Shit, this story has it all. Guns, sex and space aliens.

I suppose you've got to ask why she was packing heat in her vagina. Most gels would simply put their .44 magnum in their snatch bag. I’m hoping she didn't leave it in during sex. Poor fella would go off half cocked. I fully understand why she pulled out a gun- now that must have been an interesting scenario. You have got to admit, the topic of space aliens is a contentious one. Next time I discuss this vexed issue with the mistress I will astutely study her body language. If she starts rummaging around in her twat, I’m leaving da building. 

Of Pixies and man...

Atheism is the most misunderstood doctrine. People are confused. So to set the record straight let us determine what atheism is and what it is not. Atheism is a lack of belief in deities. Thus it is not a positive belief. The atheist, as such, therefore does not have to defend his position or offer evidence for his stance. The onus of argument and proof rests solely with the theist. In the same way that a non-believer in pixies is not required to posit evidence for non-belief in pixies. If you believe in pixies it is incumbent on said individual to provide rational evidence for their belief. Otherwise, their belief exists outside rational scrutiny, and therefore is not worthy of sensible consideration.

There is a lot of baggage when it comes to being an atheist. People make assumptions. Atheists are amoral, immoral, communists or nihilistic. It is true that all of the preceding characteristics are not incompatible with atheism, but this is not the point. There are atheists who are communists, philanderers and full of despair, as are Christians. The point being that when someone tells you that they are an atheist all you can discern is that they are a non-believer in gods. Nothing else is discerned. Atheists don’t have to agree on anything else, whether in politics, morality or philosophical stance. There only common accord is atheism.

How can morality exist if there is no god? A world without god will surely lead to anarchic and immoral chaos. But surely a moral code can exist without a belief in god. We know it is wrong to kill, steal and covert your neighbour’s wife. These basic tenets are necessary for any well-ordered and civilised society. Indeed, you could argue that an atheistic morality is superior as it is justified by the merit of doing good and is not tinged and influenced supposedly by rewards or punishment in a mythical hell or heaven.

Surely let us enjoy this life. Feast, drink wine and make love to your wife. Arse…..

“Do not pass by my epitaph, traveller.
But having stopped, listen and learn, then go your way.
There is no boat in Hades, no ferryman Charon,
No caretaker Aiakos, no dog Cerberus.
All we who are dead below
Have become bones and ashes, but nothing else.
I have spoken to you honestly, go on, traveler,
Lest even while dead I seem talkative to you.”

Hello Dad......

This piccy was taken of my father after a heavy drinking bout at the Christmas tide family party. Sadly the old man is not the murdering old bastard he used to be. He's  delusional and a bit  farty. Sometimes he thinks he's a small furry gerbil called Gerald, sometimes he's a sausage. Today he is mostly Miley Cyrus, hence the tongue a protruding. I much prefer his incarnation as Gerald. A lot more cute and a lot less 'twerking.'

Afterward the prominent men of the family met and debated whilst the women folk tended to the scalding pot. The agenda was a short one. It concerned the dispersion of land and spoils once the sad, but inevitable day came, when my vainglorious father descended/ascended to the feasting hall that is Valhalla. Initially my father was of the mind that all his chattels, land and sundry items should be bequeathed to my half brother, Hrofgar 'The Bastard.' Anyway, after a brief exchange of views, my poor halfling brother was found dead; feathered by a dozen yard arrows. Murdered by a wandering band of Jutish warriors, no doubt.

Thereafter, my poor gerbil of a father scurried unto a disused mine shaft and expired. Sad family tragedy. I cried all the way whilst inspecting my new kingdoms. So, my father was burned on a funeral pyre and his soaring soul was dedicated to Woden. As for his reward, it is said on the wind, that true adherents are bestowed with 40 Jutish virgins in heaven. Frankly I'm disgusted, even the prophet waited until they were eight.

 As for my poor, dead,
half brother, Hrothgar.....

