Russel Brand has nothing to say about Brexit.

Russel Brand, you know, the gobshite from the last election. Here he is:




Well he has nothing to say about the forthcoming referendum because he is not promoting a book or tour and has no interest therefore in what is going on in Britain, nor quite frankly, British youth. Until he does have a book or show to promote when he will miraculously have something to say.

Russel Brand is currently snuggled up in a threesome in Los angeles with himself, his penis and his hand.

Erectile disfunction. William Shakespeare manuscript discovered.

Jan Nieupjur writes: I found this written upon sheets of c16th Izal loo paper. It was tucked into a gap in the wall of the crapper behind Anne Hathaway's cottage in Stratford-upon-Avon.


 i hath lost mine own libido out by the gazebo
the lady hath left me
with william d'isfunction.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

anon willy's good now
if 't be true thee liketh a square
lard'd with
macho rumbunction.

mine own libido hast gone
the lady hast hath followed the travelling lamp
gone west
from the f'rmal did rise garden.

i am hath left limp. . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

I have translated this into modern English:


I lost my Libido out by the gazebo
she left me
with William D'Isfunction.
..................................................................................

Now Willy's alright
if you like a fight
larded with
macho rumbunction.

My Libido has gone
she has followed the sun
gone west
from the formal rose garden.

I am left limp...
....................................................................................

Notes on the Festival season.

Tipi or not tipi. That is the question.

We went gingerly to Glastonbury in a Zimmer frame of mind.

Now is the wigwam of my disco tent made glorious by donna Summer.

Festival on a budget: Camping without a Sioux.

Daddy. That man is pissing in the Tardis.

The EU Referendum in Swiftian terms.

The more I see and hear of this Referendum shit being bandied about on the interweb the more I realise that it is just national masturbation. Jonathan Swift (were he alive) would probably define us as a nation devided by our preference to be pleasured by our own left or right hand.

Beauty demands nothing.

The beauty of the interweb
is that
ordinary men like me
in dying
may watch videos of
brilliance taken early
by the genius
it harbours
demanding everything destructive

to prove a point.

The beauty of the interweb
is that
ordinary men like me
in dying
may pass comment on
brilliance taken early
by the genius
it harbours
demanding everything destructive

to prove a point

The beauty of mankind
is that
to prove a point
brilliance is quantified by
brightness
not by longevity
nor by hits on youtube
beauty demands nothing.

English Hooligans outperforming the national team at Euro 16.

It is with a great sense of national irony that I can tell you that the English hooligan ensemble have performed way above expectations in France and have completely outshone the National football team.





The English squad management informed me this evening that: 'We are wasting our time trying to compete with the hooligan team, they are more disciplined and better managed all round. We might as well go home. '

A Fifa executive who refused to give his name without a £50 K bung told me that: ' Ingerlands going home, going home.'

A spokesdrunk for the hooligans muttered: 'Drink'.

It will be the first time in the competitions history that England will have finished the tournament without losing a game.

England won the world cup in 1966. Since then the world has refused to give us our ball back.

Why I will not be screaming 'Save Ladbroke Grove Library' quite yet.

As a result of the 'Demo' in April and further posts on social media regarding the demise of our local library I've done some homework : 

Firstly I am told that the library will remain in its current location until the new building is ready. The new library building, around the corner on Lancaster Road will be eminently more user friendly. 

Secondly, while I understand that the idea of a fee paying school occupying the building is noxious to many (especially those who cannot see beyond what they consider social injustice) to my mind it is preferable to the building being demolished to make way for 'luxury' apartments. 

The building does not lend itself to conversion to residential use as it stands. At least with the school leasing the building the building remains and by remaining retains the architectural and historical dignity of the site. The school, fee paying or not, employs many teachers and other staff, who are not overprivileged toffs, and therefore, on that level, is more valuable a tenant than say an estate agents. 

I have been unable to see any plans for the new library proposal so must take RBKC ai its word for the time being. 

Lastly. A library, to my mind, is a collection of books not a specific building. The British Library still exists even though the location changed. 

Ladbroke Grove will not lose its library and for that reason I do not need to beseech anyone to save it.

The Chipping Forecast. W11.

A new arrival on all Saints Road. W11.

They say: A brand new, fish & chip restaurant and take away in the heart of Notting Hill.

Serving the finest quality fresh Cornish fish deliciously fried in beef dripping.

