someone shot up a gay nightclub or a Queens of the Stone Age concert in the name of the very religion that you’re constantly defending on the internet so that you look like a great person? How many times did you have to change your profile picture to the flag of a country whose colours quite frankly failed to complement that shirt you had on? I’ve lost count, myself. But maybe we are in for a good run at last.

Let’s come back here on New Year’s Eve, when I’ll be blogging from inside a fallout shelter, in our new official language: Chinese (Simplified Han).

Refugees: A Handy Guide [a blog] #crisis #refugees #deyturkerjarbs


There’s a lot of stuff on the news these days about some sort of Refugee Crisis thingy, and sometimes it’s hard to take in. Between watching your Sky Plussed episodes of Real Housewives, Celebrity Big Brother, and The Man with the Two Stone Testicles, there’s hardly time to absorb any of these so called facts about whatever’s happening Over There, and why we should actually care. Luckily, I’ve compiled this handy, bullet pointed checklist, so that you can get up to speed quickly, and get back to the important things in life.

  • Who are these people? Dunno, really. But they look brown. And some of them might be terrorists. Lots of them have beards. Some of them are children. And some of those children are dead. Which is tragic, really. Especially when we see photographs of them all drowned, and find out they have names and stuff.
  • Where have they come from? Syria? I think it’s Syria. One of those places from the Bible, anyway. I think it’s in Africa or somewhere like that. Or it mightn’t be. Like the way you’re never quite sure where Lanzarote is, but you know it’s far away, even in a plane. Or the Canaries. They’re not even in Spain.
  • Why do they want to come here? Well obviously they were happy in Syria, in their houses with electricity and food and big TVs and jobs and whatnot, but then they realised they’d much rather leave and risk death, imprisonment, internment, and homelessness, because the UK lifestyle is so amazing, and no one ever complains about living here.
  • Are they Muslims? Probably. They’re all Muslims over there, aren’t they? Except the ones with the red dots. They’re Native Americans, I think. That’s what you have to call them now, anyway. Political Correctness gone mad.
  • Will they build supermosques and try to ban Christmas, pork, and Baa Baa Black Sheep? Yes.
  • Why haven’t they stopped in any other Safe Countries on the way? I’m not sure, but I think it’s because France, Austria, Germany, Turkey, etc don’t have Gregg’s the Bakers.
  • But they can’t eat sausage rolls, can they? No, but you’re forgetting about the Steak Bake. You can get one of those and a coffee, two quid the lot, now. If you can get the girl behind to counter to understand you.
  • Is Britain big enough to take on all these new people? Well, Germany has taken in 20,000 of them over four weeks, and we might take in 20,000 over five years. But we’re full. So, no.
  • Will their kids be going to our schools? Only the ones who don’t drown on the way here. I saw a few pregnant women too, on the news. They’ll come over here, have the kid on British soil, with a British birth cert, British nationality, and a British passport, and expect it to be treated like all the kids who were really born here. They’re taking the piss.
  • Will my little boy grow up speaking Syrian now? He’ll have to, if he ever wants to get a job. My kid already speaks Polish, Urdu, Farsi, Chinese, and that deaf one with fingers. You can’t speak English in his school now, or they’ll expel you. And anyway, I don’t like it when I go in one of their corner shops and they’re talking in some funny language to each other. You’d think they’d have the decency to speak English, so I can hear what they’re up to.
  • Are any of them gays? Maybe.They cut off your head for being gay over there, so we should do the same when they come here. If you want to live in our country, you should live by our rules. We’ll probably just let them get married and adopt kids though. Soft touch Britain.
  • Would all these new people add to the economy, in the long run? Of course not. Every single one of them will be on benefits within a week, in a free house paid for by you and me, working on the side for less than minimum wage, paying no tax, as well as begging, robbing your house, and pickpocketing you on the street. The lazy cunts. Send ’em back before they get here, I say. If I want to see lazy foreigners doing fuck all for loads of money, I’ll go down West Ham on Saturday.
  • Are any of them paedos? Probably all of them. I saw a thing on Facebook that said Allah shagged a girl when she was nine. If it wasn’t okay for Rolf Harris, it shouldn’t be all right for him. One rule for them, one rule for the rest of us. At least God waited until Mary was 12 before he got her pregnant.

