Self-Lessening Breeds

Such is the magnitude of our present crisis that even the former colonies and dominions of the British Empire are not free of recalcitrant migrancy. Even Canada, which owes a particular debt of gratitude to Britain for the fact that it isn't entirely French, has suffered a degree of contamination. Naturalised Canadian citizens (in the parlance of the British Home Office, a species of failed failed asylum seeker) are refusing to swear allegiance to the British monarch, on the distinctly un-British grounds that anything inherently pointless and undemocratic is somehow not worth doing. There have also been claims of discrimination, since native Canadians don't have to take the oath because they are assumed to have monarchist instincts in their DNA. Some who had already sworn the oath, before a legal ruling clarified their right to refuse, have been recanting their loyalty to poor old Mrs Battenberg, to the extent that nearly forty per cent of Canadians were prepared to consider de-windsoring their constitution even after the birth of a royal baby. The not-quite-Americans can consider themselves lucky that the British government is too busy blustering at the Argies and grovelling before the Saudis to send a task force.

But Green Crap and the NHS are So 2009

Mere experts are once again pestering the Minister for Health and News Corporation with the implication that royal colleges, medical faculties, medical publications and, of all things, doctors' organisations know a thing or two about public health. A bunch of meddlers calling itself the UK Health Alliance on Climate Change has warned that Britain's health systems are about as prepared for the effects of global warming as anything else in the country; among other things, almost ten per cent of healthcare buildings could be underwater the next time the Chancellor decides that a round of tax cuts for his chums is worth a few soggy carpets in the hovels of the proles. Quite aside from the fact that Jeremy C Hunt probably considers the floods in Cumbria a homeopathic remedy for rising damp, the president of the Royal College of Emergency Medicine gave a neat summary of why exhortations to urgent action are unlikely to obtrude themselves with any great force upon the Conservative consciousness: "Elderly people, pregnant women and children can be especially vulnerable and are often the first to get into difficulty. Flooding in particular makes homes uninhabitable and displaces large numbers of people. Even temporary displacement can result in long term physical and psychological damage." In short, nobody will be too badly affected provided that they buy a home or two on inland sites, and keep the air conditioning in good working order, and perhaps arrange an extra skiing holiday when the weather becomes a bit sultry. Anyone who lacks the foresight to take these simple precautions will be made poorer and more miserable by any damage that takes place; and we all know that there are few better incentives than poverty and misery to stimulate the natural pluck and gumption of the British prole.

Ta-Ta, Steel

The Conservative Party's token filly for business, Anna Soubry, has pledged that the Government is determined that steel will continue to be made at Port Talbot, despite the incompetence of Vince Cable and the machinations of the Heathen Chinee. Well, of course, since the structural deficit was eliminated by 2015 without any disruptive top-down reorganisations being imposed on the NHS, we all know what the Government's pledges are worth. Workers in Britain's steel industry may now rest assured that their living is about as safe as market forces and the whims of the Bullingdon Club allow it to be.

The Plump, Pink Hand of Friendship

Britain's Head Boy has been trying to rah-rah the wogs into voting his chum Zac Goldsmith into the mayor's office, and has been met with more or less black ingratitude. Like Goldsmith in his own recent letter to London's dusky-faced bead and trinket lovers, the Head Boy had a bit of a burble about how much he liked India and Narendra Modi, thereby reaching out charitably to the homogenous bloc of woggery that is the London's Indian community, while making due allowance for its second-order Britishness. The Head Boy, or whatever minion of Lord Crosby of Deadcat tossed off the letter for him, also made the natural assumption that everyone in London with the name Patel is a Hindoo from exotic Gujarat; much as everyone surnamed Cameron wears tartan, eats porridge brewed with whisky and can be befriended with the salutation "Hoots Mon". At least one woman reacted rather touchily, being of Jewish descent and having gained the surname by marrying into a family of lapsed Muslims, presumably as a result of being kidnapped in her youth by tribesmen with beards. Nevertheless, it remains true that Sadiq Khan is a divisive figure, by virtue of the possibility that he may induce his fellow non-whites to vote for himself instead of for Zac Goldsmith, against all the uses and customs of democracy.

