Andy Randy or Harpies Bizarre

Yes, fans! I’m back – the man who put the Fab into Captain Fabulous. Mainly for tax reasons, and the odd death threat, I have been dead for the last couple of years (Though simultaneously working on my Feminist Dic(k)tionary “Perils before swine or the Feminist Dic(k)tionary” (Available on Amazon £4.99) and my Crime/Adventure series, “Law and Disorder”; through the assistance of a spirit medium, i.e. Whisky.
I have been moved by pressure from my vast and discerning audience to let the world have my ‘Penses’ on the unfolding Opera buffo that is our Royal Family.
Once upon a time, long, long ago there lived a handsome prince, who hadn’t had a shag in months. For reasons of secrecy, we shall call the prince ‘A’, as in ‘Andy’. Finding himself at a loose end he went to a hot London nightspot called ‘Cramp’. There he connected with an AB. (Agreeable Blonde) and nature took it’s course leading to dinner and a deeply meaningful leg-over situation. Their relationship blossomed and the dose was repeated several times then nature and common sense got the best of both parties and they parted.
Fast forward ten years and it transpires that the AB was in fact in the pay of a foreign power who for reasons of secrecy we shall refer to as Mr Epstein. He had a string of young fillies in his ‘stable’ to whom he payed $1000 a night for a deep and meaningful relationship with his pals. However this fact was unknown to the pals in question which included Prince Andy. Some ten years after these events some of the AB’s had an idea. Since they were all blondes, this no doubt involved major brain surgery, but the idea was that they would kiss and squeak to the tabloid press about these relationships unless they were given a substantial deposit to their Selective Amnesia Fund. Because if their allegations were correct, The Big E would be done for pimping and they would be done for prostitution. So far soya sauce. But fast forward a further ten years and the prostitutes have now become ‘victims’ who were ‘trafficked’ by the Big E. Prostitution is often inflicted upon girls who are plied with equal doses of alcohol, drugs and violence by their pimps, and certainly are victims as they have to hand across all their earnings to their pimp. They are often sold on by their pimps and are smuggled across continents to ply their trade in major cities. If they try and leave or contact the police they are either murdered or tortured or have acid thrown in their face, as do their families back home. The AB’s employed by the Big E were not subject to any such regime. They could leave at any time and kept $1000 per night for their own expenses. So it is hard to see how they are either victims or trafficked. Perhaps it might be best to describe them as ‘enthusiastic amateurs’.
However any criminality cannot attach to Andy since he had no knowledge of the relationship between the chick and the pimp, the latter who he regarded as a personal friend. In due course the USA legal authorities caught up with the Big E and he was found guilty of criminal activity with the girls, for which he was punished. But instead of going to jail he was allowed to stay in whichever of his many houses he possessed and travel to and from them like a free man as long as he advised the police authorities. Clearly the police authorities took the view that his criminality was minimal and modest. Now in the knowledge of his criminality Prince Andy stayed with him in New York and this has caused outrage amongst various sects of feminists, in particular the Chapter called ‘the Little Sister’s of Infinite Stupidity’. These sect style ‘clitorati’ have kick started their vibrators and flown off to form a coven, circling round the hapless Andy saying how dare he consort with a known criminal. Apparently they have never heard of the word ‘rehabilitation’, presumably because it has too many syllables. Any third party looking at the punishment handed out to the Big E based on its extraordinary leniency, could only conclude that his criminality was very modest – unless of course you are a man hating, ball crushing feminista. If as they suggest, the sentence was far too mild the fault lies with the prosecutors not with Prince A.
The only advice one can give such harpies is to follow the recommendation of Disney’s emo princess in the cartoon ‘Frozen’ and “Let it go”.

MEIN BLOG no 68 or so

You Heard it Here First

THE European Union – an OxyMORON

Michael Barmier is, apparently, in charge of the EU side of exit negotiations. Really? I could have sworn that the EU was bun by and for the convenience of Germany and France.  Ask any Greek or Italian. So far, there has not been any adverse financial impact upon the German car industry or the French wine industry – maybe there’s a message there? The UK is the EU’s biggest customer. Neither Merkel nor Macron will do anything to jeopardise that. Problem solved.

