I've had the pleasure of meeting many men and women who saved this Nation from the tyranny of the Nazi's 3rd Reich in the Second World War. I can listen to their stories about that war for hours. I have been told tales of heroism in Dunkirk. The battle for North Africa and of the horror that unfolded on the Normandy beaches as D-Day began.
I read about Tohseef Shah today. Tohseef thought it would be a good idea to spray graffiti about Islam over the war memorial in his town.
I imagine (as he has shown no remorse) Tohseef thinks of himself as a bit of a rebel, fighting a Jihad against the Western oppresors. He's not though. Tohseef is a cock.
Our bearded protaganist in this unpleasant tale chose to deface a monument erected to remember the sacrifice of not only the troops who are fighting and dying today, but those who fought in the World Wars. Men and women who died saving the World from great evil.
It pains me to think of what the old veterans in Burton on Trent must have felt deep within, as they looked at Tohseefs piss poor shoddy writing. I suspect our Jihadi fuck-stick carried out his daring raid with all the aplomb of brain washed idiot. It's not difficult to imagine him sniggering as he scrawled his messages of hate.
Tohseef no doubt wishes to envoke rage and anger. He wants us to rant - well I'm not going to. I suspect the brain dead O2 thief will google his name and revel in the despair he will surely stir.
So here's hoping he finds this little blog - because to Tohseef I say this... You're not a soldier mate, you're a a wanker. You're not a hero, you're a throbber.
Feel free to spray your anti-Brit bollocks all over creation matey - Greater men than you gave their lives so you can do that without being shot.
Muslim Jihadi my arse. You're a fucking bellend son.
P.S. Your beard looks shit.
Friday, 30 April 2010
POETS Day Part III
What is that noise - when will it stop
The Birds pondered in the tree
And the Spider raised eight eyebrows
Toward the noisy mystery
The Centipede with all his legs
Ran fleeing from the din
While the frightened Woodlice curled up tight
As their home shook from within
The Monkeys ran along a branch
To escape the awful sound
As the leaves that were shaken loose
Drifted to the ground
And then once more the air was still
The Chainsaws job complete
And the last tree in the forest fell
To make way for the street...
From my smoking ganja hippy warvet days.
The Birds pondered in the tree
And the Spider raised eight eyebrows
Toward the noisy mystery
The Centipede with all his legs
Ran fleeing from the din
While the frightened Woodlice curled up tight
As their home shook from within
The Monkeys ran along a branch
To escape the awful sound
As the leaves that were shaken loose
Drifted to the ground
And then once more the air was still
The Chainsaws job complete
And the last tree in the forest fell
To make way for the street...
From my smoking ganja hippy warvet days.
This Week ...
As "Jesse" (of Jesses' Diets fame (and if you don't know who or why, go Google "The Fast Show")) might say "Today, I 'ave mostly been ... sitting in a pool of my own despair".
Am rapidly coming to the conclusion that my venlafaxine isn't working or is working so well that my ability to distance myself from my own actions is slowly becoming blurred. It's not bad enough yet that I'm thinking of a self-sectioning but it's bad enough that I'm noticing - which is bad enough in itself. 300mg of venlafaxine daily leaves me emotionally numb but also robs me of the creativity that is a big part of my work.
Here's an example. I have a friend who comes over occasionally and helps me to look after M, and makes sure that I'm OK. He's a good friend who's more than capable of having a 100% perfect home life without me getting in the way but he and his partner (soon-to-be-wife) come over and make sure that I'm OK.
I'm grateful beyond measure to them for doing so. At the weekend when they were over they were using one of my laptops and making a purchase on eBay and I got amazingly angry with them (I internalised) that they were constantly asking questions when the answers were on the screen in front of them. How petty is that? I didn't tell them about this but I was seething after they went home and went to bed in a huff.
M (the dog) is been behaving herself (a Good Thing) and I've been trying to hustle up some work for the company: I've got a client who wants work done today and I've delivered that so I'm now pushing to get it done and get more stuff on the plate...
Breaking Down
I wasn't nervous when I had my breakdown - I was terrified. In an overwhelming victory for common sense, school teacher Peter Harvey has been cleared of attempting to murder a school boy who taunted him without mercy.