The Great British Fudge-Up

The Farage Falange's favoured Brexit campaign has got off to a predictably brilliant start. Not only does it produce more vanilla fudge than its hated rivals in Michael Gove's Brexit campaign, but the migrant-marrying fat cat who bankrolls it has managed to staff the call centre with Euro-wogs. In the barnstorming, rule-flouting tradition of the Farage Falange, Arron Banks piously preached the wrongness of discrimination against those who are legally in the country, and proclaimed a sudden enlightenment as to the merits of immigration: "I would argue you bring in the people you need to fulfil the economy." Self-evidently, it is not for people to bring themselves; the import and export of human resources should be solely the prerogative of corporations and the better class of tax-dodger.

Man of Steel

Zack Snyder 2013

I never thought I would see the day when a tragic warrior for truth, justice and the American way would gain my sympathy; but Man of Steel managed it, despite the po-faced pomposity bequeathed by its producer, Christopher Nolan, and the zoom-ridden ugliness of style which, in the aesthetic of its pubescent director, apparently passes for the sort of gritty realism appropriate to a superhero comic-book.

On a distant planet, a megalomaniac villain tries to sabotage the rational eugenic system which prevents overpopulation and keeps society stable. Driven by overweening self-righteousess and personal ambition, he produces the first "natural-born" child for generations. (The unfortunate glitch in the breeding system which allowed this pathological personality to surface is one of the film's numerous irritating plot-holes.) Aware that his species' exploitation of the environment has placed the planet irrevocably on the path to destruction, the villain ships his child off to a different planet, where the dominant species' exploitation of the environment has placed it irrevocably on the path to ecological catastrophe. Before launching the capsule, the villain attempts to preserve for eternity his species' flawed biological code, imprinting it in his son's cellular structure by shining a light on his navel.

The son arrives on the primitive planet and, over thirty-odd years, gradually accustoms himself to the rather stupid and unpleasant inhabitants, whose redeeming features include no-nonsense military men who fly aeroplanes on suicide missions; a preponderance of black males in positions of authority; and females who think that chiselled features and godlike powers make a guy kinda hot.

Into this distasteful situation comes the hero. He is a figure from a tragic Western: a patriotic leader who wishes nothing more than to see his people preserved and his lost homeland resurrected and, when among equals, is perfectly truthful about his plans. He even admits the cruelty and pain inherent in such plans, which is more than the film does when depicting the human cost of the faintly ludicrous and wildly over-edited punch-up at the end. At the start of the film, the hero had attempted to join forces with the villain in an effort to save their world from its ossified rulers; but the villain's addiction to randomness, so reminiscent of Heath Ledger's Joker, caused him to betray their friendship and sentenced the hero and his followers to years of imprisonment; from which the hero eventually emerged with a thirst for justice and a barely justifiable beard.

The hero launches a technological revolution to advance the primitive world to the level of his own, treating the Earth (viz. the United States) much as an earlier band of pioneers from an advanced civilisation treated the quarrelsome native Americans. His quest is assisted by a feisty warrior maiden with a charming accent, who breaks with the tradition of superhero molls by doing a bit more than falling out of things, being rescued and simpering. Fighting against literally insuperable odds, the hero and his people are defeated and tragically wiped out by the suicidal fanaticism of the American military, abetted by the villain's son, who has absorbed his confused moral code from the kind of Kansas farmer who braves tornadoes to save the family dog while imparting a moral lesson.

The film's satori line (the obligatory maxim which is delivered cynically early on and then virtuously recontextualised at the climax) is not, as I thought it would be, "evolution always wins", but "a good death is its own reward." Man of Steel ends on a note of grim irony, with the primitive planet's new deity negotiating an uneasy peace with the heavily-armed representatives of several billion adopted family dogs. As symbolised by the alien sigil on his costume, this is the defeat of truth, justice and the American way, and the triumph of hope: tail-wagging emotion over human principle. Evolution does not always win.

Dry Accounting

Local councils in the north of England have been calculating the cost of the Government's efficiency savings in flood preparation. So far, the bill has reached two hundred and fifty million, although in fairness to the Bullingdons it must be said that the damage is mainly to inessentials like roads, bridges, public rights of way and drainage systems. Thanks to the consideration shown by this winter's floods in submerging merely the Northern Workhouse, golf courses and proposed sites for skyscraping eyesores appear, by and large, to have been miraculously spared. Nevertheless, instead of giving thanks that London, Sussex and Kent were not inconvenienced, local authorities in Cumbria, Calderdale, Northumberland and other forgettable places are complaining about the cost to themselves and even agitating for more money. Is there no community spirit north of wherever? Have they not heard of the global headwinds precipitated by the Heathen Chinee and their heinous managed economy? Has news of the need for tax cuts not penetrated, even now?