This is a rendition of dad, on a good day. 

My Faithfull Wolf Eingar, in Repose

I love that wolf, I really do. I found him one night foraging round the midden pit eating dead gypos. 'Good boy, Eingar!' Ever since we have become constant companions. He feasts on the entrails of my fallen enemies and small kibble.

Got to admit though, in this picture, he does look a bit like a furry cock and balls.

Mr Potato Head

Arrrgh, my eyes, my beautiful blue, eyes………

Shit, do you think he was a beautiful baby? I’m guessing, no. I suspect he was a large child and a big boned adolescent, finally turning into a fully-fledged, fat cunt. Probably has to rummage round for an hour just to find his dick. Half the time he just comes up with a bit of old spaghetti which became lodged in the crevices and rancid folds. Mayhap he has a nice personality and does a lot of work for charity, but I doubt it.   

In the Great Hall: Part VIII

Okay, so Echolalia wasn't wearing this exact same outfit when she visited me in the Great Hall. C'mon she's a chick and has more than one outfit! Have you ever searched on google images using the phrase: 'Red haired warrioress with gold breastplate with pierced nipple holes.' Jeez, give me a break..... Arse.

Harold the Herald: “My Lord Flaxen, Echolalia ‘The Amazon’ and her chief minister are at the great door of the Great Hall, craving an audience.”

Flaxen: ‘Bring them to me.”

Echolalia stood before Flaxen, bedecked in the finest Jutish cloth and wearing a breast plate of spun gold. Two holes had been cunningly wrought in the plate and Echolalia’s nipples poked through in erect and pert defiance. Flaxen stared blatantly at the nipples and seemed oblivious to the astonishingly crafted fretwork. In contrast, Flaxen’s son, Deirdre seemed to care nought for the maid’s teats and instead his eyes lingered over the flamboyant, ostentatious and resplendent cuirass. He wondered how the smith had fashioned the lush and discreet niello accents making the whole ensemble a bedazzling display of 9^th century craftsmanship. Flaxen thought she had nice tits.

Flaxen (for it is no other): “Echolalia, what brings you here?”

Echolalia: “What brings you, here?”

Mendacity ‘The Minister’: “We come to forge an alliance. A mutual bond between our folk in a crusade against the Golders Green Jews.”

Flaxen: “Us Germanic folk have always treated the Jews with love and respect and it will always be so.”

Mendacity: “But the Jews have usurped the land. They say it is Canaan and it has been granted to them by their warrior storm god, Yahweh and his consort Asherah. They will not leave and they are dug in deeper than a tic on a hound.”

Flaxen: “This is of no concern of the Tipton Saxons.”

Mendacity: “But they are swarthy complected (not a real word), have hooked noses and say shalom, a lot.”

Flaxen: Shalom, you say!

Echolalia:” Shalom, you say?”

Flaxen: “Forget what I said previously. I am convinced. We shall oppress this people and they shall rue the day they ever uttered the accursed word, shalom.”

Ecolalia: “Shalom.”

Flaxen: “Also I am capricious, quirky and full of whims.”

Mendacity: “We march together, on the morrow!”

Flaxen: “Raise the host we go to war with the Golders Green Jews! Henceforth this quest shall be known as ‘Pogroms Progress.’ My mighty sword, ‘Arse big fat arse biter’ will smite many a Jew, this day.”

Echolalia: “Arse.”

Flaxen: “Oy vey……”

To be continued………

Mom Would be Proud

Oh well if you look like this your career options are rather limited. I'll take a wild stab in the dark on this one and guess that he is a hardened  criminal. Of course he could be a scion of society and a noted professional, although I doubt it.  Even MacDonalds would balk at this one. Couldn't even get a job in a hospital kitchen. Not front of house sort of shit, I'm talking about the lower life creatures which invariably end up washing dishes (Arse). The poor bugger is Maori, so doubly condemned.  