As for Barmier, his regain about ‘lack of progress’ is more and more like ‘The Ode to Joy’ as sung by Beaker of the Muppets – it’s all about ME And like Beaker’s endeavours it too will come to grief

Anyone who has bought or sold a car or house or been divorced will realise that all negotiations take it up to the line. and that NOTHING is fully resolved until EVERYTHING is fully resolved. Of course the money and trade deal in question do not directly effect Mr Barmier’s salary so why the hell should he care. No sum for british exit will be agreed until the trade deal has been agreed – get over it. But while we are on the subject of the sum of money involved, where does Barmier get his figures from? The EU budgetary audit has been unable to sign off the EU annual accounts for the last twenty plus years due to massive endemic fraud, Say no more. I wonder what amount of money the UK asked Europe to pay when we stood alone against the Nazis?  he should stick to dreams of an EU Army. What the hell happens to NATO? Since the vast majority of EU members fall far short of the two percent GHDP investment in the military already, Barmier should have just enough money for a pretty uniform, lots of medals and a wooden catapult. Putin must be shaking in his boots – with laughter.

Much nearer to home is the matter of Catalan, Spain and the Spanish Civil War, Round Two. Win, lose or draw, what happens if the new state is recognised by Russia? Or North Korea? Or Iran? What if they agree to drop their support for a free hand in Belarus or South Korea or the Middle East. But meanwhile the EU fiddles while there Roman Empire burns,

Not forgetting Poland, Hungary, and Immigration. Whoopee!

On the subject of North Korea, the world press seem to be as wrong as ever. It is not a problem for the USA but for China. Just like Dr Frankenstein was killed by his creation, it is China who now has the problem. What if the next bomb test sets off an earthquake near a major Chinese dam? What id a defective bomb explodes in North Korea and the prevailing wind send a radioactive dust cloud over the Chinese seaboard and industrial area – no more exports for up to two hundred years. Or what happens if the cloud blows over India or Russia. Neither country will be fobbed off by North Koreas playing the fall guy!!!

And all the time Barmier continues as the headmistress manqué marking GB five out of ten for effort but only two out of ten for content. Dream on.

copyright John J McCabe

Perils before Swine or The Feminist Dic(k)tionary

Writer’s Droop

back! back, all my fans and fanettes. Yes, I’m back. Thanks to the attentions of FLAB (Feminist Liberationist Against Blokes) and HMRC I have had to be dead for the last few months – hence the silence. But according to my embalmer and my accountant it should be safe for me to make a come back; for at least a while. Naturally my return has not met with universal approval, least of all from the bloody computer, (“Hi there!” Ermintrude) and Edzilla, (“Beat it you looser!” Edzilla). So my silence has not been brought about by a lack of inspiration or any other painfully personal affliction. (“Yeah not much.” Ermintrude) anyway, the oysters seem to be working. (“unlike your brain.” Edzilla).

A little knowledge is a dangerous thing

Which brings me to my fabulous new publication, “Perils before Swine or The Feminist Dic(k)tionary.” This weighty tome ranks along side “The rights of man” by Thomas Paine, and “The communist manifesto” by Marx and spencer: or if you are a women, the most recent Ikea catalogue. (Watch it, twat face!” Ermintrude) Bah! These definitions laid bare the real man hating philosophy of females in general, and feminist in particular. ( Just good taste on their part, you absolute tosser.” Edzilla) double bah! As you, dear discerning readers, you will see that my venture has been fraught with danger , attracting the unwanted attentions of the lunatic fringe of feminism. To be fair I haven’t received too many death threats from them, since that would involve too many big words. (“like ‘arsehole'” Ermintrude)

Mental cruelty

This dic(k)tionary shows how language is being twisted by the Forces of Dimness, aka Feminism. For example, while the word “divorced” used to mean to men freedom and liberty again, it now means penury and years of financial ruin to keep the ex in a manner to which she was never accustomed before. “Trial Separation” used to mean husband and wife giving each other a long deserved break, but it now means that after a trial, often heard by a female judge, the poor husband has his head and wallet separated from his body. In that interim period between the wife-dragon buggering off and the final divorce decree, heaven help the husband who may seek some solace with the agreeable blonde in accounts- “Hell have no fury like a woman with a divorce lawyer” The feminist dic(k)tionary finally discloses the true meaning of seemingly harmless words. I cannot recommend it enough.(“Yes. because of all the royalties you’ll make, you dickhead!” Edzilla)