How Dare You Treat Us Like Other People?

Conservative local councillors across the country are extremely annoyed with the education secretary for treating them like local councillors. The gormless Bride of Gove has published a white paper which proclaims, no doubt purely as a suggestion, that in the name of local government and parent power all schools will be forced to become Gove Learning Emporia whether or not anyone else wants them to; and that the requirement for parent governors will be dropped. It is certainly refreshing to see that even the gormless Bride of Gove can take on the mantle of the nanny state; but her party's provincial enforcers are less convinced, especially those who have taken the trouble to shill the Conservatives' virtues to the local mugs and probably hoped to keep a lid on things until after the first week in May. "Now we will have no relationship with them," mourned one veteran, who has spent the past eighteen years not knowing what kind of people she is working for. "All of a sudden it's going - after all the hard work and the years of deeply caring about it." Another, who is a former head teacher, pondered with incomprehension the problem of why Conservative councils should be treated with the same contempt as the rest of the country: "This seems to be throwing out good practice for the sake of dogma and risking the possibility that standards may fall ... I'm not comfortable with coercion. If the idea is such a wonderful idea, why is there any need for coercion?" Well, why indeed; what can be the explanation?

Coming Over All Bipartisan

One of the most charming things about Islamist terrorism is the way it can beget sympathetic harmony in politicians of different parties and almost diverging beliefs. Right-wing terrorism by white wannabe-alpha males is, of course, a psychiatric and not a political phenomenon, and therefore requires little comment, let alone emotional bonding; but the Brussels atrocity has brought the shadow home secretary neatly back into his comfort zone of agreeing with Mad Tessie May. "Whatever it takes and however long it takes, we will face this threat to our way of life together," burbled Burnham; and the Home Secretary welcomed the content and tone of his remarks, which could scarcely have been less uncomfortable if Rachel "Kick 'em Harder" Reeves had added a request to take harsher measures against terror-fomenting idleness, or if Chuka Umunna had pleaded for a bit more business-warming from the bonfire of civil liberties. No mention was made of the latest court ruling against the Home Office's illegal purge of foreign students; presumably because Burnham is still trying to decide whether unprovoked dawn raids, unwarranted detention of innocent people, and the usual witch-hunter's preference for hearsay evidence over such piddling technicalities as due process, count as a threat to his way of life or as part of what it takes to face one. Doubtless Mad Tessie May will welcome Burnham's opinion, once he works out that she has arrived at it for him.

Even Wog-Bashing Has its Season

For all things there is a season: a time to blather and a time to snigger, a time to bluster and a time to simper. Britain's Head Boy has been forced to give a bit of a ticking-off to the Farage Falange and its strutting Caudillo, who have seen in the Brussels murders what they see in everything else; namely the chance for a bit of noisy wog-bashing. Within a couple of hours of the attacks, the Falange's official warlord Mike Nukem was squealing that the whole ghastly business just showed up the perils of lax border controls, while the strutting Caudillo himself proclaimed that he was tired and emotional beyond the usual measure. The reaction of the Falange's parliamentary expenses claimant, Douglas Carswell, appears to have been regrettably muted. Britain's Head Boy rebuked the ill-mannered ones, burbling sanctimoniously that, what with the Belgians being kind enough to distract everyone's attention away from George Osborne, the timing was a little inappropriate for associating our plucky little World War I allies with a swarming bunch of migrants. It was certainly ill-mannered of the Farage Falange to pre-empt whatever new muggings the Head Boy and his chums in the mainstream far-right may wish to mete out, once sufficient minutes have elapsed for good taste and British values to permit it.

The Mystery Fat Cat

with apologies to T S Eliot

The Chancellor's a fatty-cat who wobbles as he goes;
You would know him if you saw him, by his little todger nose.
His septum's hollowed out with coke, his beady eyes are dull;
His face is often empty, but his belly's always full.
He likes to hector at the proles and order them to work,
And then to sit and stroke himself to an orgasmic smirk.