Fish & Chips is a British institution and here at The Chipping Forecast we've searched the caves and coves of Cornwall in order to find fisherman using traditional techniques to land the finest, sustainably caught fish our waters can offer. Each delivery of fish we receive, can be traced back to the boat and to the fisherman who landed the catch (many of whom are pictured on our restaurant walls). We guarantee from hook to Hill within 48 hours!

Our accompanying chunky chips are tripled cooked in traditional beef dripping for an unbeatable taste. Alongside Fish & Chips we'll also be serving popular homemade favourites such as a rich fish pie, salmon fishcakes and prawn cocktail together with a range of seasonal specials.

We're thrilled to announce ex Barnsley House and Village Pub Chef, Graham Grafton, will be joining us as our Head Chef and working his culinary magic in our shiny new kitchen.


I shall be trying it out over the next couple of weeks and will report.

Details HERE

Gun death is the life blood of America.

Rusty  McGlint writes from Lizard Bend Idaho. I don't always agree with rusty. I do on this one.

Tristan, Babs and the boys is fine and having a cross gender twin is a lot easier than it sounds, dressing them ain't the problem it could be.

just a thought:

With American gun crime no one remembers the victims but everyone can name the shooter. This was so in the 60's when I watched cowboy films, no one remembered the dead guys because the dead guys (in Hollywood parlance) were the losers. Hollywood made lots of films about the shooters and glamourised them, they made no films about the victims.... There is no box office in a dead hero we were told. When filmmakers came along who questioned the Hollywood method they were damned for 'UN AMERICAN' activities. All you guys have to do is watch Soldier Blue in order to realise how entrenched America now is in its self destructive determination to suck its own cock with an assault rifle stuck up its arse..

The patients leg. With apologies to G. DuMaurier.

Doctor: I fear you have a bad leg.

Patient: I can assure you that parts of it are perfectly healthy.

I am a pedestrian.

I am a pedestrian therefore I am at the bottom of the food chain
I believe laws are there for all road users.

I am a cyclist therefore I am more important than pedestrians but inferior to drivers
I believe laws are there for all road users bar cyclists.

I am a motorcyclist therefore I am superior to pedestrian and cyclists but inferior to drivers
I believe laws are there for all road users bar motorcyclists.

I am a car driver therefore I am more important than all of the above but inferior to truck drivers.
I believe laws are there for all road users bar car drivers.

I am a truck driver therefore I am at the top.
Laws are there to keep other road users out of my way.

Man stabbed during fight over empty champagne bottle.

A man was superficially cut during a fight over an empty Champagne bottle in Ashby-de-la-Zouche yesterday.



A witness who wishes to remain nameless stated that a scuffle broke out outside 'Bistrot Brusque' in the town centre when an empty Roederer Crystal bottle was spotted in the trash cans. Champagne bottles have a high value in the town where the contents of ones recycling bag is a signifier of ones social status and wealth and locals regularly go through restaurant waste in search of status items in order to place them conspicuously in their recycling bags.

Another witness stated that a Crystal bottle in the recycling bag is the dogs bollocks, elevating the household to footballer or pop-star status.

A kitchen porter from Bistrot Brusque told me that he normally sold the empties to social climbing recyclers but he missed the Roederer Crystal bottle. 'It was worth £5 at least he added, nodding his head in a sadly gallic way.

An Ashby man is helping police understand how the bottle became empty.

The really old should not be allowed to vote.

This European Union referendum is a problem.

if you are under 18 it ain't a problem. You have no say because, even though you are old enough to marry, have kids, join the army and kill people, you ain't old enough to have a say in the society that you are inheriting.

If you are over 70 it ain't a problem because you remember (if you can remember anything) how Britain was great and you could travel around Europe on a promissory note because you was British.

If you are over 80 it is more than likely that all you can remember is your kind nanny and a fondness for rice pudding. You have no right to vote on the future of a country you are shortly leaving whist denying the kids who have to live with it the right to vote.

No-one over 45 should be allowed to vote on the future of Britain.

Anyone over the age of 45 only has self interest at heart and doesn't give a shit about this nation and its children.

Then we bully kids into sending fathers day cards, mothers day cards and shit like that while all we are doing is destroying their future for our own self gratification.

We should be sending our kids apologies for destroying their future.

The referendum should be decided by children. It is their country now.

And don't tell me that cameron and his capitalist cronies care one jot for the future of this country or the future of it's children.

'Boris Bikes' facilitate 72% faster cocaine deliveries.