My Mother doesn't discuss the months that led to my incarceration inside a secure Mental Hospital. It's as if that bleak part of my life didn't exist. I don't blame her for this. It simply breaks my heart. My Father once told me he often finds my Mother clutching a photo. He said she cries silent tears as she stares at the picture of my smiling face, taken on the day I left to join the Army.
I feel for Peter Harvey - he was at his most vulnerable on that day. Instead of being surrounded by supportive people, he was being secretly filmed. For reasons I struggle to understand some young people wished to 'YouTube' a mans breakdown on that fateful day.
My own spiral into insanity would have made for uncomfortable viewing. My sunken eyes would dart frantically about when I entered any room. I needed to see the exits. I had to have an escape route. I would quickly decide what objects would make useful weapons were I to be attacked.
I had relentless flashbacks. The shot away face of a dead boy would force its way into my mind. His broken body, bent, crushed and naked would fill my head till I was sure it would explode. I would remember the fear. My dry mouth and pounding heart. The desperation to live. To breathe.
The weight became to much. My mind collapsed inward and I fell back into the killing fields. I lay among the rotting corpses and screamed at the wild dogs feasting on them. I once again stared at the sobbing soldier who held onto his dead friends hand. Again and again I heard the voices of war over the radio tell me my comrades were dead - and I wept as I thought not of them but of me.
I feel for Peter Harvey. I chose to fight - he chose to educate. Perhaps now the man can move on and get himself put back together. The boy my Mother mourns for is long gone as is the soldier who came home. Perhaps one day I'll find them both and bring them home to Mum.
My Mother doesn't discuss the months that led to my incarceration inside a secure Mental Hospital. It's as if that bleak part of my life didn't exist. I don't blame her for this. It simply breaks my heart. My Father once told me he often finds my Mother clutching a photo. He said she cries silent tears as she stares at the picture of my smiling face, taken on the day I left to join the Army.
I feel for Peter Harvey - he was at his most vulnerable on that day. Instead of being surrounded by supportive people, he was being secretly filmed. For reasons I struggle to understand some young people wished to 'YouTube' a mans breakdown on that fateful day.
My own spiral into insanity would have made for uncomfortable viewing. My sunken eyes would dart frantically about when I entered any room. I needed to see the exits. I had to have an escape route. I would quickly decide what objects would make useful weapons were I to be attacked.
I had relentless flashbacks. The shot away face of a dead boy would force its way into my mind. His broken body, bent, crushed and naked would fill my head till I was sure it would explode. I would remember the fear. My dry mouth and pounding heart. The desperation to live. To breathe.
The weight became to much. My mind collapsed inward and I fell back into the killing fields. I lay among the rotting corpses and screamed at the wild dogs feasting on them. I once again stared at the sobbing soldier who held onto his dead friends hand. Again and again I heard the voices of war over the radio tell me my comrades were dead - and I wept as I thought not of them but of me.
I feel for Peter Harvey. I chose to fight - he chose to educate. Perhaps now the man can move on and get himself put back together. The boy my Mother mourns for is long gone as is the soldier who came home. Perhaps one day I'll find them both and bring them home to Mum.
Thursday, 29 April 2010
A Friday Funny
How To Marshall A Jet Brit Style...
I defy you not to laugh at the 'Thriller' moment... Enjoy!
I defy you not to laugh at the 'Thriller' moment... Enjoy!
I Dont Care Who Wins
This for me is the pic of the campaign...
It was of course done better by two other chaps... Watch this and tell me it doesn't make you smile.
If only this was how it was right?
Best Thing Brown Can Do Tonight - A Little Honesty
The best thing that Brown can do tonight in the BBC1 debate is to appear and in his opening statement say:
"Ladies and gentlemen, I have proudly served the nation as part of the Labour government since 1997. Whilst there have been good times and bad, quite frankly: I'm tired. "
"On this basis, I am quitting my post as leader of the party and am instructing my candidates en masse to step back from campaigning. There is a great deal of regrouping and reconstruction needed on the part of the Labour party before we can be trusted to lead this country again."