Prisoner of Brenda

Naturally I have had to take precautions to protect myself from FLAB 2- The Feminist Liberation Assassination Bureau. Luckily they can be often spotted by their stretch marks and cellulite. In the dic(k)tionary I have take precautions to ensure that this revolutionary publication cannot be traced back to MOI. All proceeds go to the John J McCabe disaster fund for relief of deeply misunderstood tragic hero’s – one in particular. If on examination you like the work then please recommend it to all un sundry. If you don’t like the work, just lie.

Farewell for now.

John J McCabe copyright 2017


A Brief History of The Caliphate


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Shania Law

So what’s the big deal? According to spokespersons for The Islamic State in Disneyworld, we are all going to be invaded by furry pustular youths who still haven’t come to terms with puberty. Like, what’s new? And we are all going to be subject to Shania Law. I love it already! According to my research assistante, Adolphina von Menopause, this will involve being disciplined by some blonde chick who sings Country and Western. What’s not to like? Apparently The Caliphate was also ruled by chicks; the top Numera Una piece of crumpet in the Harem. She governed with a rod of steel, although, personally, a black whip and fish-net tights might have been a better alternative. Either way, all our Mad Mullahs were under the control of a female – pussy-whipped or what?

Cross Dressers

Indeed, not so much ‘cross’ dressers, as bloody good and mad ones. All that adolescent spleen and acne, pretending to hate women, when they are never really happier than being ruled, and spanked, by some plump tart – ‘odalisk’ I believe is the correct term. Which goes a long way to explaining the current dress code for ISID. I mean, they all insist that chicks wear habibs and face masks and what have you. Then, tellingly, they go and cover their bodies and faces in similar but slightly different clothing themselves. Cross dressers! Next thing you know they’ll be sporting matching handbags to carry the magazines for their Kalashnikovs. And also to carry their favourite lads mag, ‘Orgasm Yearly’.   (I don’t think we have to delve any further to explain the phenomenon of ‘genital mutilation’. Come on, guys, size isn’t everything!) It also explains the increasing popularity of crotchless burkahs; among the blokes anyway.


Like all would-be onanists, our excitable exotic chums tend to have a slightly selective view of the past. Now boys, throwing chicks into the Bosphorus was not a form of water sport. And if the wee petals currently running from those naughty air strikes and drones were really such fanatics, they would surely stand and die, fighting for the cause? Like, say, for example, the Janissaries, the insane storm troops of the Caliphate who always led the attacks, scaring everyone shitless with their mad courage and lack of fear. Except, of course, they were Christians… Okay, a particularly nutty brand of Christianity; not so much ‘turn the other cheek’, as ‘sock the flock’. But maybe there’s a lesson for all of us there? Like it’s not brave to behead bound and gagged captives while posing for a ‘Selfie’. Some country, some ‘Caliphate’ some bravery. You don’t even have an air force or a navy. All you do have is a morbid fear of women, and an ignorance of your own history which is positively encyclopaedic.  And you know why everyone hates you? It’s because, long, long ago, the real Caliphate encouraged the development and spread of algebra! There’s not a school kid in the world that doesn’t hate your guts. Think about it; if you have the equipment.

John J McCabe. Copyright.

Once Upon a Whine


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Never Never Land

“Sorry. You can’t watch it.”

“But it’s a classic!”

“Too violent. The hero’s mother gets wasted in the opening frame.”


“Hmmm. And I’m not too sure about ‘Thumper’ either.”

“How about this one?”

“Good heavens, no!”

“They’re all children!”

“Who live in a jungle; never wash; never seem to have any homework; and are chased by horrible nasty men; paedophiles I shouldn’t wonder. And I don’t like the relationship between the hero and the heroine; a lot of sexual tension  there if you ask me.”