Statistics released today by the Columbian Board of Trade (CBT) show that since the introduction of the 'Boris Bike' in London home deliveries of cocaine have speeded up.



A spokesperson for the CBT stated that this was important, not so much for the speed of delivery, but more so for the necessity for CBT dealers to make a fast getaway once the customer realised that he had bought 5 grams of petrol flavoured ground aspirin.

Dull Pete, the spokesperson for the Notting Hill coke buyers association said (when the correspondent got a word in edgeways to ask a question):  'Speeding it up with amphetamines might have been better from a consumers point of view. Dull Pete repeated himself eight times before he realised I had left the Cow.

Unspoken grafitti.

I listen to you on the radio
heart racing
in the moments you stop playing
I imagine unwritten poetry.

My time is not wasted writing
what you will  not waste time reading
no time is lost.

I keep my words safely tied down.

Unspoken grafitti on the wall that we are building.

Donut go gentle into that dark night. Happy donuts, Portobello Road.

Hearts sank when a 'Donut' shop emerged from a hole in the wall on Portobello Road a few weeks ago.

  

It opened a week or so ago and far from being a 'Crispy Creme' emporium of american excess it sells made on the premises fresh donuts ranging from plain little things with a sprinkle of sugar which cause no fear of the onset of obesity to concoctions to make a child drool (the Nutella donut is the boys favourite) including a banoffi variety.

 This is not a place to frequent daily but it is certainly the place for the kids Friday afternoon treat. 

I bought a banoffi donut in order to review it. sadly it vanished before it could be photographed.

Banoffi donut

The place is run by happy, friendly people and Judging by the business they are doing is here to stay.

254 Portobello Rd, London W11

A childs guide to lying.

Rusty sent me this from Lizard Bend Idaho. It is written by his oldest boy:



I lie to mummy because it pleases her.
I lie to mummy because she rewards me for my lies.
If I lie about a test result it pleases her to think that I am brighter than I really am and it pleases her to think that my test results are a reflection on her parenting and genes.
If mummy finds out I have been lying she tells me off but she never takes my reward away. Ergo (I'm doing Latin at school) I will be rewarded for lying and, if found out, not really punished in any way other than to be forced to lie and say I'll never do it again.
I'm being encouraged to lie about my lying.

Daddy lies to mummy because it pleases him.
For daddy lies are their own reward.

Daddy lies to me because he is a coward.
He is a coward scared of a seven year old boy.

Daddy is more likely scared of the seven year old boy he once was.
I'm reading Freud. (I'm not really. I lied).

I play the percentage game with my lies
I think I am winning.
But I'm not.
I just lie to myself and believe it whilst destroying all trust.

All trust in me and all trust in the people I lie about.

It is a bit like being God.

10 past 12 at the 7/11 of love.

What's a lonesome girl to do
when she's forgotten the scent of a man
she can't buy it at the cornershop
it don't come in an aerosol can
I get down on my knees and cry
I cry to the Lord above
Oh why is it always 12 05
at the 7/11 of love.

At the dog club the men are barking
at the mall they ain't dogging they're parking
the ornithologists are all a larking
but no-one's larking with me.

I've done al the rodeo's
got fed a load of bull
at the Church social tug of war
the Lord knows I couldn't pull
I get down on my knees and cry
I cry to christ above
Oh why is it always 12 05
at the 7/11 of love.

The scientologists sent me packing
amongst the Moonies men were lacking
the oil men were all off fracking
but no -one's fracking me.

I've done my time at the 5 and Dime
not one man there worth a Cent
I've breakfasted at Tiffany's
but that ain't where the straight men went
I get down on my knees and cry
I cry to  L Ron Hubbard above
Oh why is it always 12 05
at the 7/11 of love.

Why is it always 12 05 at the 7/11 of love.

An open letter to Sadiq Khan.

Sadiq,

There is a Dick Whittington fairy-tale element to your election today.

After years of 'Money conquers all' elitism in London we finally have a mayor who has the ability to work for and with the people who count - not the people who count their money. Please please stay true, fight the demons who will tempt you down a corrupt path.

The streets of London are not paved in gold but in concrete and york-stone and sweat. They are trodden by ordinary people making this city work for each other for ordinary wages. It is the ordinary people who take pride in London, it is their only home, unlike the wealthy who lost sight of the value of home when they chose money as their god.

It is a community.

The wealthy look down from their (gated) citadels in scorn.

We could do with a champion.

Go on........

Pro-Zac is not the answer to London's depression.