The Chancellor, the Chancellor, there's no-one like the Chancellor,
The women's-shelter closer and the cancer-treatment canceller!
At widows and at orphans he will press his bold attack -
Or anyone who doesn't have the income to fight back;
But when you want to know why there are tax cuts and to spare -
Ah, there's the wonder of the thing - the Chancellor's not there!

And if the council's broke and there are potholes in the road,
And medics flee the country for a healthier abode,
Or when the greenhouse gases start to poison all the air
And when the roof is leaking that he promised to repair,
It's useless to inquire, because the Chancellor's not there!
A flunkey has a burble, but the Chancellor's not there!

The Chancellor, the Chancellor, there's no one like the Chancellor;
When buggering a budget, such a filling of his pantsellor!
He'd never fuck a pig; that isn't his sort of affair,
But when the budget's buggered, then the Chancellor's not there!

And they say that all the Ministers most famed for their capacity
Of glistening and gloating in their smugness and sebacity
Are nothing more than agents for the human deficit:
The Treasury's black hole and grabby, greasy little squit.

Pip Cutter

Crusader Crustacean

Britain's leading liberal newspaper has run a delightful puff piece on Stephen Crabb, whose dear old mum fought her way back from the horrors of welfare dependency into the legitimate mainstream of the British race. With her humble, hard-working virtues, Crabb's dear old mum has every prospect of becoming to welfare scroungers what the Head Boy's Little Ivan™ was to the National Health Service; hence, says Britain's leading liberal newspaper, for Crabb "welfare reform is personal". Self-evidently, Crabb joined the Conservative Party out of an overwhelming filial concern for social justice, just as Theresa May joined because of a burning belief in the right to privacy, and Jeremy Hunt because of an obsessive concern with improving public health. Britain's leading liberal newspaper expects Crabb to "tackle George Osborne" over the social security cuts, apparently because Crabb has a better relationship with the Treasury than the brilliant Duncan Smith - with whom the man of principle is also considered a "fellow traveller". It is of course customary for governments to appoint as ministers those who disagree with the way things are going, and Crabb's firebrand record on the back benches shows a homeopathic subtlety which will no doubt come in useful when tackling the Chancellor: an invisible droplet of dissidence administered in several gallons of undiluted support. Inspiringly, Crabb has also been "tipped in some quarters as a possible future Tory leader", just like everyone else. Oh, it's all going to kick off at the DWP.

We Shall See His Like Again, and Again

Evidently the detractors of the Chancellor's latest exercise in Osbornomic self-promotion spoke too soon; no budget can be called a complete failure if it results in Iain Duncan Smith flouncing out of the Cabinet. The brilliant Duncan Smith, whose major achievement was being indisputably the stupidest minister in a government that variously included Owen Paterson, Liz Truss, Chris Graybeing, Maria Miller and sundry Liberal Democrats, managed as a final coruscation to resign some hours after the Bullingdons decided to reconsider the PIP cuts which were the pretext for the flounce. Indeed, so brilliant is Duncan Smith that he probably considers himself a possible representative of compassionate cripple-kicking in a post-Brexit administration, always assuming he does not intend a re-run of his grotesque attempt at leading the party.

His replacement is Stephen Crabb, another "committed Christian" whose patronage of a disability charity is already subject to a petition for his removal in light of the PIP cuts. During the expenses scandal it emerged that Crabb had refurbished his London flat on the taxpayers' tab and then sold the flat at a profit; he also flipped his second-home expenses to chisel a further £10,500 or so for a house in Pembrokeshire. His other achievements include being a querulous god-botherer and fronting a career-building exercise in Rwanda for the likes of Francis Maude and Jeremy Hunt. It remains to be seen whether he can plumb the wondrous depths of his predecessor, but the signs are certainly promising.

Detrimentational Regrettability, Actionable Administrativity

Punishments for the excessive democratisation of a hospital in Afghanistan could include being told not to do it again, US central command has confirmed. At least ten personnel "most closely associated with the incident" have been referred for administrative action, which may include negative counselling, hierarchical repositioning and other measures of similar euphony which may or my not exceed the administrative consequences of a white policeman shooting a suspected melanin user. The detrimentation of forty-two people at a Médecins sans Frontières hospital last October achieved sufficient regrettability to cause considerable indignation and numerous outcries of "but Assad" and "what about the Russians?" The US airstrike was blamed on human error which, among the most favoured explanations for good intentions gone awry, ranks behind only native recalcitrance and insufficient wog-bombing.

