Wednesday 28 February 2024

HMS Plop Plop

HMS Plop Plop Rules the Canal's Undercurrent

We truly live in wonderous times! Today marks the ceremonial launch of His Mayoral Ship, Plop, Plop.

Today, on the Tipton to Dudley canal, incorporating Netherton North and Smethwick, the Mayor of Tipton, the Honorable Mr. Enoch Vowel, will be inaugurating and presiding over the launch of the formidable, newly commissioned warship HMS Plop, Plop. This mighty ship will propel Tipton into the premier league and thrust sea power beyond the borders of Tipton and associated environs. The imposing Plop Plop measuring 24 x 16 x 10 cubits will no doubt sail the West Mercian canal system as an impressive ambassador and showcase of Tipton's Imperial Power. A true Behemoth of impending doom. Apart from up-to-date technology (has a digital tele), Plop Plop, will be able to deliver a comprehensive and simultaneous broadside equivalent to 34-foot pounds, or 25 Newtons of raw unmitigated power! The enemies of Tipton will shake with tumultuous awe.

Behold the Leviathan of the West Midland canal system! Note well, the thrusting power that is rightly projected beyond Tipton's exalted borders.  

 Affixed to the prow is a figurehead- a proud effigy of Tipton's esteemed mascot and totem animal, 'Shagger the Ferret' (go Shagger!).

For this most auspicious occasion, the Poet Laureate, IPhone Ten Mugumbo, penned a timeless masterpiece to be specifically enunciated with impeccable diction by the Hon. Vowel.  Read and weep.   

O Plop Plop, you are beyond compare,

A vessel unmatched in dread and wonderment.

May you navigate the wide canals of the land with veritable aplomb.

Your mighty frame dominates the waterways like a mighty dominaty

(not a real word) thing,

And brings forth glory unto majestic Tipton, akimbo!


Today, the Honourable Vowel was ably assisted by the local itinerant, 'Filthy Eric'. After prising Eric from his usual supine and decumbent/recumbent position at the local hostelry, 'The Feltching Ferret', he was forcefully prodded (electrically assisted) unto the milling throng. Eric provided local colour and life to the proceedings due to his rubicund visage and writhing indigenous fauna. After muttering 'Arse' several times, Eric consecrated the proceedings by chucking a bottle of 'Brown Ale' at the port side of HMS Plop Plop, followed sequentially by a plate bedecked with a generous porcine portion of 'faggots and peas'. 

Whereupon, after receiving such fare, HMS Plop Plop sank, unceremoniously, to the bottom of the cut without prejudice.  

And there it remains a sentinel bulwark to Tipton's divine glory.

A submarine of static proclivities, forever watchful, guarding the approaches from foreign powers, should they decide to invade Tipton by canal. 

Later that day, Filthy Eric was found a bobbing, face down, in the canal. His position marks the spot of the last known sighting of the regal Plop Plop. Eric will forever* act as a beacon, flopping according to flow and microorganisms, at the very location of HMS Plop Plop.  

* Nota Bene: This represents a figure of speech. No doubt, Filthy Eric's body will, within a few days, experience gaseous bloat (hydrogen sulphide, putrescene & cadaverine) due to decomposition ably assisted by enteric bacteria. Once the body experiences further decay, the noisome fetid odour/ordure will become a salient feature of the ongoing process. However, it must be noted that Eric's hygiene was none too fastidious during life, hence the appellation, 'Filthy'. Eventually, skin slippage will ensue, together with ligament decay, resulting in the dislocation of skeletal remains. These bony disarticulations will sink and lie atop Plop, Plop, or adjacent therein, dependent upon ebb and flow.

Tuesday 20 February 2024

God's Grand Plan?

Good luck with that, say I

As my mother was a Jehovah's Witness, I know their doctrine, dogma and practices reasonably well.  Last week, a gaggle (what is the collective noun for JWs: ans, a 'cult') of JWs inevitably turned up at my door, unbidden, eager to save me from the horrors of impending, nay imminent Armageddon (oxymoron?). 