Life is inherently unfair and cruel I hear you say. Aint that the sad truth. But some don't make it easy for themselves. Must try harder. Me? I'd shoot twats like this in da face. No future, no hope and a complete drain on society while he draws breath. I suppose I'm no bleeding heart socialist- go figure....

Ahhh, A Vision in Carmine

I know what you are thinking. You are thinking that this is Edith 'Swan Neck' on one of her legendary shopping expeditions. But you would be wrong. This is actually Ecolalia 'The Amazon' on one of her epic shopping expeditions. I suppose you are wondering what a 9th century Teutonic barbarian would know about the Amazon, or Amazons for that matter. Well, I actually discovered the Amazon basin together with the rest of the continent. We landed initially a lot further north. I named the placed 'New Tiptonland' in honour of my birth place. The locals were absolutely charming and showered us with sundry goods and gifts. They did adhere to the disturbing practice of placing feathers through their nose. Come to think of it, it might have been bones. I digress. Anyway, this most charming folk had no conception of strife or warfare, so we killed them. Purists among you may think an opponent should have a bit of fight in them, otherwise it is not very sporting and detracts from the fun. I do not subscribe to this view. I prefer my enemy tied against a tree. The tighter the bonds, the less they wriggle- helps with the throat slitting.

Feminists will take comfort in the fact that we didn't despoil the women. Now it is true that Angle, Saxon and Jutish women are not overly fastidious in their feminine hygiene, but these native women were covered head to foot in rancid bear grease. Yuk. So we left them to keen over their fallen men folk. Quite touching really.

Afterwards we travelled south along the coast. We stopped occasionally for me to name bits of land. There is Flaxen Saxon Town, Flaxen Saxon Ville, Flaxen Saxon on the Hill, Flaxen Saxon at the Bottom of the Hill, Flaxen Saxon Half Way Up the Hill.

Eventually, we arrived at the Amazon rain forest. The natives were a lot less friendly than their northern brethren and waived pointed sticks at us, so we killed them. Again we left the women unsullied. This time because of their annoying habit of anointing themselves with something called 'Oil of Ulay.' And also because the women are decidedly ugly.  I thought the place a little too 'treey' for my liking so I initiated an extensive deforestation program. It is my fervent hope that others will continue my heroic tree felling enterprise after my descent to Valhalla.

           

Saxon is not a full sausage.

I am mortified to contemplate the coming anniversary of the start of the Great War. I’m being premature. I am always premature. Ask Edith Swan neck and Brynhyldr. The girl sweeping my room knows better.

The legacy of the First World War is our modern world. Few today realise the significance of this great conflict and its role in moulding our present.

The First World and the Birth of our World

There has been much nonsense said and written about the First World War. The popular, and enduring image, is of brave, young, idealistic soldiers led by callous well-fed generals situated many miles from the front. The myth lingers and echoes of 'lions led by donkeys' can still be heard today. Of course there is some truth in this, as in all great myths. But this is not the whole truth. The losses of men and material were indeed phenomenal. With our modern minds we find it hard to fathom how men endured; their mindset is alien and beyond our comprehension. Losses encountered then would be unthinkable today. The irony of course is that our modern mindset, and the birth of the modern world, is largely due to the First World War. And yet most people today would be hard put to even state, with any accuracy, the date it began.

