The Curmudgeon

YOU'LL COME FOR THE CURSES. YOU'LL STAY FOR THE MUDGEONRY.

Thursday, May 05, 2016

Trained to Within an Inch of Their Lives

Flagellation fans in the party of John Whittingdale will rejoice to learn that the Government's hired thugs at secure training centres (child prisons, in Standard English) continue to adopt a thoroughly no-nonsense attitude while beating British values into our more recalcitrant junior resources. One institution where a fifteen-year-old was restrained to a vomit-assisted quietus more than a decade ago was still scoring highest for child abuse in 2014-15; and as one would expect, the three institutions which were most productive in such old-fashioned discipline were all run by those delightful people at G4S, with whom the Home Secretary has almost no marital connection whatever. The Ministry for Profitable Incarceration is so concerned at the abuses that it has introduced a new system of restraint which requires increased reporting; it is as yet unclear whether decreased suffocation was considered a possible pull factor for potential criminals. As for the sixty-five incidences of suffocation and/or serious injury inflicted in the cause of justice in half a dozen institutions over a single year, the Ministry has so little to hide that it has heavily redacted the relevant report.

Wednesday, May 04, 2016

Full Spectrum Dingbat

As the chap who allied his MEPs with the cranks, crooks and Jew-baiters of the European Conservatives and Reformists, and as gun-runner in ordinary to the head-chopping House of Saud, self-evidently there is nothing Britain's Head Boy hates more than extremism. The flagship of his "legacy package" of legislation, before he toddles off to spend more time with the wages of his dear old dad's tax-dodging, is an anti-extremism law which will enable the Home Secretary to ban extremist groups, issue extremism disruption orders to prevent extremist behaviour by extremist individuals, and close down extremist communication media and premises from which extremists are supporting extremist activities. It is all frightfully full-spectrum and forthright and robust, except for the minor problem that nobody knows what extremism is.

To the Not Terribly Bright Party, of course, extremism is like human rights or modern art or foreigners: something nasty and evil and fundamentally un-British, but not something that any self-respecting expenses claimant should even think about trying to define. Unfortunately, the business of applying the law will not be in the hands of those sensible people at Serco and G4S, who can be relied on to understand such nuances, but in the hands of the courts, which are themselves riddled with the kind of extremist who believes that laws should be consistently applied and that governments should stay within them. Accordingly, the anti-extremism bill has been going through much the same contortions as the Psychoactive Substances Bill, by which the Government tried to make illegal anything that brought about alterations in the brain, such as LSD, caffeine or the condition of being awake. The Conservatives have learned from that rather chastening experience, and have so far kept more or less clandestine their efforts to find a definition of extremism that includes terrorists but excludes wog-bombers; that includes peaceful protesters but excludes the Metropolitan Firearms and Headbangers Club; that includes Hacked Off but excludes the Rothermere Stürmer; and that includes Sadiq Khan and the Green Party but excludes the Farage Falange and Mad Tessie May.

Tuesday, May 03, 2016

A Touch of Unctad

Greasy foreigners with silly names are once more attempting to insinuate their totalitarian red tape into the private financial orifices of Britain's wealth creators. The United Nations Conference on Trade and Development (the acronym for which sounds like something the Bullingdon Club might use to oil up their porcine penetration packages) has blatantly invoked the politics of envy by urging governments to interfere in the running of their own jurisdictions. Even the sacred borders of the British Empire are not exempt from the sordid law-mongering: should the urgings of Unctad ever be heeded, the very vaults of Britain's Head Boy's dear old dad might one day be prey to the vulture tax-man, purveyor to the hated public sector. One would think that the United Nations, which owes its existence entirely to the deified Churchill and his American chums, would have a bit more sense of what is fair and right for the right sort of people.

Monday, May 02, 2016

Saved Again

We have, of course, been stabilising the hell out of Libya ever since someone or other launched an ill-conceived wog-bombing campaign there a few years ago. The humanitarian activities of Britain's Head Boy and the empty suit at the Ministry for Wogs, Frogs and Huns continue to spread freedom and entrepreneurial zeal among the local hard-working families, while consigning numerous less worthy inhabitants to the peace of Daoud Jones' locker. Ninety-eight British jobs have been saved from the swarming hordes this weekend alone; besides a potential maternity hospital which was rescued from almost certain bankruptcy when a likely birth tourist was foiled in its nefarious doings.