“They’re kids!”

“All in their bed-clothes! Very suggestive. And as for the pirate; Captain Hook! Too muck Freudian undertones there.”

“All right. You win. I’ll do some of my Bible Studies…”

“Over my dead body! Murder! Wars, pillaging,… and other things!”

“The readings are about Christ and his miracles!”

“Oh, I know all about them! Changing water into wine; bloody alchy! Feeding five thousand with bread and fish – uncooked no doubt; very unhygienic! Raising the dead? That’s how you spread disease! And don’t talk to me about Mary Magdalene!”

“Well can I watch some old Muppet shows?”

“Certainly not! Bloody Communists! Here. Read this. ..”

“What? ‘Introducing Feminism’? What’s that all about?”

“It has lots of nice pictures in it, to make it easy to understand.”

“Is that ’cause women are thick? Ouch! You hit me!”

“Regard it as part of your ‘learning curve’. Now come on, it’s time for your breast-feeding.”

“But I’m twenty-three years old!”



Is Nappy Rash Infectious?

I kid you not. The above scenario is being acted out both in out former colonies, presently known as the United States of America, and here in Blighty. I never knew that students could be so sensitive. We weren’t. You couldn’t get awarded for your degree until you’d paid at least five visits to the Skin Clinic and were not immune to penicillin. How the hell anyone can lecture in History now is beyond me. The Greek and Roman Empires? Too violent. And slaves as well. Good grief; they even shagged the pretty ones! The Dark Ages? Too much blood and thunder from the barbarians. And they had slaves. They even shagged the ugly ones! The Renaissance? The Borgias? Say no more. The Reformation? Eeek! Catholics and Protestants wiping each other out in the millions. The Spanish Inquisition? Auto-da-Fees? Oliver Cromwell? Regicide?  Louis XIV? The French Revolution? The British Empire? World Wars One and Two? The Atomic Bomb? The Cold War? Feminism? At least the Fascists and Communists didn’t read “The Female Eunoch’ to you before killing you.

Apparently a ‘Traffic Violation’ means a shag in a car nowadays. And it’s all too traumatic for words! But here’s a thought for how to deal with the wave of WIMPs and WIFPs. Why not get them to go the Bronx and /or Leith to complain about the inherent sexism in some of the Rappers songs?  “Slap ma Bitch” would not necessarily mean cruelty to dumb animals – unless they were blondes, of course. Or why don’t the wee, precious darlings try and teach some Anger Management classes to some Hell’s Angels? Or the benefits of aromatherapy to ISIS? Or the culinary delights of pork scratchings to Al Qaeda? The possibilities are endless.

Cogito ergo dumb

Naturlich the sensitive nancy boys and girls who are too delicate for the real world can at least now be spared the anally-retentive drivel spouted by their profs about such literary pygmies as ‘The Great Gatsby’, ‘The Yellow Room’, “The Glass Menagerie’ and other similar offal. They may have been daring for middle class America in the twenties and fifties; but we have all moved on since then. They’re now called ‘Soaps’ – a form of sadistic brain-washing. But perhaps what is really nice for all the rest of the normal students, it makes the job market a great deal more attractive. What employer in his or her right mind in going to employ any loser whose CV boasts of how they read nothing but ‘Noddy’ books for their degree, and banned any intellectual thought from staining their pre-pubescent fantasy world? Yeehah!    

John J McCabe.

Copyright, 2015.









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ISIL for Idiots

My  fan base has been pressing MOI for my reflections on the horrific events in Paris; and it seems a shame to let him down. It is indeed a declaration of war; and that’s never a very good idea with the French; ask any Algerian. However it is much more than that for the bits of used toilet paper involved – it is a declaration of suicide; ask any member of the legion d’etrengere. But since that appears to be the heart’s desire of the flaming freak show, they are about to get much more than they imagined. YeeHaw!