The Daily Mail Guide to Reporting on Women [a blog] #sexism #dailymail #midriff #flaunt


Internal Memo

From: Paul Dacre (Editor in Chief)
To: All writers, sub editors, web copy writers, freelance bigots


Good morning, everyone! Women are an important minority group who make up 52% of the world’s human population, so here at the Daily Mail, we think it’s crucial to give them the correct amount of representation in our paper (and, more likely, on our website). Even if they used to be men, in which case we make sure to use the correct pronouns in a way that seems like we’re taking the piss a bit. And call them a woman enough to start an outrage war in the comments section. Anyway, enough about chicks with dicks, here’s a breakdown of how to write about the decorative sex in a way befitting of the high standards readers have come to expect from us.

  • Bravery: It’s important to highlight the bravery of many women in society today, and it comes in many forms. We at the Mail prefer to concentrate on the bravery of attractive female celebrities who leave the house without make-up, probably to take their children to school, usually unaware that there are bottom-feeding paparazzi scum lurking in the bushes. Please remember to include several close ups of the brave woman’s foundation-free face, along with some comparison pictures from an airbrushed magazine cover so that our readers can understand the sheer heroism of said female emerging from her actual home without first employing a team of stylists and make-up artists to get her ready. Tone of the article must not be mocking, but feel free to insert some subtle nuances which imply that women are literally only good for looking at and masturbating over, and when they don’t make the effort to fulfill male fantasies, they are worthless pieces of ageing meat.
  • All Grown Up: A sensitive subject, with Britain and the rest of the western world currently under siege by a plague of terrifying paedophiles, so tread carefully here. The purpose of this sort of article is merely to welcome a newly 16 year old (THAT’S LEGAL HERE, DON’T WORRY – Editor’s Note) into society, preferably if she is wearing some sort of push up bra or corset. Again, be careful not to use language which is provocative, as this may confuse readers used to our hard line, zero tolerance policy on child sex predators. A degree of innuendo is perfectly acceptable, and feel free to use words like ‘blossoming’ and ‘radiant’. Steer clear of usual DM favourites like ‘lithe’, ‘buxom’, or ‘pert derriere’, as wouldn’t want to give out mixed signals. ‘Leggy’ is fine, however. No one out there is perverted enough to be aroused by a teenager in stockings and suspenders. Please include at least 40 photographs, with the girl’s face in at least three of them.
  • Mini Me: A relatively new topic, this one is quite simple. Any female celebrity with a female child over the age of… about six, can be photographed and reported on, with the angle being that said child looks quite like their parents. Feel free to add something about ‘matching outfits’, if both are (for instance) wearing trousers or skirts. Please do not make the accompanying text be lascivious when mentioning the child. Unless she has breasts, or something. Not a lot of copy needed for this sort of piece. 80 or so very similar photographs will suffice. If you need to make the article a little more interesting for readers, try to include some sort of subtext about the mother being jealous of the child’s youth, and imply that maybe her vagina is ruined now.
  • Post Baby Figure: Always a reader favourite, in this piece we find a woman who works as a glamorous actress or supermodel, and picture her six weeks after giving birth, looking like she must have adopted the child, so flawless and pristine is her figure. The actual amount of time is irrelevant, always use ‘six weeks’. Dunno why, it just sort of sounds good. Bikini photos are best in this situation, although photos of the woman in a top where she ‘flaunts her toned post-baby midriff’ are also fine. Please remember to use this exact phrase. At no point must we point out that these women are genetically superior to the average new mother, or that their jobs necessitate them being in incredible physical shape, and thus make it easier for their figures to return to normal, post-birth. This information isn’t really crucial to the story, and would probably make our female readership feel a bit better about themselves. Which is to be avoided, really.
  • Dare to Bare: Another classic, this sort of piece is usually centred on premieres, awards shows, galas. We find females who have made the mistake of dressing too provocatively in a pathetic attempt to get news coverage, and duly report on this, with 40 to 60 accompanying photographs. As always, the headline must concentrate on the clothing (or lack of) and never on whatever nonsense said woman does for a living. The pop strumpet Rihanna is always a good choice here, and writers should be aware that in these pieces, the language and implications should be light, frivolous, and sexually objectifying. Please keep any thinly veiled racism regarding the pert derriered songstress for our more serious editorial pieces. It’s important to have a sense of congruity, after all.
  • General Tips: Overall, the House Style here at the Mail is pretty simple to follow, and uses logic at its core (unlike women, obviously). If a woman has done something good, it’s important to point out how nice her dress was at the time, with links for readers to buy a similar article a knockdown price. If a woman has done something bad, similar rules apply, as she still may have been wearing a nice outfit, and our readers will still want to keep on trend. If said woman was sexually assaulted, it’s probably okay to speak disparagingly about the outfit she was wearing, but considering the advertising revenue we receive from click-throughs on related clothing adverts, it may be more prudent to praise the outfit, and just imply that she was raped because she’s an alcoholic, or a whore.