I'm apparently reliably informed by Zac Goldsmith that Sadiq Khan is a terrorist sympathiser. Thank Allah for that. we can now rest easy in the knowledge that we will not be targeted by terrorists other than tory terrorists.

It is also good to know that I will no longer be bombarded by pro-Zac supporters telling me what a splendid chap he is.

Zac can go back to his day job as multi-millionaire elitist now.

Even Cameron is celebrating Goldsmiths loss in this election... Goldsmith is apparently too rich to toe the party line and probably thinks Cameron infra-dig.

Memory. I Remember very little of this.

Memory

I wrote this 40 years ago. It hasn't improved in time.

Memory will go.  That is what life is about, the future relies on the past and the past relies on memory and as memory diminishes so the future becomes less…less what, I’ve forgotten.

How I got to Judy’s house I cannot remember. I was 18 and fucked on amphetamines dope and alcohol and looking for a bed. I turned up with a bottle of scotch and a hold all.
She had a terraced house, a husband in prison, a young daughter and a drawer full of drugs. Oh! Yeah she had rats in an aquarium. We drank the whiskey, tried many sorts of her dope and some of her liquid LSD and laughed a lot and laughed a lot more and then she showed me the stairs to my room before showing me her bed: she said you can go up there or stay down here…I was 18, fucked on amphetamines, dope, alcohol, LSD, the pheromones of a middle aged woman and the scent of fear from caged rats. I chose her bed. Less steps to climb. We eventually sublet my room.

We sublet my room to a fat single mother whose baby I often mistook for a pig whilst melting into the soft furnishings on paranoid trips.

For a lot of that time I did not know whether I was toothpaste or cornice moldings or both.

Judy had admirers who would come round and cook her crap meals without knowing that we were shagging in the downstairs loo and laughing and then laughing about that. 35 years later I can I don’t blame her.

She had a Mini clubman, green, British racing green. Fuck... I had to go. The husband was coming out of prison. I could not (would not) fight. We went for a picnic on cleeve hill as some sort of goodbye thing. The child Rosie was with us as we lay under the elephant trees and talked of what might be or might have been. The beech trees were monstrous with bark like grannies elbows and she told me she loved me through a gap in her teeth. I was closer to her daughter’s age than hers.

I went into the woods for a piss, as I stood micturating against a tree I sensed something and ducked; a sock full of nuts bolts nails and screws clouted into the tree just where my head should have been. I managed to wrestle the weapon from Judy’s grasp and force her to the ground. Needless to say she was loud.

Subdued she seemed pleased to miss. I asked her what she had intended and she told me that she wanted to kill me and then write obscenities over my body… She opened her bag, it was full of lipsticks… I cannot remember how this ended. It is true but I cannot remember… I’m alive so she didn’t kill me.

She said she didn’t want me to leave her.

Her husband had been imprisoned for stealing among other things underwear from washing lines. When he was arrested he was wearing it. He had curly blonde hair and a heroin habit. It was 1973 and David Bowie said everything was possible. But I didn’t think a ménage a trios with a middle aged mum and a cross dressing junkie was anything like probable let alone possible.

I may be wrong.

Rusty McGlint on American politics..

Rusty writes from Lizard Bend. Idaho:

Tristan, scuse the french but it is fucking hard being a parent.

Me and Babs have bought this Lesbian Gay Transgender thing hook line and sinker but when it comes to getting little Duke into a dress he says he ain't no girl no matter what we says and when we says that he ain't got no say in the matter he points his AK at us and tells us to turn off that goddamned K.D.Lang rekkid and look at his dick.

His brother Duane is sick of the fighting cos he reckons it messes up his concentration on his embroidery he is doing for his latest frock and can we turn K.D.Lang up and why ain't he got no front bottom.

Babs reckons we should bully Duke into being hetero and Duane into being gay but I say that ain't how the liberals want it. The liberals want us to do contrary to what we want to do and if we do that it makes us liberal.

Babs says that that nice Mr Trump don't want us to do nothing but stay in the trailer and teach the twins to shoot Mexicans.

I said. Babs you is a Mexican.

She said. So shoot me.

How we laughed at that Tristan.

Ginsberg's cougher

I am one of Ginsberg's coughers
I sing in my dreams, sleeping
alongside the woman, who,
dreaming of the truth,
never remembers on waking.

Facebook.

