The Ministry of Stealth and Total Stupidity
First of all, may I apologise for my big-mouthed, Power Mad, feminist computer. [Hi there! Ermintrude] I did not put in the stuff about ‘Rent-a-Rant’ in the heading. [No. I did. Ermintrude] You see what I mean? [No. Ermintrude] I can only conclude I must have been a right bastard in a previous life. (You still are. EdZilla) Bah! Where was I? [About to launch yet another of your pathetic tirades. Ermintrude] (Forgot how to work the washing-machine, again? EdZ) No! Anyway; I don’t need it right now. No. Ah yes. The Potty-Training Police; Bottom-Sniffing Division. In a way I quite approve of reintroducing people with psychological difficulties back into the community. [It didn't work with you. Ermintrude] Silence, you puny Earthling! It’s just the level of responsibility into which they are thrown at the start. Take, for example, the current advice from the Anti Alcohol Anal Retentive Secretariat – AAARS for short. Presumably they fell down their own ‘hole’. Let me see now; ah yes. Here we are. Are we all shitting comfortably? You soon will be. Good. Then I’ll begin. Once upon a time in a land far away, called England, there lived an utter twat called Oliver Cromwell, who had clearly been bullied when he was at school. And he secretly liked it. So much so, he built himself a private set of showers where he would go with some of his friends and strip off and then be forced to pick up the soap in the wet, steaming shower… Then he grew up. Around that time there was a bunch of even bigger twats called ‘The Puritans’, nicknamed ‘The Purple Heads’, because of the colour their willies would go whenever they became excited – which was quite a lot. They decided to take over the World; or the bit nearest to them – which was called England. En route they cut off a King’s head, and abolished Parliament – and made no ‘BareBones’ about it. Geddit? [No. Ermintrude] Anyway. In pursuit of their goal of terminal boredom, they abolished singing and songs; and even Christmas. (They were, ‘apparently’ Christians themselves.) Not unnaturally when fun-loving, Catholic-burning Ollly died, what was left of the English asked the dead King’s son if he’d like a job; and Olly and Co were consigned to the dustbin of history; along with Eric Hobsbom. Hobsbaum? Some lefty git soi-disant historian apologist for Stalin, anyway. Until recently.
The School of Joined-Up Thinking
So. There I was, about to get myself outside a rather decent G and T whilst grappling with the Daily Torygraph crossword. It was a Friday, because they always employ Xavier de Sadisto, late of the Spanish Inquisition, to do the clues then. Bastards. And I suppose I must have dozed off to the strains of Radio Two – a bit highbrow – I know, but there you go. I dreamt I was back with one of my wives; either one will do – they always were nagging MOI. And so vivid was the dream that I fell off my chair and came to, cowering in the corner, trying to explain I didn’t like her sister that much at all. Then as sanity recovered I realised my fright had come from the gibbering pish being trotted out by the News. And since it was about health; the first point I wish to make is that such utter shite should only be broadcast after the cut-off time, and come with a pretty stiff warning. I even took notes to make sure I got it right. Here goes. Apparently alcohol is bad for you. Full Stop. No. We’re not talking about excess, or alcoholism; just the stuff itself. Evidently even if you look at a label of Johnny Walker Black Label, you ought to go and lie down in a darkened room for twenty-four days; or hours; or some such tripe. Presumably under some agreeable blonde. The broadcast was silent on that point. Anyway. The Master Plan is to ban all labels; except for dinky wee pictures of livers in sickness and not health. Not, sliced thinly in strips, fast fried in olive oil and served up with mashed potatoes and a glass of Valpollicella. Shock Yawn. And the tax thereon should be quadrupled. And anyone using the letter ‘G’ in close proximity to the letter ‘T” will be taken out and shot, three times a day, between meals. Excuse me; I’ve just got to have a quick one to restore the shattered tissues. Oh yes. PS. The Scottish Whisky Industry and the English beer and spirits giants who contribute so much revenue to HM Customs and Revenue can go take a flying foreskin to themselves. And the fragile Balance of Trade? Do you ever have the feeling that Christmas will be next?
Stranger than Friction
So. I was at the computer instanter waxing lyrical about mad, lefty, muesli-abusing ‘Fiends of the Earth, when Ermintrude pointed out that the authors of this sheer shite were in point of fact government employees. Eh? I mean; No-one has a higher regard for the daring and innovative ways in which the State has tried to rehabilitate The Hard of Thinking by making them Prime Ministers and Foreign Secretaries and Chancellors of the Exchequer, and what have you. Tony Bland, Gorgon Broon, David Camp-Person, Nick Who? – and what a contribution they have all made to blood pressures throughout the land. But this, this drivel, this babbling from the sickbed, should really have a limit somewhere – preferably within the margin of sanity and not the Cloud Cuckoo Land from which it clearly emanates. What were their nurses thinking of? Surely a modest ‘liquid cosh’, washed down with a good belt of Scotch would have cured the problem for at least a day or so. But no; Nanny knows best. Apart from a rather poor understanding of the Right to Privacy as set out in the Human Rights Act. Not forgetting the lesson of ‘Brave New World’. You see, Uber Spam Heads, if you turn off the Soma, then the Epsilons start to wonder about the shitty quality of their lives. Next thing you know, they’ll be wanting to thank the politicians for their utter failure to address even their most basic of needs, as they line their own pockets and pensions. Who knows? The ‘Oiks’ ‘Hoi Polloi’ or ‘Electorate’ as they used to be known, might even drop into Tescos, Asda or Sainsbury’s to buy their very own Kalashnikov, preferably monogrammed, complete with shells, in order to personally thank the authors of their present misfortunes.
It’s a Funny Old Word
‘Care Homes’. ‘Care in the Community’. ‘Child Protection’. ‘Collateral Damage’. Odd how words can be abused. The Ministry of Truth became the Ministry of Lies a long time ago. It certainly helps explain why both Tory and Labour Administrations managed to ‘lose’ the files on paedophiles. I bet they still have the ones on Burgress and Mclean. And if the ‘Plonk Police’ can’t get the booze shut down yet; why not insist that all supermarkets provide personal details of all their customers who by booze? Or don’t you think that little number hasn’t been floated already? The Puritans are back. Although I seem to recall Queen Elizabeth the First kept her heating bills down by burning some three hundred of them. Probably nicked the idea from her sister. Nah; they’d probably enjoy it too much. The Greeks cautioned that wine was a good servant but a bad master; the same can be said for self-styled ‘health experts’. Cheers.
John J McCabe. Copyright.