Hitting the Wrong Scroungers

Ominous post-budgetary borborygms are breaking out among Conservative expenses claimants, to the effect that the Bullingdon Club may finally have gone a little too far with the cripple-kicking. Taking money from the disabled to donate to the rich is all very well, but not when it starts to look like bad public relations. Andrew Percy, an expenses claimant for Somewhere in the North, is also a member of the Europhobic Better Off Out group, and evidently sees his chance to posture as a friend to the deserving disadvantaged and bring a bit of class to the BOO, which has the misfortune to include the blustering blatherers Christopher Chope and Philip Davies, and the osteocephaloid brothers Philip Hollobone and Peter Just-the-Bone. Meanwhile, a couple of charities with Conservative patrons have summarily relinquished their human-shield status, and a website for the deserving disabled has been taken down by its host, a wheelchair-bound Conservative voter of several decades' standing, now that the penny has finally dropped.

His Promise Fulfilled

Rah rah for my new fiscal gem!
So worthy of your next PM!
Rewarding the best,
And treating the rest
To a faceful of Bullingdon phlegm!

Oh cripes! Global headwinds are strong,
And everything smells a bit wrong!
So now let us see
How the Heathen Chinee
Can take all the blame for my pong!

Rah rah for the great budgeteer!
Of scroungers the scourge and the fear,
With targets galore
And near-perfect score
Of missing them all, every year!

Oh cripes! Does that moisture descend
From the roof that I promised to mend
Against times such as these?
You damp proles will please
Call it rain while I hold up my end!

Rah rah! Once more budget day comes!
I'll punish the plebs and the bums!
I'll tax fizzy tipples
While kicking the cripples
And chucking more cash at my chums!

Gideon Fatwick

Putting India First

Someone has apparently informed Zac Goldsmith that London is full of wogs, with the result that at least part of his nice-but-dim façade has begun to peel away a bit. As is well known, your wog is a somewhat grasping and materialistic type, unlike the average tax-dodging Conservative in the street; so Goldsmith's team has put out a leaflet warning London's Indians that Sadiq Khan is plotting a trinket tax. Goldsmith was also tactful enough to apply the Tebbit test and assume that respect towards the Indian prime minister is an overriding concern for all British Indians. National Congress, Bharatiya Janata, Pakistan People's Party - they are, when you come right down to it, all just the same wog politics. British politics is quite different, consisting in a stark choice between Goldsmith, who has been in all sorts of India-type places and knows all about the psychological homeland of the British wog; and Khan, a sociopolitical mad doctor who wants to experiment with public transport right here in London.

Using Britain's Wrinkly Resources to the Full

One of last year's more farcical highlights is duly repeating itself as farce. Few will have forgotten Piggygate, in which Britain's Head Boy was subject to an embarrassing allegation from his owner, Lord Ashcroft, who felt intolerably slighted because he hadn't been handed the country on a silver platter by the summer of 2010. In the present case, the attack comes not from an irritated tax-dodger and sometime boss but from an embittered petty crook and sometime minion; and the element of farce is present in the ever-reliable shape of the sometime Minister for Climate Change Denial and Prole-flooding, Owen Paterson. The accuser is the former Conservative enabler David Laws, who was ejected from his expenses claim at the last election and is keeping the wolf from his door by serialising his doubtless Churchillian memoirs in that rampant organ of liberal democracy, the Rothermere Stürmer on Sunday.

The substance of the accusation is that Paterson wanted to use pensioners as cheap labour for less than the minimum wage, thus treating prospective Conservative voters with the contempt normally reserved for migrants, young people, northerners, and workers in the hated public sector. This Paterson denies, thereby placing the humble commentator in a similar position to Plebgate, which raised the distressing question of whether to disbelieve the unpleasant Conservative bully-boy Andrew Mitchell or the serially mendacious Metropolitan Firearms and Headbangers' Club. In fact, although Paterson's alleged scheme drew alleged stunned silence even from those Conservatives who were allegedly even more nasty and right-wing than David Laws, the alleged suggestion is not lacking in precedent. The New Labour clown Ivan Lewis, who is almost certainly Paterson's intellectual equal, once suggested using pensioners as teaching assistants, for which their pay would be a school dinner and the chance to get out of the house for a bit.