The village pump long run dry
village stocks
ducking stool
plastic sword of damocles
imaginary friends

Imaginary enemies

Insincere like box
soap box
joke box
juke box
poke box

Dunbar's number run amok
ego massage
ship of fools
virtual Achilles heel
bridgeless trolls

Fairground hall of mirrors
tunnel of imagined love
misdirected darts
in a goldfishes back
bearded lady bearded

Non stick glue
abrasive grease
kittens
photoshop photorealism
paedophile paradise

Tomorrows lunch
yesterdays dinner
Fifi's cat
ugly babies ugly babies
ugly babies
pictures in the attic of ugly babies

Sober barflies, drunk vicars, honest liars and lying politicians.

Oh. and me me me me me me.

I will come to call you friend.

Unwelcome guest
pleura squatting
rattling marbles

marbles filched from the attic

Chestcat
of second infancy
breathe deep

I will come to call you friend.

David Cameron admits that he does not benefit from the trust of a single person in the UK.

Cameron came clean today and admitted that no-one trusts him. But he went on to say that: 'Amongst his cronies and peers, no-one trusted anyone so nothing is not as it should be and a corrupt government would be foolish to consider trust to be an important part of it's job fleecing the country.

Interesting Easter Egg hunts.

The postman rang twice the other day. I answered the door and Asked: Why the urgency? He asked if we had a baby in the house and when I said yes he said that's ok then because this parcel is rattling in an urgent kind of way.

It turned out to be a package from Rusty:





A box of Rattlesnake eggs.

There was a note:

Tristan. easter greetings and Eggs from lizard Bend. Idaho.

Babs and me were kinda regretting buying the twins pink AK 47's for their third birthday so bought them  a box of these to compensate.  The boys now spend their time in the trailer eying the eggs, aiming to shoot the rattlers when they hatch before the critters get them. It means that Babs and me can move about a little easier knowing that them AK's ain't aimed at us constant like.

Anyways. Here's a box of eggs for your little one... they make for a mighty interesting egg hunt on a warm spring day.

Rusty.

Thousands of housewives guilty of money laundering (even Mrs. Cameron) shock.

According to documents leaked to me from Panama over the past couple of days It appears that housewives throughout Britain are regularly laundering money accidentally left in trouser pockets. Even the Right honourable Mrs. Cameron has been guilty of the offence.

Tories to legalise cocaine shock.

I am reliably informed by my friendly 'jeweller to the stars' neighbourhood coke dealer that, when he was delivering to the cabinet office yesterday he overheard Cameron and Osborne discussing the legalisation and subsequent taxation of cocaine in the UK. Osborne's objections were, apparently, that it was only going to penalise themselves and was therefore counter to everything they believed in.

Cameron apparently replied: 'Rack em up George and tax the poor'.

Petition fatigue.

Somebody please start a petition demanding an end to on-line petitions. Two or three arrive in my email each day beseeching me to support this, that or the other cause. On social media I am confronted by petition after petition demanding that I sign the fucking things.

All that this is doing is devaluing the whole bloody process of protest. Petitions demanding a change in Government behaviour are pointless, legislation is in place to ensure that petitions may not be filed if they question the government in any way. Many other petitions resemble nothing more than Nigerian scam emails offering a share of millions of dollars requiring laundering. Petitions have become the modern equivalent of the sinister, threatening chain letters of old.

Stop this Now.

The High Street Wars according to Euripides.

All lived in Harmony until Tescos the Greek stole the marketplace with his '3 for 2' offer which pissed off the Trojans no end. Aldi of Troy marched on Tescos with a '2 for 1' deal hidden in the belly of minced horsemeat and all hell ensued.

Back in Brittania John of Lewis got wind of this and marched in stating he would undercut them all or by George he would refund the difference.

Israel dabbled in the melee under the banner of St Michael but could not really compete while brave Woolworth of Winfield shot himself in the foot with a Poundland bow and arrow before he even got off the ferry.

The Vikings from Iceland led by King Ikea remained aloof and stuck to what they were good at while King Harrods looked on smirking while fleecing everyone who entered his kingdom with gold.

Young 'Barter of Online' won it all with his cloak of invisibility and a bogus 5* rating.

Murray Lachlan Young has written a book.

Murray has taken time out from writing and performing in order to put an anthology together. Click on the 'support this book' button and Murray will tell you about it himself.