Know Your Enema

And what could be simpler in the instant case? Not only do they obligingly stroll about with towels wrapped around their heads, they always have their heads stuffed up their arses. To be absolutely fair, since they are a bunch of bloody idiots, it might be better if they wrapped their heads with sanitary towels. The main thing is to start to label them properly. Moslems? Not even remotely. In fact, it is a well kept secret that the acronym ISIL actually stands for “Institution for Sexually Impotent Losers”. They are obsessed with sex – because they’re not very good at it.  The orgasm has been banned; and the reason the chicks are kept covered from head to toe in fetching blankets woven with explosives, is to avoid the danger of premature ejaculation. The good news is that for every little boy pre-pubescent jihadi manque who has gone out there to join them, their sister back home is being soundly shagged by some white guy who just can’t get enough of her. Gland to gland combat.

Continuing the theme of labelling, it has to be obvious that self-igniting firelighters can be fun to watch. A better name for them would be ‘Ronsons’, named after the good old lighter of yesteryear. In World War Two, the Sherman tank was so nick-named because of its tendency to burst into flame easily when under attack.  This rebranding of our incendiary insurgents might even help the poor old lighter industry which has suffered a setback in the UK thanks to the efforts of the FagiBan, a group of fanatical bottom-sniffers who have criminalised smoking of cigarettes. I mean, when I was young, ‘secondary smoking’ involved a furtive fag round the back of the bike shed while examining the contents of some fourth year’s knickers. But we digress.

Irony of Ironies

We are now threatened by a medieval crew of gay rent-boys, armed with World War Two weaponry, trying to wipe out the high-tech rest of us. Any prizes for guessing the end result? “A train came down the line puffin’, Sanity seven billion, ISIL nuffin’ ” Oh sure; any tool can buy themselves a black market Sig or Glock; ask anyone in North London or Nottingham. Then go and shoot up a nursery school or church service. That’s not how wars are one. Ask the Caliphate; oh sorry, they all got wasted some hundred years ago or so. ‘Along came Hungary and ate up Turkey, and all that was left was Greece’. Ha ha ha.

So here’ s the irony; how do you kill them? With a bow and arrow! Which explodes on impact with the obligingly de rigeur bomb jacket; so terribly Lagerfeld my dear! It’ll give Son et Lumiere a whole new meaning.

Pig Headed

Of course, it’s only a rumour, but what if it’s true? That some anti-ISIL forces are being given bullets greased in pig fat, to ensure that when a member of ISIL is wasted, the last place he is going to is paradise. Laugh? I nearly bought a round. Oh, and while on the subject, what is all this about seventy-two virgins? In Leith? I don’t think so. I mean, if any bloke has been married, he will shudder at the thought of getting too involved with any other one of them, never mind that amount. Now that would be hell.

It seems, as I write, that some of the wee souls out there are leaving their crapital city due to a localised outbreak of death. Don’t worry boys, look on it merely as the hors d’oeuvre. Wait till you get to the main course. Bon appetit!

Copyright; John J McCabe 2015.


Brief Encounter


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Come back Erasmus, all is forgiven

It would rather appear as if the Forces of Dimness have been at it again, trying to irritate Moi even more than usual. According to Erasmus, ‘lawyers are a society of learned men, run by idiots’: well, at least that’s what he meant. And it seems that his critique can also be applied to women; and not only blondes. Some chick/bird/ crumpet/professional female has clearly been turned down by Page Three for immediately obvious or rather not obvious reasons – two at least. So she has decided on a bit of DIY. She has pictured herself on some professional web thingy called ‘Crumpet Voluntary’ or somesuch. And fair enough. She is apparently a barrister; probably as good a way as any to land a wealthy husband. Trouble is, the wee soul in question looks exactly like a female undertaker. Although, to be fair, both professions have much in common.

However. Most clients ask their solicitor to employ some brief with an expertise in whichever area of law they have got caught up in. Gender is irrelevant; even unto blondes. So why the picture? Cute; but not that cute. First bloom of youth etc, soon to disappear with the second marriage. Shouldn’t the brief in question be knee deep in legal problems? Most mugs, sorry, ‘clients’, expect that if they are being asked to cough up £250.00 an hour plus posts and incidents at 15%, plus VAT, the genius in question will be assiduous in their study of the case. Besides, if they actually want to pull a brief they just go to the nearest wine bar in Lincolns Inn on a Friday night; and let nature and their platinum American Express Card do the rest.