Beam, What Beam?

Those endearingly litigious people at the Christian Legal Centre, whose acquaintance with the Saviour's orders is evidently rather slight, are launching yet another crusade. The oppressed faithful in this case comprises a magistrate who proclaimed that same-sex couples make inferior parents. Despite being sent for re-training, where he was presumably reminded that the law he had sworn to uphold took a different view, the magistrate continued to define his legal responsibilities in terms of his personal feelings about what nature intended. For virtuously refusing to do his job, the martyred magistrate was struck off, and now intends to sue the lord chancellor and Brexit spokesbeing for the House of Windsor, Michael Gove, for "pandering to the new political orthodoxy" rather than to the prejudices of some dirty-minded Bronze Age theocrats channelling a genocidal djinn.

Give Us the Tools and We Will Finish the Job

One of Westminster's favourite hard-working families, the House of Saud, is set to keep calm and carry on with the beheading of four terrorists, possibly including three teenagers who have demonstrated insufficient respect for British values. International law prohibits capital punishment for crimes committed by under-eighteens, but the House of Saud shares the blithe, buccaneering attitude to international law that has helped to make Britain and Iraq what they are today. The deputy director of Amnesty's Middle East and North Africa programme pointed out the moral and social advantage of decapitation by the better sort of Islamic fundamentalist: "Saudi Arabia’s use of the death penalty to silence dissent sends a chilling message to anybody who dares to speak out against the authorities." It appears that the terrorists in question are leftovers from January's batch of forty-seven similar undesirables, whose mass execution Her Majesty's Government found slightly disappointing; doubtless the new executions will be even less disappointing.

The Lord is My Light and My Salvation; Whom Shall I Fear But the Migrant?

Although God is deeply concerned about the private erotic doings of consenting adults, it appears that He is considerably more relaxed over the EU referendum. The Archbishop of Canterbury has pronounced that there is no correct Christian view on the matter, although it is perfectly Christian and correct to be terrified of migrants. There is genuine fear in fragile communities (and few communities these days are more fragile than the Church of England), and this fear must be addressed because it is caused by the migrant crisis and is not racist at all. In fact it would be outrageous, just absolutely outrageous, to call people racist merely because they attach to people of other races the blame for a crisis which is largely, if not entirely, the making of wealthy white capitalists like Justin Welby. Britain has an "extraordinary history, going back hundreds of years, of outward-looking, confident, often wonderful work around the world", and it is certainly not racist to be worried about some of the more inconvenient results.

Home to Roost

Having more or less solved the NHS by driving out the doctors, the Government is happily plunging feet-first into the housing crisis. Homelessness has doubled on the Bullingdons' watch; although ascribing this fact to anything so crude and materialistic as the vandalism of the social security safety net, the donation of state housing to private landlords or the imbalance between wages and rents would, of course, constitute an inexcusable blasphemy against the True Faith. Accordingly, ministers are now considering how best to outsource the blame and, as usual, have decided that local authorities make the most efficient scapegoats. A new "duty of prevention" is being considered for imposition, whereby councils would be required to provide the Government's idea of practical help for anyone at risk of being made homeless; those who are homeless already will just have to live with their lifestyle choice. Going by the Government's idea of practical help for the unemployed, the local authorities' obligations will stretch to little more than pep talks, threats and arbitrary bureaucratic punishments. Nevertheless, at least two London councils have already suggested that the measures will prove insufficiently tough unless accompanied by extensive powers of social cleansing and deportation; something ministers find unpalatable owing to the possibility that marauding swarms of internal migrants may suddenly turn up in their nice, clean constituencies.