I remember the incident as if it was last week. The lead Witness took heed that I was clad in my night robe/attire and asked if I was ill (twas 11.00am). I retorted: no, not at all, I'm just a lazy bugger.  Anyway, they promulgated their usual spiel, and I countered with my usual rhetoric. After a bit of back and forth, they departed, no doubt content and smug in their encounter with a lost soul/sole- I had forgotten to wear my slippers. Thus, they went hither in search of the ill-educated and gullible in order to fill their quota to the brim. Of course, on the Christian religious spectra, JWs represent the extreme fundamentalist end. They take the bible as literal truth, at least their version, and believe in the historical existence of 'Adam and Eve' and 'Noah's Ark' etc. I can't wait to encounter members of the 'Governing body' all bedecked in shimmering armour, sword in hand, astride a shining white steed. The vision of these fat old men garbed accordingly, laying forth and smiting the unrighteous, will be a sight to behold. For those unfamiliar with JW lore, this is what is going to happen at Armageddon. And Armageddon is coming real soon...

A day after my JW encounter, I was sauntering, nay promenading, in my town's High St, quietly biding my own business and time, whereupon a leaflet was thrust into my great and manly hand by a rogue 'Street Preacher'- the manic variety, no doubt. Normally, I'm required to bite my tongue in such a circumstance and render a polite and mute nod (is there any other variety?). But Mrs. S was engaged elsewhere, and thus, I was free to air my unpopular views, akimbo, and without fetter/filter. I likened the experience to a caged bird forever trapped, but on this occasion, the owner had left the door to the cage ajar....... Thus, I was free to unfurl my intellectual feathers and left to vent as was my wont (arse). The earnest young fella distributing the religious tract accosted and impinged upon my very soul (I don't have one) and demanded that I first answer an aggressively proffered question. I confess I'm a sucker for such an approach and therefore asked him to relay his profundity without delay. And so, to the question at hand: "What will I say to God when I die and am brought forth unto him?". I quipped: "Why was he/she/them/it so fond of beetles?". Obviously, my interlocutor was not a close reader of Darwin's work. After I explained the source of my answer, he flashed a smile and stated that his particular brand of Christianity was in full accord with the mechanism of Evolution. Evolution was God's methodology, nay gift for species formation. It was my turn to ask a question. "Why did your Lord God come up with a method so wasteful and cruel? Surely, an omnipotent all-loving deity could have fashioned a mechanism that wasn't reliant on such wanton misery". Unfortunately, this question remained unanswered. 

Do not be fooled by my flippant tone or demeanour, for there is an important point to be made here. 

Sadly, evolution by natural selection is inherently cruel and profligate. In nature, for every successful organism that survives to reproductive age, there is a host of brethren that lie trodden beneath. You don't have to be a biologist to note that life in the wild, for all species, is a rather precarious business. Disease, predation, competition for resources and the vagaries of climate all take their toll. As for evolutionary success, the only metric that matters relates to how many offspring you beget and their relative 'fitness' to survive in a given environment. Organisms are mere receptacles for the genes they carry. And what matters is how successful those receptacles are at ensuring their contained genes become passed to other like receptacles. How prosaically stated, Flaxen.  

God's mysterious hand in nature, as it unfolds, brings forth an unremitting, relentless horror show of rend and death. Couldn't God, in his majesty, who is able to control everything with a mere wave of his staff (poetic license), put forth a mechanism less sanguine than 'Natural Selection'. Perhaps he designated the task to one of his lesser co-deities. Christians are quick to place blame for the palpable evil in our world on the fallen Evil One. He is known by many names. But today, I will call him El Diabolo. However, before we apportion blame to the Devil, let us not forget that he is God's creature and ultimately under His control. So therefore, the final responsibility for evil, as evident in 'Natural Selection', must rest with God.         

I must write a piece about the much-maligned entity, sometimes called Satan.    

Wednesday 7 February 2024

O No, it's Whitiwhangi Day, Again!

Put it away- it's Rude

Yesterday was Waitangi Day in New Zealand. A day of supposed celebration marking the signing of a historic treaty between the Māori and the British. Every year, Māori representatives plus government officials, including our Prime Minster, gather at a small town 'up north' to commemorate this momentous event of concord between the two nations. Predictably, the event has become a focus for the expression of discontent for a variety of Māori pressure groups. No matter how these 'protests' are packaged, the aim is always the same, regardless of the merit of the scheme/scam promulgated: screw more money or concessions from the government.   