As a schoolboy I was bored to tears by the poetry I was obliged to digest (apart from Betjeman) It took a visit to the Roundhouse to hear Brian Patten (he published a poem called: 'Tristan waking in his wood panics) in the 70's to spark an interest in the art form and to understand that it is, after music, communication at its best. Murray is, I think, one of the best practitioners of the bardic art (stories well told with gallons of humour, alliteration, rhythm, intelligence and out of the box nous). I am happy to rank him up there with Patten. I bought into this book, not to stick it unread on a shelf and say: 'I know him' but to take it down off the shelf to read to my children in order that they see how much fun poetry can be. Go on, buy one, get one, free your humour ducts of Auden clogs.

Cheap Red Knickers.

Rusty called from Lizard Bend. Idaho.

I said hello Rusty how is your Christmas?
He said Tristan it's good, Babs has taken the triplets to Montana and left me home alone. Home alone I can de-frost the fridge, clean the kitchen. do all the washing in the house, clear out the kids rooms, polish the floors and stuff like that.

I said Rusty that sounds like a great present for Babs.

He said No. All she ever wants is a pair of red knickers and an ill fitting bra from Anne Summers.

After all Christmas is just about cheap red knickers.

I said NO Rusty. Christmas is about demonstration of wealth. Buy her expensive red knickers.

Rusty said there ain't no expensive red knickers in Lizard Bend Idaho.

I said rusty buy a cheap pair and then make out you are giving them to someone else, suddenly they will increase in value.

Rusty said thanks.

I said you're welcome Rusty. Happy Christmas.

Trainspotting at night.

Beside my bed I keep a little book
in which I jot down the details of
those trains of thought which
travel nightly the subconscious network.
Occasionally it will be the midnight express
screaming through nightmare tunnels
(its headlight mimicking hope)
towards oblivion.
But more often it is a
benign milk train
with it's churned up cargo  of memories
stopping regularly
at the village halts that
line my past.

My nights spent
supine upon an embankment of pillow
counting wheels
marveling at their locomotion
but no longer curious
about their destination.

Cameron is a weak little man.

David Cameron is a weak little man. When a nation needs a great leader Cameron wont be there, Cameron will be hiding from responsibility because that is what cameron does best. David Cameron is a nasty little shit busy snorting cocaine and then wondering why he runs out of ideas. He has no ideas now because he never had any ideas in the first place. David Cameron will kill Britain.

Cameron declares dog shit 'edible' and the end to world hunger.

David Cameron has announced, after extensive studies by the health department, that dog shit is edible. He goes on to say that judging by the amount of shit in the world today the poor need not go hungry.

I am told that he has instructed his Whitehall minions to come up with what he wants titled: 'Cameron's shit cookbook" which will be given to all poor people in lieu of support or benefit. Cameron has stated that: 'Shit is universal, almost as universal as poverty. As soon as we can make rich folks shit edible the starvation crisis is over because us rich folk is full of shit and we will never run out of poor folk to eat it.

You heard it here first.

Wisdom from Le Peuple de l'herbe.

Jonathan Pandy writes: Written in 2002/2003 for Le Peuple de l'Herbe. Released in 2005. Respect to the people that made the video. The full lyrics are quite poignant, and rather sadly true now I think.

Church of England bans Star Wars trailer.

The producers of the new Star Wars movie say they are disappointed with the Church after it was announced that their trailer for the film would not be screened in churches during services.

A spokesperson for the C of E explained that: ' The films use of imaginary warring people in imaginary places did not fit the down to earth realism of the Christian ethos'.

The Westway Trust: Asset stripping spivs.

Well. It is a fine state of affairs:

Angela McConville and her team refused to turn up, as agreed, to a public meeting regarding their plans for the land they manage (land gifted to the community) on the grounds that she feared for their safety. Good grief.

The meeting was held at the Tabernacle; a venue close to the heart of the community which is professionally run as an Arts Centre/restaurant/bar and as such has ample security staff during large gatherings. McConville's fears were of course spurious. What she wanted to avoid was being asked to explain Westway Trust's cavalier attitude to the very people they claim to work on behalf of: the community.

Westway Trust, with the enthusiastic backing of Local Government, plan to further eviscerate our community in order to serve the needs of the upwardly mobile social immigrants, including criminal money launderers buying up property, who they see as a better bet in the future. In essence they want to turn a unique part of London, which frightens them, into something they can feel comfortable in (and feel very comfortably off).

RBKC and Westway Trust have a completely erroneous notion of what a community is, actually they have no idea what a community is. The one group of people who can define a community is the community itself and this is the one group of people that they are avoiding, it seems, at all costs.