Strength in Defence

The dilemma faced by military leaders, of all the warring states, in the First World War was that defence had become immensely strong. But wars are not won by those applying wholly defensive strategies. Wars are won by the offensive. To rely totally on defence is to cede initiative to those who are prepared to attack. The reasons why defence had become so strong are many. The bolt action rifle, the machine gun and cannon capable of delivering high explosive are obvious causes. Barbed wire made a cheap but efficient means of checking an advance, or at least holding it until the machine gun had done its work. Less obvious causes relate to transport. Breakthrough could be achieved by huge effort. Once affected advance could only occur, at best, at a pace of a man's walk. Those on the defensive could rush fresh soldiers to plug the gap by motor vehicle or more usually by train. The aggressor tired, and now without heavy artillery, would be faced by fresh and well provisioned opponents. Eventual victory would go to those who continued to attack. They would have to accept the high casualty list; those relying on defence would eventually run out of land. The trick of course, for the attacker, was not to run out of men before this. The Russians were perhaps an exception. They could retreat a very long way and still remain in the war; their man supply was almost limitless. Other forces would come to underlie their eventual defeat. All the warring states appreciated these facts and all pursued, in the main, an aggressive attacking stance throughout. This is not to say that all states fought on the offensive at all times on all fronts. No state had the wherewithal for this. Defence and relative inactivity were necessary at times. But if not actively engaged in the offensive the warring nations were planning for the attack.

Casualty Rates and the First World War 

The generals expected and prepared for high casualty rates. As one French general put it: 'Whatever you do, you lose a lot of men'. On the first day of the Somme the British suffered 60,000 casualties. By the end of the offensive, three and a half months later, 420,000 men had been lost. The Germans suffered 650,000 losses in men. Although on the defensive, German doctrine of the time demanded aggressive counterattacks to take back lost ground. In this way they suffered the disadvantages of both defence and attack.

War Without End

Thoughtful men argued that there must be another way to achieve victory. But no one could suggest how. There was no other way. Instruments designed to address the balance between attack and defence were available to First World War generals, but they had not yet achieved battlefield mastery. The tank and aeroplane would eventually tip the balance in favour of the attacker, but that would have to await another war. The consequences of losing the war were unthinkable. And so men continued to fight and die. Resources available to both sides in men and material were vast; industrialisation assured that. Victory and peace could not be achieved without great cost. Some thought the war would never end.

Kaiser Schlacht

All wars end. The First World War ended in November 1918. The beginning of the end occurred in the preceding March. This started with the 'Kaiser's battle'. The Germans thought that this western offensive would end the war and in a way they were right. The Germans quickly gained swathes of French territory. The reasons why they succeeded where others had failed will not be considered here, though it is fair to say that new tactics were only partially responsible. But even the mighty German army could not overcome the principles of war. Impressive gains were mirrored by impressive casualty lists. At the battle's end the Germans had lost at least 800,000 men. The German army could not sustain such losses at this time in the war. The initiative went to the allies. The allies continued to attack until the very end, although their gains in land were modest.

War to End all Wars

The war ended on the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month. It is estimated that 8.5 million soldiers died in the war. After such sacrifice surely the world would become a better place? A naive sentiment perhaps, but laudable even so; disillusionment would set in later.

Spring Cleaning at the Saxon's Hovel

 

The serving wenches are giving the bedroom a bit of a spruce up. I did think about parquet wooden floors. A nice warm walnut would have suited the place to a tee. Edith 'Swan Neck' was wondering whether a nice fitted Persian carpet would enhance the decor. 

In the end we settled for mud and sawdust with the occasional mound of pig shit. We decided not to overdo it with the pig shit - I am a fucking king, after all. Furthermore, there is nothing worse than waking up in the middle of the night and standing in a pile of pig shit. Have you ever tried to tease pig plop from between your toes at 3 in the morning? The stuff cloys and catches under your nails. As I only bathe every Miklemas Yuletide it can become a considerable hygiene problem. 

Edith wanted to bedeck the place with floor to ceiling looking glasses and place dainty fripperies here and yonder. She said it is all the rage and de rigueur on the East Anglian plateau.  I eschewed fine silk drapes, hanging tapestries and a crystal chandelier and decided to tastefully scatter the place with the skulls of my fallen enemy. Eingar my faithful wolf crunched heartily on the mound of grinning noggins. ‘Take it outside Eingar, there’s a good boy.’