Sunday, May 01, 2016

Moral Medicine

Besides efficientising the NHS into brand-name status, the Osbornomic miracle has accomplished a moral transformation of GP surgeries. A report by Doctors of the World has found that surgeries are refusing registration to sex workers, homeless people, migrant swarms and people who have allowed the minor discomforts of domestic violence to override their sense of family values. Although all residents of the UK are theoretically entitled to free primary healthcare, the guidelines on registering new customers are sufficiently Jeremy Hunt to leave a good deal of leeway for prioritisation of the more meritorious cases; which is particularly fortunate given the present administration's commitment to providing a seven-day service for the deserving.

Saturday, April 30, 2016

A Place Calling Itself Jerusalem

An extract

The archbishop undid the chain at the back of his neck and took off the ornament, bowing his head slightly as he did so. Grasping it only by the chain, he leaned forward and held out the cross to the governor. "Would your Excellency care to take a closer look?"

The governor held out his hand, and the archbishop dropped the nasty thing into it. The governor wound the chain around his fingers and dangled the cross before his eyes. Now he could see that the figure was nailed in place through its feet and the palms of its hands, and that there was a wound in its side just under the straining ribs. He saw also that the spiky, irregular protrusions were not confined to the brow but grew all across the top of the head; they did not so much resemble horns as a sort of insane crown. Running a finger across them, the governor found the spikes authentically sharp.

"The sins of the world," said the archbishop, watching closely, "which He took, is taking and will take upon His head for ever, until the end of time. Every offence against the law of our god increases His agony; in some families there are small reproductions, either painted or made of plastic, to which the children have to add a thorn every time they sin in word, thought or deed. His blood is on us and on our children, and on our fathers and mothers too."
"But who was he?” The governor was wearily certain that he had heard all this before; perhaps even several times. There were always so many more important things to do than keep track of native superstitions.
"Who was He? Your Excellency, I assure you He still exists. We are not discussing a mere historical event. He was, is and will be a man begotten by our god, to suffer and die for the remittance of those debts which we can never hope to pay without His intercession. Each year He suffers and dies, and then rises from the tomb to suffer and die again the following year. So long as the world exists in sin, His pain can have no end. Hence the blank face, as your Excellency will understand: to suffer beneath such a burden is so profound an agony that any depiction would be presumptuous."

It was the clean shiny surface that seemed presumptuous to the governor. Delivered three at a time outside the city walls, prisoners condemned to be crucified were dragged up the hill by the legionaries, often accompanied by sullen elders and wailing families. When the procession drew near the summit, the presiding centurion would emit a signal and the three crucifixtures would each grab a prisoner, hooking him through the wrists and then reeling him, screaming and bleeding, up against the cross-beam. As soon as the prisoner was in place, further hooks would emerge, like a spider’s jaws, and clamp his feet, while details of the charge and sentence were displayed on a luminous screen above his head. At a predetermined time, if a recommendation for mercy had been entered and approved, the crucifixture would automatically break the prisoner’s knees to facilitate a faster death from suffocation; otherwise, they hung there until they died from thirst, or from shock as the birds pecked away their soft parts. Their agony was most perceptible.

The archbishop held out his hand for the ornament and the governor gave it back, repressing an urge to wipe his hands afterwards.

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Friday, April 29, 2016

Undue Credit

Irresponsible and un-Christian left-wing firebrands at the Court of Appeal have once again put forth the long-discredited and irrational idea that the Government has some sort of obligation to keep within the law, even when engaged in its sacred vocation of poor-bashing. Scroungers, shirkers, migrants, anti-semites and other undesirables will no doubt recall the case of Cait Reilly, who was ordered to quit her voluntary work at a museum and go shelf-stacking at Poundland instead, in return for a similar lack of wage and an additional lack of prospects for proper employment. Reilly took the Government to court, was duly defamed as a graduate snob who thought humble labour was beneath her, and won her case because the Department for Workfare and Privation had thought it beneath themselves to provide appropriate information to people who were, after all, scroungers. The brilliant Iain Duncan Smith retaliated by shunting an emergency law through the Commons saying that he had been right all along, and was abetted by the Liberal Democrats and the glorious, election-winning pre-Corbyn Labour Party. Being the brilliant Duncan Smith, he also decided that his legislative patch-and-bodge applied retroactively, to those scroungers and shirkers whom the Idleness Police had sanctioned before the new law came in. The High Court and Court of Appeal have now both ruled that this was unlawful under the Human Rights Act, thereby emphasising once again that the beastly Euro-wogs have been sneakily giving human rights to the work-shy. The new Christian philanthropist at the Department for Workfare and Privation, who has sued his own constituents over the bedroom tax, is "considering the judgement"; though whether he can rival his predecessor's moral and intellectual incandescence remains to be seen.