The community is right not to trust the Westway Trust, they are a bunch of property developers and Asset Stripping spivs and the asset they are raping is the genuine community.

Rather than being concerned over her safety at the meeting it is more likely that McConville and her team simply cannot be arsed to consult the very people she claims to care about.

Why I will not be overlaying a French flag on my social media photographs.

I feel I am being beseeched to plant a tricolor on my photographs by the facebook sheepdogs who like nothing more than worrying their flock whilst chasing them hither and thither.

I'm still thinking about superimposing the North Vietnam flag on my box Brownie snaps from the 60's and 70's and then there is the Argentine flag from the Falklands gung-hoism. I should probably have overlaid the Iraq flag at some point and most certainly should be peering from behind a Palestine flag right now.... You see my dilema.

What this planet needs now is a symbol or banner (not the Christian dove nor a 6 armed elephant or the flag of the planet's 4th largest arms supplier) which unites mankind in turning his/her back on religions, isms and other methods of mass control.
Without freedom there can be no peace.

Avant Garde painting discovered beneath Dutch masterpiece.

Experts in Holland using X-ray have discovered a previously unknown Avant Garde painting beneath an equally as unknown masterpiece by the Artist Jan Nieupjur.

Black Square No. 1 Painted by 'Abstract Depressionist'  Nieupjur in 1915  was found to be concealing his earlier work White Square No. 12. Painted during the artists not so depressed period.

It was later discovered that an earlier work entitled: Primer No.7 lay beneath the white painting.

Terry Wogan pulls out of Children in Need after threats from Damian Hirst.

Terry Wogan  has announced that he is pulling out of Children in Need after threats were received from Damian Hirst over the use of his 'Spot' painting on Pudsy's bandage.

Hirst is reported to claim that: 'I fucking invented spots, how dare they use them to raise money for children in need. If you don't want needy children don't fucking fuck. Don't go nicking my ideas without adding to my millions.'

Unseen Bronte poem in full.

Jan Nieupjur writes...

A boozy night in Haworth led to a 'private glimpse' of the previously unknown Charlotte Bronte poem recently discovered. My photographic memory did not fail me, here it is in full:

Out on the wiley, windy moors
We'd roll and fall in green.
You had a temper like my jealousy:
Too hot, too greedy.
How could you leave me,
When I needed to possess you?
I hated you. I loved you, too.

Bad dreams in the night.
They told me I was going to lose the fight,
Leave behind my wuthering, wuthering
Wuthering Heights.

Heathcliff, it's me, your Cathy.
I've come home. I'm so cold!
Let me in-a-your window.

Heathcliff, it's me, your Cathy.
I've come home. I'm so cold!
Let me in-a-your window.

Ooh, it gets dark! It gets lonely,
On the other side from you.
I pine a lot. I find the lot
Falls through without you.
I'm coming back, love.
Cruel Heathcliff, my one dream,
My only master.

Too long I roam in the night.
I'm coming back to his side, to put it right.
I'm coming home to wuthering, wuthering,
Wuthering Heights,

Heathcliff, it's me, your Cathy.
I've come home. I'm so cold!
Let me in-a-your window.

Heathcliff, it's me, your Cathy.
I've come home. I'm so cold!
Let me in-a-your window.

Ooh! Let me have it.
Let me grab your soul away.
Ooh! Let me have it.
Let me grab your soul away.
You know it's me Cathy!

Heathcliff, it's me, your Cathy.
I've come home. I'm so cold!
Let me in-a-your window.

Heathcliff, it's me, your Cathy.
I've come home. I'm so cold!
Let me in-a-your window.

Heathcliff, it's me, your Cathy.
I've come home. I'm so cold!

Of course it is the Kate Bush classic.

Right to Buy. How it works.

1. You live in social housing in an upwardly mobile area of London with an Index linked rent of X pounds per Month.

2. You are gulled into buying your property at a slight discount in order that you may own your own castle and that the Housing Association/Local Authority has the funds to build new Social housing elsewhere in order to socially cleanse the upwardly mobile area in which you live. The repayments on the loan you take out to buy your property cost you 2X pounds per Month.

3. Interest rates rise as they inevitably do in our 'Boom & Bust' economy. Your repayments rise to 3X per Month.

4. When your repayments reach 4X per Month; an amount you can no longer afford. Either the Mortgage Company forecloses forcing a 'Fire-sale' or you sell hurriedly.

5. Your property is bought by an investment company which then lets it at a full market rate thus aiding the social cleansing process.