Anyway, several years ago, I decided to write a rather scurrilous and irreverent post about the whole affair. I have reprised this post previously, but I've decided to parade out my nonsense to those who may not have been around to appreciate my previous scribblings on the topic. So here we go again.  

Although written as a jocular interlude, the original piece does make some salient and serious points. For those who would like to catch my opinion on 'Māori Affairs', you can read it here: Waitangi Day reprise. 

Happy Whitiwhangi day! For you, dozy benighted Pomms, Whitiwhangi Day (6th February) is New Zealand’s National Day. It celebrates the signing of a solemn treaty between the ‘British Colonial Governor of Her Majesty’s Government’ and the Māori in 1840. As a slight digression, I would like to introduce the less educated amongst you to the noble Māori race. Ethnologists are of the opinion that the first Māori arrived in New Zealand as Asylum Seekers sometime in the Middle Ages. They found a bountiful land colonised by a peaceful and equally noble race called the Morori. Mutual respect was only marred by the fact that the Māori had an irrepressible appetite for human flesh. As it was against their culture and religious custom to eat their own, they decided to eat the indigenous people. In very short order, they had porked their way through this fair people and moved on to eat all the large birds, mammals and frogs. Today, the only indigenous creature left in New Zealand is a highly camouflaged, fast moving and slightly tasteless marsupial, known in the Māori language as ‘DonttastlikeKFC,ehbro.’

To return to our Solemn National Day. It is reputed that the Governor of 1840, Sir Effingham-Peffingham, was suffering from syphilitic ague prior to and up to the signing of the treaty. Some say he deviated from the standard British Colonial Policy of the time. Usually, British Army drill was to send the local chocos off to an early grave and at double time, too. Of course, when faced with the local duskies waving fruit and sharpened sticks, the best response was always to ‘fire a volley’ and finish off the wounded and less fleet of foot with the bayonet.

Unfortunately for the Empire, Sir E was suffering from delirium tremens on the day of the signing. For his entertainment, the local Māori Warriors performed their formidable war dance, ‘The Haka.’ The stout warriors, all painted and covered in feathers, reminded the Governor, in his delirium, of the Nelson Rep chorus line. After all, the Governor was notoriously short-sighted and thick.

The treaty was duly signed by the Governor and the Tribal Leaders. Luckily the Māori could not read or write English. The clause they failed to notice (stupid Māori) was the bit about allowing White Folk, known in Māori as Pakeha, to shoot any Māori on sight on Whitiwhangi day, as long as it was before noon. Good man, that Governor.

As usual, I celebrated ‘Whitiwhangi Eve’ with four bottles of medicinal red wine (as is the custom) and awoke the next morning feeling like a Frenchman’s crotch. After retching up over the dog, I noticed that it was 11.50am. I panicked somewhat as I didn’t want to miss the opportunity to legally shoot someone. So, without further ado and without getting dressed, I reached for my father’s trusty 303 Lee Enfield rifle. The same weapon he had used to shoot unarmed German prisoners at the battle of El Alamein. Shortly after this incident, my father’s contribution to the war effort was permanently curtailed due to wounds inflicted during a brisk encounter with the renowned and much-feared SS SeamStress division. These Valkyries could sow SS runic insignia, in silver thread, on your epaulette in under 20 minutes and double stitch at that; fucking amazing! During the battle, my father received a puncture wound to the arse from a rusty bodkin. The infection rapidly spread to his cock, and as a consequence, he spent 6 months in a Venereal Disease hospital in Blighty. The word around the campfire at the time was that my father had caught the infection after an intoxicated and ill-judged liaison with a wild, desert she-goat. Absolute nonsense. It is well known that you can catch this sort of thing from toilet seats and dirty sewing baskets.

