Double Tesco points and free vynl wallpaper if you order our new, one size fits all, nuclear bunker, with free Premier League Football and psychotropic Arsenic Super Plus.
@ 2014-11-23 – 22:51:55
@ 2014-11-23 – 11:58:16
In solidarity with the British Working Class, I have decided to dump my Coventary-assembled gay Peugot and buy a White Van (so what if some of its components were made in EC land or beyond). Now all I need is someone else's driveway to park it on, and a radio tuned to Yob FM. Yeah!
@ 2014-11-22 – 23:23:06
This was the day when, in 1963, President John F Kennedy was assassaninated in Dallas, Texas. I was 21 years old, an undergraduate at Cambridge, coming back on a train from London, oblivious and talking loudly; nobody said what had happened until my landlady told me when I got home.
I barely believed her.
@ 2014-11-22 – 10:29:07
Owen Jones The Guardian, Friday 21 November 2014 20.05 GMT
If the seemingly irresistible rise of Ukip teaches us anything, it is that sentiment all too often trumps reality and mere detail in politics. The party is a self-described “People’s Army”, now emboldened by a victory in Rochester and Strood it hopes will bring renewed momentum. Its voters are disproportionately working class.
Polls suggest they support renationalising rail and energy and want higher taxes for the rich and an increased minimum wage. According to research by the academic Matthew Goodwin, 81% of Ukip supporters believe “big business takes advantage of ordinary people”; a slim majority want the government to redistribute income; and they overwhelmingly agree “there is one law for the rich and one for the poor”.
These are beliefs soaked in leftwing populism; and yet those who subscribe to them have flocked in droves to a party of the hard right. Ukip’s leaders now defiantly, unapologetically present themselves as a people’s insurgency against a contemptuous establishment.
“The radical tradition, which has stood and spoken for the working class, has found a new home in Ukip,” declared the triumphant Mark Reckless, claiming – with no little chutzpah – to stand in the tradition of the Levellers, Chartists and the suffragettes. Here are movements that defied the powerful and attempted to build a more equitable order. And yet Ukip is led by a privately educated ex-City broker; one of their two privately educated ex-Tory MPs worked in the City, the other in asset management; and they are bankrolled by ex-Tory multimillionaires.
Their policies are erratic, but their leading lights have pledged support for slashing taxes on the rich, privatising public services and repealing basic workers’ rights.
Sentiments, though. Only 36% of voters believe that Nigel Farage was privately educated, even though he was schooled at the prestigious fee-paying Dulwich College; over half believe the same for the state-educated Ed Miliband. Farage has successfully effected an everyman appeal, complete with the almost compulsory pint of bitter at every photographic opportunity. He doesn’t sound scripted, but rather talks in the language of common sense; he presents himself as the outsider against the machine. In a world of relentlessly on-message, professionalised career politicians, it takes little to shine.
@ 2014-11-22 – 03:06:05
It's after 3 am, and I don't want to fall asleep again. Afraid of imminent death? I don't think so, but... I want to phone a random friend up and yell at them about... about nothing.
Just now I had a bowl of a new brand of gluten-free cornflakes with real milk. Profoundly horrible.
How shall I get through until morning? Perhaps I will call my friend in California. Is he a real friend still? Can I sound sensible?
Or shall I get the car started and drive down to Rochester and Strood to start a culture war outside the house with St George's flags? I'm raving and my car battery's flat.
@ 2014-11-21 – 21:36:40
Don't beat yourself up. Smile. Breathe deeply but gently. Be Happy.
@ 2014-11-21 – 08:59:47
UKIP won Rochester with less than a 3,000 majority. Big deal - it was hardly Orpington (1963 - look it up). The world is still here and Farange (funny French name) is still in the pub, about to get lockjaw.
@ 2014-11-20 – 23:09:33
How sad for the Queen that she will never see (unless from Heaven, standing on a balcony) what a mess her son Charles is going to make of being a Constitutional Monarch.
The Duke of Edinburgh, is no doubt planning to have the pathetic wimp horse-whipped.
@ 2014-11-20 – 17:31:25
On demand. Isn't that what their latest post is trying to tell me? God has a great all over tan.
@ 2014-11-20 – 10:56:01
(see previous post)
The Leader of the Lib Dems cannot be teleported into Outer Space until the pomposity reading in his blood are reduced to an acceptable level, according to an Alien from Planet K471, now working undercover aide to Clegg. "We want to make Nick Dictator of the world, but completely subservient to our own Will, and those of our Sponsor."
@ 2014-11-20 – 04:26:15
What odds would I get?
Sometimes, to fall aleep again in the middle of the night, I tell myself a silly story. Clegg will be abducted by aliens, Prince Charles will lead the Lib Dems and... and... voodoo... ex PM William Gladstone will rise from the dead and release a Christmas No 1 in Welsh and Catalan... Oliver Cromwell... Bjork... Rasputin...
Bugger this for a lark. Perhaps I'll just count sheep after all.
@ 2014-11-19 – 22:17:38
Those of you who may follow this blog partly to gain titbits of my personal information will, I hope, be glad to hear that my feverish cold is in remission.
The worst is over. Endless sniffling is yet to come.
@ 2014-11-18 – 20:31:25
Please do not eat human flesh in the vestibule, without seasoning it first.
(And no snitching to TripAdvisor)
@ 2014-11-18 – 07:27:46
How can I buy a new home in this weather? How can I tame my self pity?
