I am sick and tired of looking at that fat prick dead on the floor.
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I am sick and tired of looking at that fat prick dead on the floor.
I walked down Birdcage Walk to Parliament Square yesterday afternoon. Roads were blocked off and there is still no pedestrian access to the square. Lots of tourists taking selfies as well as locals tutting because they had to detour their journey. A few people staring across towards Westminster bridge, one lady gently weeping. Huge police presence, more than at White Hart Lane when we visit. And very, very quiet, not a voice raised or a laugh or a shout, just the drone of the helicopter overhead.
Then to King Charles Street, where big notices had been put up saying 'no pedestrian access', being roundly ignored by a stead6y stream cutting through the FCO to reach Whitehall. Whitehall also closed to traffic and therefore weirdly quiet until someone behind me began screaming, really loudly. It was instantly clear which pedestrians were tourists, for they started from their reverie and began peering to see the source of the disturbance, whilst the locals took absolutely no interest and hurried on to their next appointment.
Later in the evening Soho was functioning absolutely as normal until the police started closing roads apparently at random. There was more tutting about the inconvenience but no one even asked why the roads were being closed.
I was quietly proud, overall.
South Ken, so we should be safe from the unbridled fury of the Remoaners.
I've really no idea what this march is actually demonstrating about. I mean, wouldn't the time to have had a big demo about Brexit have been before the vote rather than four days before we trigger Article 50?
They've been arguing amongst themselves about it, I see. The original demand was supposed to be 'Stop Brexit', but the organisers realised they were a bit late with this demand so changed it to 'Stop Hard Brexit', which caused the A C Grayling-type hard liners to have a meltdown.
What a waste of a day. And all that police overtime! We're paying for that.
One does wonder what AC Grayling is going to do with his time once we're actually out? As far as I can make out, he's done nothing but kvetch about it since June, expending any intellectual credibility he may previously have had in the process. He'll have to go back to the day job, I guess - whatever that is.
I know. One expects these things from the French and other European types, of course. They think life is a puzzle that can be solved by the big idea - which is what has got them into so much trouble down the years. We, on the other hand, are a pragmatic people who find the idea of people being paid to sit around thinking and spouting nonsense rightly absurd.
I am afraid that this feckless fool has been encouraged and supported by universities.
I believe you know my views on these seething hotbeds of Marxists and overaged schoolchildren, b. Come the New Regime I shall have each and every one razed to the ground, their books burnt and their 'teachers' executed.
Only in this way can we hope to rebuild our citizenry's diluted blood and strength. The English Folk must be hard and pure!
Yes. Even as the left is defeated in open democratic battle, it retreats to its fastnesses in the media, academia and the public sector. It must be extirpated root and branch until there is nowhere left for these spavined vermin to hide! We must not rest until no leftist is free to infect the minds of our youth with their filth! Raise high the banners! No mercy! No mercy!
You must excuse me, I appear to be frothing at the mouth somewhat.
I thought your universities, or at least some of them, were a source of some national pride, global envy some may suggest (not I).
Personally I have never held a lot of faith in third level education. For some a worthy experience and one that society benefits from however for the vast majority simply an excuse to do **** all for 3-4 years.
There is a time for a chap to go to school; let's say between 10 and 16. During this period he may be taught the basic, essential skills: reading, writing, Latin and the preferable vintage years for clarets and Burgundies.
Now our young man is fully equipped for a life of toil and service to his family and comrades in arms.
I have regularly bemoaned the vast growth in such people. Once upon a time, a newspaper had an editorial that told a chap what to think about the weighty matters of the day, a letters page as an outlet for the mad and that was it. Now the world and his wife wants to vomit their opinion all over a chap's newspaper. Dreadful business.
"The trouble with you, Spode, is that just because you have succeeded in inducing a handful of half-wits to disfigure the London scene by going about in black shorts, you think you're someone. You hear them shouting "Heil, Spode!" and you imagine it is the Voice of the People. That is where you make your bloomer. What the Voice of the People is saying is: "Look at that frightful ass Spode swánking about in footer bags! Did you ever in your puff see such a perfect perisher?""
The roads you walk and drive on were designed by engineers who went to university, SW. As were the buildings you work in. Not to mention the doctors who make you well. All of society benefits when young people educate themselves, this is a fact.
People with university degrees pay the overwhelming majority of tax, commit far less crime and generally are the foundations upon which any civilized society is built.
Later, to Temper, where lumps of beef, pork lamb and goat are barbecued before one's eyes by bearded, tattooed chefs of hipsterist type, served on terrific flatbreads and garnished with sauces and 'sprinkles' on of which is finely ground beef and onion Monster Munch. The outer reaches of the lengthy wine list yielded a decidedly supple French Malbec; just the thing for a meaty spring evening. On a trip to the lavatory I was forced to wait at the sink whilst the chap ahead of me attended to his make up and took ages so to do; one wonders whether these fellows shouldn't be taught to smear their rouge with more rapidity?
This is the sort of thing they shít forth.
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