Sic transit Gloria Swanson

But, dear discerning reader, the rant is but half done. (No. Not ‘half-baked’.) If self-advertisement for services is now an acceptable part of a barrister’s life, more fool them. And I have moved from the Female of the Species to what is, putatively, male. To wit, some senile partner in a Biggo Londono firm of lawyers called Tan Mankini or somesuch. Who seems to spend at least some of his time cruising the web thingy. I’m sure at £400.00 plus an hour, plus posts and incidents at 15%, and VAT at 20%, his clients must be beside themselves with joy that he is not wasting his valuable time on their puny problems. Lucky them.

But his sad little pastime fades into insignificance besides his taste and judgement. He would appear to have actually written, electronically apparently, to the female brief’s web site thing, complimenting her on her looks. I mean, Hello? In the picture in question, the wee soul only needs a pair of rubber gloves and some formalin to complete the picture as she rearranges your remains in the coffin; complete with rictus death grin. Or maybe, in some lights, she just might look like the Head Girl about to give you a hundred lines for smoking behind the bike shed. And he’s the guy who’s gonna advise you on a serious legal problem? Yeah; right.


I was now about to wax lyrical on the fact that the young lady in question writes, on occasion, for the Gruaniad; and admits to being a feminist. Heard it. ‘All men are bastards.’ So what’s new? Then, I got to thinking, in the light of the old fart’s wrapt attention to her picture, could the mad blonde actually have a point?  Men do not behave like that. Full stop. If you fancy a chick then there are various ways to advertise it; but if you are married or whatever and old enough to be her great grandfather you do not make any contact whatsoever. Ever. The Law Society might care to get up off its fat arse and check on both the feeing structure of his firm, and the way they treat their female employees and partners. And I hate feminism.

Copyright 2015

John J McCabe

Useless Hunts


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Where have all the neurons gone?

Ho hum.  It seems that fat-headed, fatuous, Feminism has once more clambered out of bed, wiped off the fa(r)ce cream, showered in the Bad (eed) Ass gel, waxed what passes for their brains, and topped up on the HRT – all to no avail. Presumably listless whilst awaiting the next issue of ‘Orgasm Monthly’, and having run out of wrinkle cream to try and stem the tide, the ‘Sisterhood’ have turned their tiny, fluffy minds to pastures new. Still, if it takes their thought-processes off the fact that their victim; sorry, husband, partner, significant other, seems to spend more and more time with the au pair, it can’t be all bad. Except for the recipient of their boyish enthusiasm. To wit, one Sir Tim Hunt, Nobel prizewinner, late of University College London, AFTER BEING FORCED OUT OF HIS POST THERE. Apparently, according to certain news reports, he was threatened with being summarily dismissed or resigning. Hello? Now while that particular repose of lefty losers has never exactly been in the upper strata of the groves of academe, one might have thought that someone there might just have heard of the Employment Protection Acts and subsequent legislation; with all the requirements for a fair hearing and such. But like so many British universities, although they prate about supporting such pro-worker legislation, they simply ignore it when it should apply to themselves. Oh yes. And the crime? And I quote verbatim:-“Let me tell you about the trouble with girls. Three things happen when they are in the lab: you fall in love with them, they fall in love with you, and when you criticise them they cry.” No dear avid discerning reader; that’s it.  There are very few crimes which do not require some form of trial – but crossing the pussy power is one of them. One might be forgiven for thinking that there would be some blokes in UCL who could maybe just still walk, talk and chew gun at the same time. But evidently not. The word that you FFFFFeminist fffruitbats and male hangers-on seek is “Veritas”. Latin; for “Truth”. It’s a legal term oft as not employed in court type cases; like for example when some poor innocent chap is threatened and forced to resign by some heartless not to say brainless employer. Any of this rrrring a bell? No, of course not. The communal neuron that drew the short straw and has to be shared by the Sisterhood, is probably still in rehab after the Feminists discovered that the inventor of the contraceptive pill was a bloke.