(Why can't I call it 'flu like most people would?)
(Well, the thermometer says NO but it's lieing)
AND I've run out of tissues!
@ 2014-11-17 – 13:58:15
The first time I saw our goalkeeper firing a machine gun at an attacking forward I felt deeply disturbed. But what is death? Soon I realised that firing a gun strategically at an opponent was the only way our side could ever get to the top of the Premier League.
Maybe there needs to be a change of rules. But in the end it's all down to market forces, isn't it?
@ 2014-11-16 – 20:13:29
I'm feeling fed up, pissed off, contemptuous, vengeful, excluded and aggressive.
@ 2014-11-16 – 10:12:28
Everybody's getting older.
@ 2014-11-15 – 20:49:23
At last I have found a lovely house I want to live in the centre of Brighton. It's an ex-pub and is a bit different, with a small garden and a big kitchen. I showed it to a couple of my best friends today who were both charmed by it.
What's not to love? Well it's a little too expensive, I think. I need to make some careful, accurate calculations.
My sister thinks I'm in serious danger of overspending. I need to make close, detailed, calculations. It would be a great home to write in.
Please somebody say something positive
@ 2014-11-15 – 05:01:34
I am Fed Up with being Wide Awake at this time in the early morning.
@ 2014-11-12 – 23:35:37
Never do anything, however pleasurable, unless you are being paid for it.
@ 2014-11-11 – 04:06:28
Back asleep, I'm going to rescue a beautiful young woman in ripped clothes from horrors crafted by CGI, and carry her off to a ecstatically happy life beyond the end titles. And... oh yes, I have shed two thirds (more?} of my current age and gained an irresistable permatan.
@ 2014-11-09 – 21:42:08
Why was I there? another dream, probably. As soon as I took the pill I realised I had made a big mistake. Eternal life, if lived in Lewisham, might well turn out to be really quite boring.
@ 2014-11-09 – 12:43:21
Okay, I'm alone but so what? It's sunny outside. I'm not ill, but I don't want to get up.
@ 2014-11-08 – 22:06:46
It's such a long time since I ate a crumpet - dripping with butter, of course, or else (tell me otherwise!) there no point.
Alas, I'm now on a health-giving diet which excludes yeast, wheat flour and butter. I expect it also excludes whatever it is that crumpets those regular indations (er?), their crumpicity.
@ 2014-11-07 – 22:49:12
I'm so glad - I'm not waiting for a bus to arrive right now, to bring me home. It has said "3 minutes" for a very long time.
@ 2014-11-07 – 05:39:35
Oh, for a good night's sleep!
@ 2014-11-06 – 22:44:48
...and love and respect myself a bit more.
@ 2014-11-03 – 22:16:57
The revolver looked real. She pointed it at me, almost steady. "I've got to kill you" the girl with red hair explained. "It's part of our history project."
"Er... I was wondering if there was any way we could have a more... positive relationship?"
Her first shot whistled past. "Fuck off!! You're even older than the bloke my mum says is probably my dad."
@ 2014-11-02 – 13:03:31
Once upon a time there was an elephant called Elsie, which was unfair because he was a guy. As soon as he discovered he had been the victim of gender misassignment, Elsie (or whatever his real name was) led a stampede through Cosham, the town where Elsie's circus was performing for a few days. Or was it Fareham?
Elsie's fellow elephants stampeded well enough, for example trashing the giant Woolworths which had closed years ago, making the developer's job that bit easier when they got round to turning it into a cosmetic opticians and multi-storey car park. But most of the other circus animals were hopeless at rioting. The horses for example, rode in a circle round the police station - until they were charmed by a few sugar lumps, provided at rate payer's expense.
The whole stampede was fizzling out. Most of the animals returned to their cages. An extra circus performance was announced for late than evening, and all the tickets were sold within minutes.
Elsie refused to calm down. He (or she) chased a squad car down the main street, singing an aria from Verdi. PC Bokok, tone deaf, lent out of the squad car and emptied the chamber of his sten gun in the general direction of Elsie's eyes.
How Bokok got hold of the gun or the ammunition would be the subject of a Internal Enquiry, as he usually worked as a sous chef in the Portsmouth number 2 canteen. In fact it wasn't clear why Bokok was in the squad car at all, except he was the ex-lover of the chief constable, who had turned all straight since his unexpected promotion.
Meanwhile Elsie appeared to be dieing. (By the way, this story is copyright reserved) One of Bokok's bullets had, apparently and by chance, lodged in a fatal part of the poor elephant's brain (nb what part? Will have to do further work on this if I sell the rights to Shaggy Zoo Story as a musical).
Anyway, Elsie is on his (or her) knees, bellow-wailing in agony. A vetenary surgeon, helfully wearing an I am an Animal Doctor tee shirt, pushes through the crowd, brandishing a gigantic hyperdermic needle. (A sensitive little boy faints at the sight of it).
"All I've ever wanted," says Elsie, "is to sing in Cosse von Tutti."
The vet plunged the giant needle into Elsie's forehead, or wherever would be anatomically correct to finish the poor elephant off. "You got the title wrong, pal, and anyway from what I heard, you've got a lousy singing voice."
@ 2014-11-01 – 11:55:13
My New Home Latest:
I have decided that I certainly do not wish to move to a fourth floor flat for the rest of my life, even if there is a lift that works most of the time.