The comely wench with the broom is Freda. I suspect she has been pilfering the groats which occasionally spill from my codpiece after I come back from a heavy night of feasting in the Great Hall. I also suspect she be a sweeping some of the pig shit under the midden pot in the en suite. Of course, it could be that the commode is cascading and overflowing. 

Note to self: Need to shovel more mud and sawdust around the midden pot.
                                                                                

Today we have been mostly pillaging Slough.

A rendition in sepia. Not my favourite medium it has to be said. But Erik had left his Polaroid camera behind in his Tipton bedsit. How sad is that?

Me and the lads are not in a happy frame of mind. Not only have we run out of mead but we had to drag our long boat forty miles up the M4.Note to self: Must only pillage seaside towns in the future.

We arrived about noon and went on the search for mead. The local off licence only sold sweet sherry and pernod. Shit, a word to the wise. Never drink pernod on an empty stomach. Harold ‘The Herald’ wanted a new laptop so we stopped off at Curries. I like to amuse myself by standing by high price items. It is the quickest way to gain the attention of the sales staff as they are mainly paid by commission.

Once they start to zero in I fuck off around the aisles and lead them a merry chase. Once I was cornered by Sascha in the white ware department. As he was swarthy complected (this not a real word, by the way) and had a silly accent I decided to cleave him asunder and in twain with my double headed Danish war axe ‘Twat Cruncher.’ O we did laugh.

Harold finally decided on a Mac. Frankly I thought it a bit overpriced myself. But as we were not a buying but a pillaging it twas only a minor quibble. Sharon at the checkout helped us carry the multitude of goods to our longboat. Malcolm the manager did protest too much as we didn't pay for sundry goods, so we killed him. Frankly, I’m not looking forward to pushing the boat back to Dudley canal. Perhaps we will just catch the bus home.

Slough

Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough!
It isn't fit for humans now,
There isn't grass to graze a cow.
Swarm over, Death!

Come, bombs and blow to smithereens
Those air -conditioned, bright canteens,
Tinned fruit, tinned meat, tinned milk, tinned beans,
Tinned minds, tinned breath.

Mess up the mess they call a town-
A house for ninety-seven down
And once a week a half a crown
For twenty years.

And get that man with double chin
Who'll always cheat and always win,
Who washes his repulsive skin
In women's tears:

And smash his desk of polished oak
And smash his hands so used to stroke
And stop his boring dirty joke
And make him yell.

But spare the bald young clerks who add
The profits of the stinking cad;
It's not their fault that they are mad,
They've tasted Hell.

It's not their fault they do not know
The birdsong from the radio,
It's not their fault they often go
To Maidenhead

And talk of sport and makes of cars
In various bogus-Tudor bars
And daren't look up and see the stars
But belch instead.

In labour-saving homes, with care
Their wives frizz out peroxide hair
And dry it in synthetic air
And paint their nails.

Come, friendly bombs and fall on Slough
To get it ready for the plough.
The cabbages are coming now;
The earth exhales.

The Quest for Brumagem: The Eve of the Quest- Part I

This was taken on the way to the pub. I'm the rather dramatic, heroic pretty boy in the middle.
Alphonse, pass the mirror... 

It was the eve of Flaxen’s 18 summer. He sat with his two bestest and only friends in the local tavern, ‘The Frolicking Friesian.’ Leofric ‘The Larruper’ and Alphonse ‘The ArchItect’ (surely some mistake?) sat solemnly, soporifically, sighing sadly, sipping steadily, stoically supporting steadfast Saxon.

It was time for Flaxen to embark on his quest to discover the mystical, mythical, magical, magisterial, munificent, municipal (enough) Brumagem. They all quaffed mead mightily from their drinking horns.

Leofric spake.

Leofric (for it is he): “They say the streets of Brumagem are bestrewn with the tears of Valkyries. They say the tears are the size of groats and glisten in the noon day sun like silver."