Thursday, April 28, 2016

Ulster Uteruses

Thanks no doubt to the machinations of the evil Euro-wogs, Westminster has given up its sovereignty to the extent that Northern Ireland has exempted itself from the Abortion Act 1967. Elections for the Stormont assembly will take place next Thursday, and a few superstitious old ladies are all of a flutter at the prospect of such a defiantly British part of the United Kingdom finally deciding to fall in with British law. Echoing a pro-coathanger agitator in Rhode Island, Catholic bishops have been urging their sheep not to vote for candidates who believe that women should have the right to exercise a modicum of choice when it comes to serving as incubators for little Papists. Although Northern Ireland has failed to catch up with the 1960s, it continues to keep alive the spirit of the 1860s, whereby the Offences Against the Person Act recognises various mindless agglomerations of cells as having the same rights as a Catholic bishop or the Right Heterosexual Peter Robinson.

Wednesday, April 27, 2016

They Have Their Little Foreign Ways

Deeply concerned as to whether British armaments are being utilised with appropriate care, the Ministry for Wogs, Frogs and Huns has today ordered some flunkey called Toby to have a bit of a wheedle at the Saudi ambassador. Britain's Head Boy's favourite fundamentalist head-choppers are carrying out an inquiry as to whether their rampage in Yemen has been as morally pure a crusade as is commercially necessary under the terms of Britain's export licenses. Unfortunately, the Saudis have limited experience of sustained wog-bombing and are not used to shrugging off international scrutiny in the manner of more developed democracies; hence, they are proving frustratingly slow to acquit themselves. Indeed, such is the Saudi inexperience of scrutiny that the British military officers who are given access to every bombing run have been too modest to reach any conclusions of their own, thereby forcing Her Majesty's Government to keep up the flow of armaments. It would certainly be unjust to refuse the House of Saud the wherewithal to wog-bomb before the House of Saud has even decided whether or not it has done anything wrong.

Tuesday, April 26, 2016

The Scumbag Press Editor

Once upon a time there was a Scumbag Press Editor, whose sense of tact and honour was exceeded only by his good manners at the luncheon-trough. When a disaster occurred in which ninety-six people were killed through official incompetence, the Scumbag Press Editor published pictures of the dying, and accused those who had been present of a variety of unsavoury and criminal acts. He did not accuse them of tapping telephones, but that was only because the march of technology had not yet caught up with the Scumbag Press Editor's powers of moral indignation.

Quite soon afterwards, it transpired that the Scumbag Press Editor had not been telling "THE TRUTH", as advertised in 96-point Witchfinder Sans-serif above his screed - his original choice, "YOU SCUM", having been vetoed on the grounds that his stupider readers, viz. his readers, might feel personally and non-profitably affronted. In fact, the Scumbag Press Editor had been perpetrating a lurid smear campaign. Fortunately, the Scumbag Press Editor's sense of tact and honour ensured that he continued squealing vociferously and to his own considerable profit for the next twenty-seven years, during which the wheels of British justice ground on with their accustomed celerity.

When at last it all came out, and the victims were found to have been unlawfully killed, the Scumbag Press Editor declined to comment, even for his accustomed purposes of libelling the dead and/or blaming someone else. Concerned that the Scumbag Press Editor's sense of tact and honour might finally have got out of hand, a Fellow Journalist hastened to phone him.

After many attempts the Fellow Journalist succeeded in getting through, and gurgles of rage and horror splattered his innocent eardrums. "Well, if that's your attitude," said the angel of mercy, and rang righteously off; much to the despair of the Scumbag Press Editor, who lay pinned to the floor of his second-best pigsty while ninety-six dark and terrible shapes took turns hosing copious quantities of ectoplasmic urine down his morally indignant throat.