Not Quite Such Nice People as the Latvian Waffen-SS Fan Club

Despite the constant necessity for Britain's Head Boy to cling to Tante Angie's apron strings, the Conservative Party is not part of the mainstream centre-right bloc in the European parliament. Finding Merkel, Berlusconi and their allies too leftist for comfort, the Conservatives left the European People's Party in 2009 to join a weird little cabal of lunatics, nasties, chancers and headbangers called the European Conservatives and Reformists. It was a particularly abject piece of Kipper-licking on the part of the Head Boy, and brought the Conservatives into fragrant alliance with the Muslim-bashing Danish People's Party, the Jew-baiting Michal Kaminski and some Latvian fans of the Waffen-SS. It now appears that one of the gang has gone a bit far by calling for illegal immigrants to be stopped at the border with firearms, rather than left to die of natural causes in concentration camps or the Mediterranean Sea. The culprits, Alternative für Deutschland, have already been "invited" to leave at a meeting in Strasbourg (aka Brussels); and should they decline the invitation a motion to expel them will be tabled in a few weeks. The Conservatives are expected to support the motion, since there is as yet no real prospect of the hypothetical firearms in question being sold for the profit of any chums of theirs.

Diplomatic Discourtesy

Bullingdon diplomacy is often at its subtlest when foreigners are being tortured and murdered, but the British ambassador to Egypt has taken things to a whole new level by staging his very own Twitter fail. Weeks after the torture and murder in Cairo of an Italian PhD student who was researching trade unions, five British expenses claimants were due to visit. Naturally, the ambassador decided to use the great event as an opportunity for some corporate bonding with the proles, despite the well-known risks involved. He posted a Twitter poll asking the great unwashed what issues should be discussed, offering as choices tourism, currency, terrorism and "political reform", by which he doubtless meant the pressing need for more potential asylum seekers to be shot before they reach the Mediterranean. Mere days after the PhD student's body was discovered, the British trade envoy to Egypt had been belching forth about "a land of real opportunity for British companies"; presumably he was referring to those charming people at Serco and G4S, but human rights organisations and the Italian government have taken a less compassionate view of the matter and are wondering why the case, let alone human rights more generally, are not on the ambassador's agenda. One possible explanation is that the ambassador used to be Britain's Head Boy's fag in charge of wog affairs, and that the victim was an educational migrant who had somehow been allowed to infiltrate Cambridge University.

Wash Your Wetbacks For Windsor

For an initiative which has so far displayed jubilee inanity, patronising hypocrisy, forelock-tugging obsequiousness, slogans with exclamation marks, and Michael Gove and the London Haystack posturing in royal purple like varicose Boy Scouts, any further descent into idiocy should hardly be possible. Nevertheless, the Clean for the Queen campaign - a bizarre mutation of the Big Society thingy, intended to chivvy the proles into taking over for free the functions of paid (and thus largely fired) street cleaners - has found yet another way in which to be gruesomely wrong. One of the posters, inevitably fonted for World War nostalgia-porn, grovels Spick and span, Ma'am, but mis-spells the first word as a racist American slur on those who share their ethnic heritage with the sponsors of Columbus. The campaign director cited the Oxford English Dictionary in his defence, but I have certainly never seen the phrase spelt without the k until now. It seems unlikely that the omission was malicious: the Bullingdons and their chums are rarely fans of fiscal austerity when it comes to spending taxpayers' money on their own little wheezes, but possibly the brilliant Iain Duncan Smith suggested that fewer letters would be cheaper, or perhaps the layout and proofing were outsourced to migrants who would accept less than the minimum wage.

Her Duty and Privilege

On this your day, once more your offspring greet
The purest essence of parental grace,
With gratitude for adding to the race
Ourselves, your spawn, who make your life complete.
Purveyor of the uterus and teat,
You've helped to fill the world's excessive space
And earned, in hearts and minds, your rightful place
Among the breeders of our nation's meat.

On this your day, let it once more be seen:
Your woman's work most amply justified,
Perpetuating, through your noble chores,
Our noble selves. Squeezed from the womb so clean,
This generation's glory will abide,
And thus redeem that orifice of yours.

Bast Clotsy, Jr.

And Dig Till You Gently Perspire

Disability activists, trade unionists, healthcare professionals and other expendables have been protesting the latest wheeze by the brilliant Iain Duncan Smith's Department of Workfare and Privation. Since "there is evidence linking employment with good health", it follows that bad health among the unemployed is all their own fault, especially if it's bad mental health which can be conquered with nothing more than a bit of self-discipline and positive thinking. Accordingly, the Government has decided to place agents of the Idleness Police in doctors' surgeries in order to chivvy the mentally ill into pulling themselves together. The scheme is being piloted in Islington, presumably to reward the local proles for electing Corbyn to Parliament; and the encouragement personnel are being provided by Remploy, whose record of providing practical help to the vulnerable evidently measures down to the DWP's exacting standards. The idea of turning the NHS into a tentacle of the Idleness Police is so transparently brilliant that no evaluation of the pilot is deemed necessary before the scheme is allowed to metastasize across the nation; and any refusal to advantagise oneself of the pilot scheme will have no impact on social security benefits until such time as the DWP decides that lack of scrounger uptake is the reason for any little disappointments in the results.