With shaking hands, I slammed a fresh magazine into the Lee Enfield and rushed out onto the porch. Luckily for me, I saw a Māori in the adjacent field, not 100 paces away. I raised the musket to my shoulder, took careful aim and slowly squeezed the trigger. I was exhilarated to see my quarry spiral to the ground. I rushed inside for my trusty scalping knife and bounded over to the fallen Māori to gather my well-deserved trophy. Imagine my disgust when I realised that I hadn’t shot a Māori after all but had bagged my Dutch neighbour, Mr. Neils Van der Pump. In mitigation, I have to say that his Indonesian wife had been standing close by, and she does look a little bit Māori. I did consider shooting her as well and could hardly miss from two paces. But I suppose I’m a sentimental old fool, and it didn’t seem quite right to shoot her under the circumstances, as her husband had suddenly taken quite poorly. I did offer to apply a tourniquet to the wound on his neck, but neither of them seemed too keen on the idea. So, I left her to administer first aid and retreated back to my bed to sleep off the previous night’s excess. I had hardly fallen asleep when I was rudely awakened by the local plod. Thereafter all is a blur. I remained in custody for several months prior to trial. Poor Mrs. Saxon had to work 20 hours daily to keep the farm afloat. She did contact my flaxen-haired cunt of a son to ask for help. But he was too busy finding ‘spiritual enlightenment’ in a commune in PerthWestern Australia. Spiritual enlightenment, my arse! From what I can see, he spends his days banging small-breasted Asian ladies, sometimes two at a time (nice work if you can get it) and judging from the photos, some of the ‘ladies’ aren’t real women at all.

I finally had my day in court. I must admit I raised a spirited defense. However, things looked bleak after the prosecution’s final summing up: “Your Honour, I submit that Mr. Saxon is a demented, chronic alcoholic with a tenuous grasp on reality. It is recorded, your Honour, that after a particularly heavy and prolonged drinking bout, he thought he had turned into a canister of ‘Shake N Vac’ (Alpine Dew) and was found by his wife rolling naked on the carpet shouting: ‘I am fragrant, suck me off with the vacuum. I rest my case, your Honour.” But bugger me if I didn’t have a stroke of luck. Poor Mr. Van der Pump had lost the power of speech after my ill-fated shot had destroyed his larynx. This same lucky bullet had also divided nerves in his spinal cord, and consequently, he was paralysed from the nose down. The upshot, of course, was that he was unable to provide a verbal or written deposition; in other words, he was a piss-poor witness. The case against me rested on the sole testament of his Indonesian wife. This poor cow couldn’t speak a word of English, and her Court-appointed interpreter had just been deported as an illegal alien. The outcome was not in question, and I was promptly and deservedly found innocent of all charges and freed.

I confess that after this encounter with the law, I am truly a wiser but not a sober man. Although, I have to say I can’t wait for Mr. Van der Pump’s children to grow up so I can shoot them on Whitiwhangi Day, before noon. After all, they do look a little like Māori……..              

Tuesday 6 February 2024

Rantus Maximus

Not on My Doorstep: No Room in the Inn  

I've been watching videos showing the unrelenting horror unfolding at the Mexican-US border. I watch as SUVs drop off dozens of migrants at the border fence. Clearly, this section of the fence is unguarded by US officials, allowing the illegals to pass through an obviously prepared hole. 

Hordes flood over the border every month. Eighty % are young men. The majority of those entering are not oppressed by some evil regime; they are economic migrants seeking a better life. Many find passage to so-called 'Sanctuary Cities' such as New York. They turn up by bus, truck or train. And here they cry sanctuary. New York is obligated, by law, to provide succour to all who arrive. And they arrive in their thousands. But New York is facing a problem. They have run out of space and resources. The hotels/hostels/shelters are full. New York has been forced to operate a 'revolving door' policy. Single men are expelled after one month and families after two. Then they must stand in line with a multitude of others to reapply. These folks are pushed out into the bitter cold that is the New York winter. This is not what they expected. Where is the milk and honey? And weren't the streets supposed to be paved in gold? In an attempt to stem the flow, the mayor has decreed that buses carrying migrants will not be allowed to enter the city.  However, this initiative has proved fruitless as migrants simply swap their bus passes for train tickets. 