Alphonse: "I hear tell of a more prosaic explanation for these mucilaginous artifacts. It is whispered on the wind that they be due to the local whores a clearing their throats after a particularly heavy night and are known locally as cock oysters."

Flaxen: “I prefer Leofric’s story, it has the tinge of romantic truth.”

Leofric: “Mayhap Flaxen you could test our respective theories? For surely Valkyries’ tears will taste as sweet as honey and be as intoxicating as the finest mead.”

Flaxen: "Some things are best left known only unto the gods and certain rock musicians.”

To be continued…

Hello Mom

This tale may or not be true depending on your current concept of reality….

One fateful Saturday night I decided to drive to my local throat hospital, the ‘Boiler Makers Arms’, for my usual medicant of 15 pints of Bank’s bitter. After imbibing copious amounts of medicine I decided to drive home.

Unfortunately I developed an adverse reaction to the elixir and as I climbed into the car the world began to spin and my vision became double. These side effects were not unknown to me and previous experience had provided a solution. By closing one eye and driving at a stately speed of 20mph I was assured of arriving home safe and sound.

I had travelled about a mile when a familiar blue, flashing light and blaring claxon beckoned me to pullover. As I staggered out of the car, I heard: ‘What have you been up to Mr Flaxen?’ I squinted at the boy in blue and was pleased to recognise him as a fellow member of my local Lodge. After the requisite handshake and the traditional garnishing of the palm with 20 quid I was on my way with a gentle admonishment.

I had obviously underestimated my sickness and imagine my dismay when I awoke latter that night on a park bench, bollock naked sporting nothing but a little light oiling and nipple rouge. To add to my predicament, I noticed that the big toe, of my left foot, was firmly wedged in the gaping, toothless maw of the local ‘Lady of the Night’ known fondly in the area as ‘Scout’.  This appellation had something to do with the tart’s tariff: ‘Bob a Job’.

Anyway, I noticed that ‘Scout’ was goggled eyed and gurgling pink froth and that my big toe had gone numb. Although enfeebled, I summoned a strength borne of demonic desperation and managed to slam my right foot firmly into her face. Consider my delight as the dislodged whore spun and flailed out of sight into the dead of the night. After release I decided to bugger off home.

I confess, I struggled next morning to explain to my wife the slight oiling and nipple rouge but was completely flummoxed when it came to provide a plausible explanation for the canine tooth lodged betwixt pinky and second toe.      

Seem Like Nice Boys....

Too many banjos, not enough dentistry.

Taniwhas Can Fuck Orwf.....

His name is Malcom and he don't exist. Shushh, don't tell the Maori.

Paying the Taniwha

Politics has always been a calculated mix of bluster, bluff and rhetoric; at least in the democratic world. On occasion there is an admixture of comic absurdity. The astute politician knows well to cultivate the former three qualities and steer clear of the last. Few politicians can maintain this delicate balance throughout their career unless they are particularly blessed, extremely wealthy, or well connected. Being of a cynical bent of mind I suspect that being particularly blessed, extremely wealthy and well connected are not unconnected.  The politician possessed of all of these attributes can truly walk on water. Present British politicians tend to flounder in the shallowest of puddles. But this post is not about British politics.   

A student of British politics would see much that is familiar in New Zealand politics. Very much the same political parties saying much the same thing; except in a silly accent. No offense to the West Midland parliamentarians.  There is one particular aspect of New Zealand politics which is totally alien to British observers and that is the subject of ‘Maori Politics’. Think of a time, somewhere in the distant dark past when our ancestors were unread, barbaric and extremely stupid; a time before the renaissance and scientific revolution. Welcome to the wonderful world of Maori politics!

Let me introduce the taniwha. It will serve my purpose and make my point well. The taniwha, in Maori mythology, is a supernatural creature of watery dens or caves. The shape of this creature can change and sometimes it is depicted as a large shark. There is nothing wrong with folk story and myth. Most cultures can relate to the rich stories of their ancient folk. We tell them to our children on our knee. The stories thrill us when young and fill our naïve hearts with wonder. Then we grow up. If wise we pass them on to our grandchildren.