Why our race are called HOMO Sapiens

‘Cause chicks just can’t cut it; don’t have the right equipment. Like reversing a car round a corner. Or thinking. Of course, a bountiful God has gone out of His way to endow them with lots of other good things. But Menstrual Maisie, Celia Cellulite, Shirley Stretchmarks and the rest of the ‘Sisterhood’ want it all. So. My furry little eager beavers; try and pay attention. Point One; Girls can be trouble; for boys, and girls.  It’s laughingly referred to as ‘love’. Point Two; males do fall in love with females. Point Three; females fall in love with males. Point Four; girls cry far more than boys. So the prof is being fired and vilified for telling the truth. Poor old Hunt. I mean; what’s the fuss all about? A chick falls in love with you; she cries. She fights with you and hates you; she cries. You buy her a new house; she cries. You leave the old house; she cries. She watches ET for the twentieth time – and still she bloody well cries! But according to the Sisterhood this is one of these truths that dare not speak it’s name – a shibboleth – like a holy cow, or even for that matter, a bloody-minded cow. Menopausal even…

Sisterhood Snobbery

However, as the affected petits mals subside; and the feathers are unruffled, the reality of this latest outburst of Feminist Facism is revealed. It’s just soooo middle class, my dear! Cub Reportette, Emma Barnett writes in the Torygraph, “Why has feminism become such a toxic word?” In great part due to you and your patronising look at working class women, sweetie pie. “No, don’t be daft,”; “they roared at me, looking appalled.” She reported.  Y.e.e.e.e.e.s? Goddit? Feminism is irrelevant. Most women have no need of such shrill self-aggrandisement. The laddettes who shag ten guys a night and can drink most blokes under the table are the real feminists; except with names like ‘Chardonnay’ or ‘Cheryl’ tattooed on their tits, they’re just too common for words, my dear. Or what about the lap-dancers, or ‘hostesses’ or prostitutes who exploit pathetic blokes who couldn’t score in a brothel? Or how about the under-age single mothers who don’t think having a kid at fifteen will be the end of civilisation? Or what about the grannies who look after the sprogs while mummy is out working or enjoying herself on a Friday night? They’ve got a bloody sight more Feminism in their tiny pinky, than most of the vapid, irreflective tarts with their Lower Seconds in Earth Studies and Finger Painting who have nothing better to do than read their own blogs and entries in Face Book; to ask themselves and their like-minded coterie, “Does my Ego look big in this?” Not so much a witch hunt as a bitch hunt.

Copyright. John J McCabe.

Mamallian Madness


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Breast in Peace

Eeeek! Or, for that matter, even, ‘Erk!’ Once again my sang froid, or my ‘Inner Peace’, or my semi-comatose ‘Samsara’, or some bloody thing, has been blown to hell and back again by that ‘MoMstrous regiment of Wimmin’, with apologies to that old paedo, John Knox. There I was, fresh from my utterly crushing victory over the Forces of Darkness, aka The Daily Telegraph Crossword, bathed in an aura of uber-smugness, when, Bam!  My Sea of Tranquility was blown out of the water by a series of Fun Sacks leaping off the page, each pair with a bratlet attached. Urrgghhhh! Surely these things ought to carry a Government Health Warning? I mean; like any sensitive aesthete, one is not above appreciating the sheer beauty of a pert breast or two attached to an agreeable blonde; a la Fragonard, or Russell Flint.  Even the current rash of talentless female croonettes can at least help the listener mitigate the puerile musical mewlings, by taking their mind off the noise with the odd flash of tit. But this was an article about the right to frighten poor defenceless males into a state of terminal decline by the wanton flaunting of bratlet-infested boobs in pubic! Sorry, ‘public’.

War of the Worlds

Apparently, some birds have even started sending photographs of themselves in flagrante di titto on to that E-Mail, Web thingy, ‘FaceBoob’ or somesuch. “Brelfies’, which I am reliably informed are just like ‘Selfies’ except that the sender is making an even bigger tit of themselves than usual. I mean, there’s a time and a place for everything. And the centre page of an esteemed organ like ‘The Torygraph’ ain’t one of them.  Surely common decency requires the suckling of the issue to be carried out in private? When such events take place between consenting adults it certainly does have to be in private unless one wishes to fall foul of the law, and/or husband.  What is worserer still, it would seem that, a) some females have written books about the subject; b) some publishers have been mad enough to print it, and c) some people have actually gone out and bought the bloody things!  All wimmin, obviously. So in a lot of ways it doesn’t really count; just like quite a few women when they’re on a shopping spree, yes? But it would appear that ‘Breast-feeding’ has become ‘a Global Phenomenon’… Geddit? Suit yourself.