6. You 'downscale' by buying a smaller, cheaper property in a less affluent area or more likely move back into rented property elsewhere placing yourself back on the Local Authority housing list when you lose your job and health due to the stresses of home ownership.

7. You die in a homeless hostel in Wigan.

8. The investment company eventually sells its entire property portfolio of ex Social homes to the Chinese for billions thus ensuring that in future an Englishman's home will be someone else's pagoda.

Why I am grumpy.

I have COPD; chronic obstructional lung disease according to my doctor. But I don't. I have lost 50% of the oxygen producing cells in my lungs due to contracting a strange virus some years ago. I am now told that standard drug procedures for someone suffering from Emphysemia is the way to go, not because I have emphysemia but because it is the easy answer.

I've been grumpy for a while, I'm grumpy with myself for being grumpy. I'm beating myself up for being a grumpy old man.

For the past six weeks I have been unable to do anything other than try to breath and do nothing and while doing nothing I have been indulging in grumpyness. I promise you, living with me has been hell and I am the first to admit that I have considered hiring a hit man to take me out.

I saw a new GP today.

A new day a new dawn.  I had been prescribed steroids, knowing that steroids fuck up the immune system, without the essential antibiotics to protect a vulnerable body. Ergo: I have been getting every nasty little bug known to man so that my GP can remain happy in the fact that he is not over-prescribing expensive drugs.

My new GP diagnosed a long present lung infection and prescribed antibiotics as well as the steroids necessary for tissue growth.  If the drugs don't work I'm looking at a trip to hospital for intravenous antibiotics before the pneumonia kills me. All because a doctor didn't want to prescribe the right drugs at the right time. He was probably too busy thinking about his golfing holiday courtesaey of the drugs reps.

350,000 people die from respiratory diseases every year, a lot of them unnecessarily.  863,000 GP's go on drug company funded holidays in return for prescribing their wares... Unnecessarily.

That is why I am grumpy.

I'm so fucking grumpy that I am staying alive for the next 60 years to complain about it.

Million Mask March bollocks.

A few hundred 'anti capitalism' bods are marching in London as I write this.

Photograph: Jack Taylor/AFP/Getty Images

Such is their blind determination to champion the rights of the underclass that they fail to see the irony in the fact that they are all wearing masks made by children in sweat shops in the far East. Thus making a tidy sum for the capitalist masters that they claim to despise.

Vegan Black Pudding.

WARNING. This post may go beyond the realm of good taste.

From Rusty McGlint's soon to be published 'Christian Creationist Feminist Vegan Cookbook'.

As a transgender feminist Vegan I am often asked about acceptable alternatives to pork products. After much consultation with fellow feminists, Chief Rabbi's, Vicars and hippy mothers I can safely say that this recipe answers the breakfast needs of all vegetarians and Vegans.

It is important to point out that as a creationist I absolutely believe that Man was created separately from all animals and stands alone as a class; human flesh is therefore safe from all vegetarian/Vegan rules.

It is easy to make; look up any black-pudding recipe, substitute human blood for pigs blood and spare adipose tissue ( cleverly recycling the by-product of liposuction) for the fat. Hippy Earth Mothers will find this a delicious and simple way of cooking that placenta.

There are many non-animal sausage tubes on the market which are perfectly good for stuffing the mixture into but I prefer to use the tube bits of the placenta, which I tightly stuff before forming into a neat vagina shape.

British police to be allowed to look up womens skirts.

Theresa May is about to announce that British police will be allowed to look up women's skirts in future either by using their highly polished toe-caps or by using cameras concealed in their turn-ups.

Ms May, when questioned, stated: I have to look up David Cameron's arse every time I kiss it and I have no problem with that, neither am I offended when described as the contents of my underpants; if I am going to be openly scrutinised as primary female genitalia so should every-one else.

Who is Earl Okin?

Transparent bags reduce recycling among drunken middle class homes.

My domestic science corespondent Rusty McGlint informs me that people are embarrassed to put all their wine and spirits bottles along with beer cans in the transparent council recycling bags as it opens them to accusations of alcoholism from neighbours.

This is a middle class phenomenon as most working class people are proud of their alcohol intake as well as their ability to afford copious quantities of booze; some poor households are known to collect bottles and cans from the street in order to 'bulk out' their recycling bags. Dom Perignon bottles are highly desirable in certain areas where a well filled recycling bag can have a marked affect on house prices.

Why can we not have bags that hide our drinking habits?