    I hope all this was of some use to you guys, and I look forward to seeing your efforts in the right hand column of the website soon.

    Yours sincerely,

David Cameron has Probably Put His Cock in A Lot Worse [a blog] #piggate #paedogeddon #notcliffrichard


It’s a testament to the power and size of social media that, within a few hours, the whole ‘David Cameron fucked a dead pig in its mouth’ thing was already as old and trite as any of the scripted jokes on an episode of Mock the Week. Laugh it up, UK folks. He’s still your glorious leader for the next four years. And there’s nothing you can do about it. Fucking a dead pig in the mouth opens some serious doors. Tell your kids that today when they get home from school. I’m joking, obviously. Your kids don’t go to the sort of school that leads on to those sort of porcine necrophiliac fellatiopportunities. Your kids are already fucked.

But, but… Jeremy Corbyn! Yes, Jeremy Corbyn is amazing, isn’t he? He loves people, gays, blacks, Caitlin Jenner, peace, flowers, and muesli. And he hates corporations, homophobia, racists, Kanye West, war, weedkiller, and McDonald’s sausage and egg McMuffins. But old sexy Jezza, the sexy college professor type that you’d probably let finger you in a dusty research library – he wasn’t really elected leader by his own parliamentary party. He was elected by people on Facebook sharing a link and paying three quid. His parliamentary party hate him, because he’s as much a threat to them as he is to nuclear war, the Tory party, and #NationalSecurity. Tony Blair did a very good job in ridding Labour of any MPs who’d grown up with a coal fire, were members of a union, or had ever sat near a brown kid in class whose father didn’t happen to be the Namibian ambassador. Jeremy has less chance of leading the country than that other fella with the initials JC. You know the fella I’m talking about – man of the people, loved by the masses, crucified for our sins, used to present Top Gear.

The idea that this pigfucker story will be the end of Cameron is so far-fetched that no one is even suggesting it. The other day, Cameron insulted the whole of Yorkshire, and within an hour he’d fixed the whole thing by saying he’d asked Geoff Boycott and Dickie Bird was it okay, and it turns out it was fine. Back to your tasks, peasants! This is a country where people elected a man whose brain is 46% hair to be in charge of a city with 8.5 million people, and an economy bigger than Australia’s. We have long given up the silly idea that whomever is in charge makes any difference to how much we get shafted. The fact that they might have had to put their knob in some cold pork when they were at school is just another hilarious bonus. And, to be fair, it’s sort of coming out now that the politicians in the 70s and 80s were putting theirs in little boys’ arses while someone, who for legal reasons definitely wasn’t Sir Cliff Richard, watched the whole thing and wanked himself blind.

Literally every politician you grew up watching on TV as a kid was having sex with children and then murdering them. Aided and abetted by the team from Blue Peter, more than likely. Today’s politicians, with their funny Nick Park faces, their inability to eat a bacon sandwich properly, their indirect murder of the sick, the needy, the disabled, and millions of brown babies – those guys are like comic relief compared to Ted ‘I Buried the Bodies on Hampstead’ Heath, or Maggie ‘Jimmy, You Can Stay in Carol’s Room’ Thatcher. Well, at least that’s what they want us to think. Does Boris Johnson’s silly, bumbling persona hide a man who forces five years olds to fight rabid dogs in pits, before fucking both parties, killing them, and eating the corpses? Is David Cameron’s ham-faced sincerity a veil which masks his predilection for sodomising infants before sacrificing them on an altar to his ancient Owl Gods? Did Harriet Harman lobby on behalf of a group called the Paedophile Information Exchange, suggesting that child pornography should be legalised, and the age of consent be brought down to somewhere between six and ten? OH WAIT, THAT LAST ONE’S ACTUALLY TRUE.

So yeah, by all means have a giggle at the thought of your reptilian overlords having to shove their junk into the orifice of the next day’s ham roast so they could be initiated into a life which would hand them everything, at the expense of the weakest and poorest in society. It’ll keep your mind off the fact that, every other day, you’re the worthless piece of meat that’s being throatfucked.