The Milk of Woman Kindness

Naturally, a fear uppermost in men’s minds must be that if this is allowed to go unchallenged, it will become a Trojan Horse for even more outrageous demands. Like having to tidy up after yourself. Being polite about their cooking. Lying about the relationship between their bums and the poor defenceless size sixteen dress. Saying nothing when they try to reverse round a corner. Waxing lyrical about Thomas Hardy. At this rate they might even get the vote! The best solution for all concerned is for both sides to make concessions. Yes, if so driven, the gender with the smaller brain can go about flashing their mammeries before an unsuspecting public; subject to certain civilised constraints.  No wrinkles, no dribbles, no stretch marks, no pendulous megaboobs. Problem solved. Oh; a word of advice to the genius who came up with the device ‘Breast is best’. It sounds like an ad for roast chicken; although, of course, quite few of us like the legs as well…

Copyright. John J McCabe.

A Storm in a D Cup


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Keeping abreast of things

RIP Page Three. Mourn for missing mammeries. Boo(b) Hoo! Shock, yawn.

The civilised world seems to be rocking on its heels at the removal of TITillation from Page Three of The Sun – especially those who never actually read the bloody thing. But their squalks are as nothing compared to the ululations of the Femidoms, claiming success for the Wimmen’s Movement at the demise of Nipplodicus Rex, or rather, ‘Regina’. Except those shrieking the loudest from their Gruaniad Wimmen’s Page, are exactly the same lot who proclaim the right of all females to whip out their tits and cram one of them – at least – into the maw of their mewling, puking infant: in public! It would be like the cattle calling the pot black; except for the racist overtones; and confirmation that most chicks can’t cook anything without burning it to a cinder anyway. However, there may be something to be said for such an aesthetic reassessment of pert breasts and erect nipples. (Those females of a nervous disposition should look away; or buy a dictionary for the big words.)

The Funtain of Eternal Optimism.

No. I can spell just fine, thanks. Some people blame it on gravity; some on vanity. But the brutal truth is that what goes up must come down. And that certainly includes fun-sacks; sorry, ‘bwests’. After twenty-five or so, most chicks tend to let things go a bit. After all, they’ve landed the poor bastard; so why bother anymore? Besides, going to the gym to keep the bum firm and the breasts taut, can be a lot less fun than bitching on the phone to your best friend about how the victim, sorry, husband/partner/mug doesn’t seem so keen on you nowadays. I wonder why? Of course, the girlie mags like Cosmopolitan and Bricklayers Weekly are full of stories about forty year-old birds with to-die for bodies. Only these are the exception to the rule. Besides; if the female of the species is that concerned about her pendulous megaboobs, she can always have recourse to plastic surgery; just make sure she gets custody of the implants when the inevitable divorce arrives.

It is better to unravel than to arrive.

Apologies to Robert Louis Stevenson. However he does have a point. Or nipple, even. As Gossards and Wonderbra worked out a very long time ago, most little boys like unwrapping their presents. I mean, we all give it a good squeeze and shake to see if they rattle, but there is always the excitement of undoing the gift. How big is it? Or them? What colour? Are batteries included? The potential of the situation is endless. Do they each have a tell-tale scar under the bottom of them where the implant went? Will they be firm yet yielding; or soft and squishy? Will her husband find out? Sadly, with the Page Three scenario there is no room for such excitement. Rather the wares are set out before an avid and discerning pubic, leaving nothing to the imagination; except what might happen if your head got stuck between them. Accordingly, the demise of such a rarified art form may be less of a tragedy than presently suggested. Bad luck, you feminist losers. ‘The objectification of women?’ You wish!

John J McCabe. Copyright.