The video focuses on a young woman from Venezuela. She is 19 and heavily pregnant. She wails about the arduous journey that has nearly caused her to have a miscarriage. Are we to feel sympathy? We have to ask, where is the wisdom? She has willingly and knowingly exposed her unborn child to the rigours of a long, perilous journey. Personally, I have no compassion for her plight.

The mayor has implored NY citizens to open their own homes to these hapless migrants. Strangely enough, the good mayor has not offered up accommodation in his own palatial residence, 'Gracie Mansion', which comes as a perk of the job. Apparently, he also owns a further two apartments thereabouts. If anyone has the space for these folk, surely it is he. Most New Yorkers struggle to pay the rent on their modest apartments, but not the mayor.  Gracie Mansion is an imposing and majestic home fit for a king or even a mayor. It comes blessed with five bedrooms and 'state' rooms akimbo. Surely, he could cram in at least twenty families, judging by the size of the place. Predictably, the mayor is not opening his doors to the tired and needy but expects his constituents to take in young, restless males who likely speak no English- sounds like a plan/scam.

It seems poor black neighbourhoods are taking the brunt of New York's utopian left-wing, liberal policies. Tempers are becoming frayed as poor citizens queue up for free meals provided by local charity organisations. They turn up to find the line choked with illegals and, sadly, deserving, tax-paying citizens at the back of the queue receive nowt. Even the liberal latte class are starting to chatter, murmur and organise as they find their schools inundated with kids who don't speak god's own language, English. They are also unhappy to find urine and faeces deposited on their normally pristine doorsteps. And, yea, 'Gypo folk' (Steady Flaxen!) are knocking on doors expecting largesse.

Of course, the problem is being mirrored across cities throughout the land. Inexplicably, it's a particularly imposing problem in Democrat-held burgs. I admit I'm not a great fan of the 'Orange One'. He comes across as an egotistic, uninformed moron. That said, I do believe his border wall initiative was a sound solution. It would not come cheap, but how much local and federal dollars are being spent and will continue to be spent dealing with this ongoing crisis? In the end, the money comes from the tax base. New York City is not a cheap place to live. Rents are ridiculously high, and they continue to rise. Unless you belong to the financial elite, you are truly 'Donald Ducked' (Tipton rhyming slang).  It is estimated that you need to earn in the region of $75,000 to $100,000 per year in order to live comfortably in this wondrous city. How ordinary folk earning a minimum wage of $15/hour, which equates to $31,200 per year, get by is beyond comprehension. This assumes that you are employed 40 hours a week, 52 weeks a year. However, a host of workers in this pay bracket are employed less than 40 hours. A smart move by employers to ensure that workers do not hit 35 hours a week as part-time workers are denied access to mandatory benefits. I'm not going to descend into this particularly slippery rabbit hole concerning minimum wage, etc. Perhaps another time when I've made an effort to educate myself on the myriad of issues involved (maybe not). At this stage, I'm going to plead ignorance. That said, you don't have to be a financial whizz to note that folks on low income are more likely to bugger off to pastures new, leaving those who won't or can't leave to bear the city's tax burden. And don't expect the super-rich to pay their fair share of tax obligation. There is a wealth (pun intended) of loopholes that ensure millionaires/billionaire do not endure their rightful liability- good luck to them, say I. Again, I do not have to be smart to note that the influx of illegals will have revenue issues for the city, and taxes will inevitably increase. Thus, the already financially beleaguered citizens will have to dig deep into their overextended pockets. You can only shear the sheep so much. Overdo it, and they start to bleed.                

This is not just a US issue. The West as a whole is undergoing the same infiltration due to waves of migrants crashing and concussing upon their respective shores. There seems no end to it. What we are seeing is the culmination of the West's liberal, progressive policies that began to be implemented following the end of the Second World War. These so-called progressive policies have been exploited and abused. As stated previously, the majority of migrants flocking to the West are young, unskilled men seeking a utopia that does not exist. We are seeing a degree of pushback, especially in Europe. The Danes and the Poles have lost patience. The Danes, in particular, are waking up to the fact that thousands of Muslims are unwilling to assimilate, thus storing up societal issues for a problematic future! 

Too late, I hear you shout, too fucking late.