Football: Best Left to the Men, Really [a blog] #WomensWorldCup #England #Sexism #Feminism


The small percentage of England’s liberal, tree-hugging, tranny-enabling population that bothered to stay up last night to watch the women’s ‘football’ in the so-called World Cup in ‘Canada’, were left reeling after watching their country’s ladygirls throw away a perfectly good 1-1 lead in the last seconds of their semi-final. Seemingly misunderstanding the entire point of the game, some bird called Laura sliced the ball into her own net in stoppage time, handing a place in the final to the equally female and incompetent Japanese. Having done so well to reach the latter stages, the team now head home in disgrace, having ruined the worldwide image of English football that their male counterparts have worked so hard to build, since inventing the sport about 200 years ago, and winning like one trophy since then.

There were of course tears at the final whistle, especially from Laura, who had fucked up right and proper, by diving in for the ball like some sort of scatty female, instead of acting like a male player would, and taken time to weigh up the odds and probabilities, using the age old tools of logic and basic physics. Not Laura though, she attacked that ball with all the fervor and precision of an 11 year old tweenager trying to pull out a lock of Harry Styles’ hair at an HMV signing. And the result was a catastrophe, as any man could have told her before she even started. Tears, not just from Laura herself, who behaved in a way that real, masculine footballers like John Terry or Paul Gascoigne in their heydays wouldn’t have dreamed of; but also from the pundits in the studio, who committed the cardinal sin of letting themselves get emotionally invested in the proceedings, like a bunch of girls. You wouldn’t see Ian Wright doing that, would you?

England were hampered from the beginning, having lost several players to menstruation, cramps, and ‘If you don’t know, there’s no point in me telling you’. The Japanese, by contrast, were looking strong in all departments, despite not being allowed by FIFA to wear their lucky schoolgirl outfits, and having to put up with their own government’s insistence on pixelating their genitals. Japan are known for their possession game, with long sequences of passing, and what the Guardian described as ‘a lack of penetration up front’. Which is of no surprise, really, as that’s basically what’s wrong with most women, and if it were up to me, that’s how I’d sort them all out.

Losing a World Cup semi-final is not a small deal. England’s superior and much better paid male footballers have managed to avoid losing one for 25 years. Most of the time, they manage to avoid losing quarter finals too, unless they’re unlucky enough to face anyone half-decent, the completely anti-English unfairness of penalties is involved, some foreign player does something a bit cheaty-looking, or they don’t score as many goals as the other lot. The women are clearly playing catch-up here. They have a chance of redeeming something in the Third Place Play-Off, of course, but no one will be watching that except lesbians.

As for the actual game, well it was good, apart from all the diving and stuff. Something the men’s game is thankfully without. The England girlwomen’s goal came from what can only be described as a dodgy penalty, which the team outrageously accepted, instead of doing that thing Robbie Fowler did that time when he did that thing, and saying ‘No, we don’t deserve this one, have it back’. Everyone knows that’s what you’re supposed to do if you’re an honest English player. Or Paolo DiCanio.  An English international striker is never a diver. Unless you mean Michael Owen against Argentina at France 1998, but that doesn’t count, because he was just doing that to counteract the sending off of David Beckham. Which hadn’t happened yet. But still, cut it out girls, that sort of thing is for foreigners and pansies.

There was some consolation to be had on the internet afterwards, when men of all ages and waist sizes clamoured to commiserate ‘the girls’ on their fine and unlucky loss, often helpfully mansplaining the nuances of the sport to women who literally do it for a fucking living. It wasn’t all light without shade though, as other male types helpfully weighed in to inform everyone of the low standards of this massively underfunded and bureaucratically neglected burgeoning world sport, often adding that they could have done better themselves, or that it would have been more entertaining if the women had been wearing tighter shorts. Which would be funny, if that wasn’t the exact opinion held by Sepp Blatter, a man who understands the concepts of ‘feminism’ and ‘tact’, about as much as he understands what ‘resignation’ means.

So, what now for England’s female ladies? Speaking from his cell in Cushyanddefinitelynotapaedoplace Prison, PR Guru and registered sex fiend Max Clifford said “Well, the possibilities for the girls are literally finite. On the back of almost being successful at this so-called World Cup, they can expect the offers to come flooding in. Well, the pretty ones can anyway. I’m sure Nuts and Zoo will be interested in some nice lingerie spreads. And there might be some footwear endorsement deals on the cards. What’s that one? Manolo Blahnik, is it? I don’t watch Sex and the City. We’re not really allowed to watch anything with ‘sex’ in it when we’re locked up in here. I’m not a paedo though, those were grown women I raped and stuff. Oh! Oh! Those ones with the red soles. Women love those shoes. And I think they like handbags as well. So basically, thanks to this pathetic display, most of these girls can expect to be quids in.”

So there you have it. Well done to the females, better luck next time, and don’t feel down; I would still do at least five of you. Seven if alcohol was involved.