Now here is the silly bit. If I told you that in our day objections have been raised to a motorway link because it disturbed the lair of a resident monster, you may be spurred to comment. Perhaps you may laugh and think that the 1^st of April had come early. If I say that this matter has been an item raised on the ‘Auckland City Council’ you may start to titter. However, this is a serious practical matter that affects people’s lives. If it doesn’t bother you then it should at least rouse the good burghers of Auckland. Perhaps they have heard it all before. Of course, the main stream press of New Zealand does not spell out this absurdity. It is a brave journalist indeed who voices a sensible opinion on the matter.  There is a pandering to Maoris and Maori sensibilities in the press, and in official government releases, that is positively sickening. This reverence to blatant nonsense has no place in any modern free society and surely reflects ill on Maoris in general. A European voicing similar sentiments in open parliamentary debate would be subject to derision and quite rightly so. Replace the speaker with a Maori member of parliament and you wouldn’t hear a pin drop. Double standards I hear you cry. Well, tears roll down my face. Whether from risible mirth or from palpable frustration I will leave you to judge. On another occasion a highway up grade in the Waikato region was halted after objections from the local Iwi (tribal council). They argued that the up grade would cut through the den of the local taniwha. This one eyed monster lives in a swamp for half of the year then takes up residence in the Waikato River for the remaining six months. Surely swamp living can’t be healthy, especially if you only have one eye. The solution of course was simple. A high bank was erected next to his lair and drainage channels inserted. The extra cost to the tax payer was a modest $20,000. In this instance no direct ‘compensation’ was paid to the local Iwi. There have been other occasions where the taniwha was mysteriously placated when large sums of tax payers money was directed to the Maori. I respectfully request that, in future, all taniwha compensation should be in cheque form. The cheques would then be placed in a water tight bag and deposited in the deepest part of the lake. Taniwhas could then wait in line, like the rest of us, and cash their cheque at the local bank. But I can see that you have already seen a problem with my cunning plan; taniwhas don’t have opposable thumbs. Consequently picking the cheque up from the lake bed would be impossible; silly me. I just thought of another solution. Perhaps the New Zealand citizenry should rise up and hunt down these irascible monsters and shoot them. After all, large invisible water creatures shouldn’t be that hard to find. The Maoris have no problem locating them, when it suits.

What are we to make of this matter when New Zealand’s leader of the opposition (Labour party- and non Maori) is on record as saying that he believes in the existence of taniwhas. It is my fervent hope that he never becomes Prime Minister. The day that this happens is the day I fuck off to Australia. David Shearer is a well educated and supposedly intelligent man and should know better. The electorate of New Zealand deserve better and will assuredly treat him with the contempt he ultimately deserves. There is a special place in hell reserved for ingratiating twats like David Shearer; the man leaves behind a slime trail. It is stuff like this that leaves the decent majority of New Zealanders in quiet despair.      

Let me be blunt. Supernatural entities have no place in politics or in any other serious practical pursuit. Believers in gods, angels and devils should take note.  Maori politicians using taniwhas to leverage political gain, and most importantly money, are cynically playing on the guilt felt by the left wing, hand wringing socialists and other peddlers of associated PC shite. But what has all this have to say about Maori society? There is no doubt that in European society, at all levels, it simply reinforces commonly held prejudices: Maoris are primitive, childlike and stupid. They are not to be judged by our superior European mores and standards. If Maoris are not offended by my comments then they should. If they would like to be treated with respect then they need to grow up. Maoris may well have serious concerns and political issues that need to be addressed. Welcome to the real world. In this world they would be well advised to enter the arena of rational debate with well thought out arguments and be prepared to leave their taniwhas at the bottom of New Zealand’s murky lakes, where they belong.