Not From Around Here

A parliamentary committee has proclaimed that the system is still too soft on destitute asylum seekers, or economic migrants as they are known to the moderates. The marauding swarms are being housed according to a voluntary dispersal scheme, which means that large bunches of migrants are being inflicted on urban areas such as Glasgow, Birmingham, Liverpool and Cardiff. Those charming people at Serco and G4S, with whom the Home Secretary has almost no marital association whatever, have done what they can to prevent any insidious blending with the local population, and have provided the residential equivalent of orange jumpsuits and yellow stars so that readers of the scumbag press can make known their legitimate concerns. This is far from being enough to satisfy the home affairs committee for the House of Expenses Claimants, which wants to see more asylum seekers housed in Conservative shires such as Mad Tessie May's own Maidenhead constitutency, as well as those of the Head Boy and several of his chums, lackeys and wog-bashers. Asylum seekers deported to such places would almost certainly be assured of the welcome everyone knows they deserve, at least for as long as it remains illegal to lynch foxes.

Demons

You can say what you like about Vladimir Putin (at least provided you take reasonable care as to geographical location and teapot radioactivity), but at least he shows respect for religion. A tactless atheist in southern Russia has been charged with offending the sentiments of Orthodox Christians after a webchat during which he proclaimed the non-existence of God and referred to the Bible as a "collection of Jewish fairy-tales". Appalled at this crude and nuance-free view (besides fairy-tales, the Bible also includes re-written history and forged correspondence), one of his fellow webchatters lodged a complaint; and the infidel has spent a month on a psychiatric ward and now faces a year in prison under legislation that was rushed through, in the best Blairite style, after Pussy Riot staged their stunt four years ago in the Cathedral of Christ the Saviour. It seems most unlikely that Putin's godless, doctrinaire, crypto-Corbynite predecessors would have shown such concern for the pious of Holy Russia or their itsy-bitsy feelings.

Audit Unclear

Atheistic intolerance reigns at the Advertising Standards Agency, which has banned a television advertisement by a religion for, of all things, providing false information. The Church of Scientology claims that its volunteers provided aid for twenty-four million people between 1998 and 2014, but the ASA opined that the claim included too large an admixture of science fiction. Like Her Majesty's Government when faced with requests for quaint, outdated fripperies like evidence, the hierophants of Hubbard do not consider themselves obliged to base calculations of their own largesse on anything so banal and proletarian as the real world. They toil not with worldly legalisms such as what specifically constitutes aid; neither do they spin their figures according to whether each single recipient has been counted once, twice, twenty-four times or more. In their defence, it remains as yet unclear whether the Church of Scientology emulates Her Majesty's Government so far as to include military aid in its figures for humanitarian relief.

Just One Big Happy Corporation

One does not safeguard British democracy simply by packing the Lords, cutting the Commons and electorally cleansing a few hundred thousand proles. The Bullingdons are also much concerned with left-wing deviationism by local Conservative associations, some of which even now persistently and perversely deny the all-improving benignity of the Osbornomic miracle. Britain's Head Boy has already felt the need to rah-rah his expenses claimants in favour of listening to their hearts (viz. their Westminster career prospects) rather than to the junior ticks in their constituencies; and in order to counter this enemy within Lord Feldman, the Minister for Bullying, is expected to propose mergers between local associations. A spokesbeing has naturally denied any suggestion that the measures will amount to a cull of anything apart from that perpetual nuisance, paid employees: the new, not-quite-so-local-as-before operations will "benefit from shared offices and access to professional staff". The spokesbeing also denied the very idea of any plan to introduce a new Gobblers' Club level of membership which would guarantee access to the party's annual grunt-and-squeal in return for a £100 contribution to the trough; so doubtless such a plan is being at least seriously considered.