"For the purposes of the moment, however, I will now surrender to the will of the Crown Prosecution Service and the International Court in the Hague and would recommend strongly that my fellow cabinet members do so. "
"I believe that I have acted properly but I understand that this is a minority position: on this basis, I will throw myself on the mercy of the Court."
Hopefully he'll get a custodial sentence and in a few years will be enabled to get out into the community on licence where he can become a Church of Scotland minister (like his father) and fade from public life, nothing more than a pimple on the backside of the last 13 years.
When I hear those words tonight, I and the great majority of the United Kingdom will rejoice -- and then be able to go about rebuilding. I was in Kuwait City on March 2nd 1991 and this rejoicing reminds me of what some of my colleagues were doing - shouting at the Kuwaitis thus:
"Stop it! Put down the guns, stop the party, get a broom and clean this country up!"
Flight Of The Valkyrie
Colonel Claus Schenk Graf von Stauffenberg was a German war hero. In every sense of the word. He answered his country's call in World War II and served with distinction under Hitler.
However, he learned of what was going on with the Nazi Party. The final solution...
So - He took part in an infamous botched assasination plot. His coup tragically failed and Stauffenberg was executed. His last words being
Gordon Brown is no Hitler. Hitler was intelligent as well as completely bonkers. Brown is however a despicable human being, as the 'Bigot Gate' scandal so eloquently proved.
It is quite sad to realise so many NuLab drones lack the courage and insight that cost Colonel Stauffenberg his life.
Their endless attempts to spin yesterdays disaster are nothing short of disgraceful.
Labour was set up for the Working Class. The Champagne Socialists utter contempt of their parties core vote was revealed yesterday. Their sycophantic tweets and blogs reveal a clique that is every bit as disgusting as the Leader that they drool over and his ghastly comments.
Our very own 'Sacred Britain' has been trashed by NuLabour. As none of them have the decency to admit they are led by an unelected buffoon who cares only about power and the wielding of it, it is up to us the people instead.
May 6th really can't come soon enough...
However, he learned of what was going on with the Nazi Party. The final solution...
So - He took part in an infamous botched assasination plot. His coup tragically failed and Stauffenberg was executed. His last words being
"Es lebe unser heiliges Deutschland!" ("Long live our sacred Germany!")
Gordon Brown is no Hitler. Hitler was intelligent as well as completely bonkers. Brown is however a despicable human being, as the 'Bigot Gate' scandal so eloquently proved.
It is quite sad to realise so many NuLab drones lack the courage and insight that cost Colonel Stauffenberg his life.
Their endless attempts to spin yesterdays disaster are nothing short of disgraceful.
Labour was set up for the Working Class. The Champagne Socialists utter contempt of their parties core vote was revealed yesterday. Their sycophantic tweets and blogs reveal a clique that is every bit as disgusting as the Leader that they drool over and his ghastly comments.
Our very own 'Sacred Britain' has been trashed by NuLabour. As none of them have the decency to admit they are led by an unelected buffoon who cares only about power and the wielding of it, it is up to us the people instead.
May 6th really can't come soon enough...
Wednesday, 28 April 2010
Working Class Kids
My lad came home from his Comprehensive School today. He's 7 years old...
'What's a Cunt Dad?' he asked.
I despaired at the new word that had crawled into his young mind. I took him by his hand and led him upstairs to where his Mother was sleeping. I pulled back the quilt covering her slumbering naked body and pointed at the small black triangle at the top of her legs.
'See that Son' I said 'That's a Fanny. The Prime Minister is a Cunt'
'What's a Cunt Dad?' he asked.
I despaired at the new word that had crawled into his young mind. I took him by his hand and led him upstairs to where his Mother was sleeping. I pulled back the quilt covering her slumbering naked body and pointed at the small black triangle at the top of her legs.
'See that Son' I said 'That's a Fanny. The Prime Minister is a Cunt'
The Medic Speaks
Squirm Your Way Out of THIS One, Gordon
Before I begin this post, I've a confession to make. I have met Gordon Brown, not once or twice but three times.
I know. I'm sorry. And I've repented. I'm not a Labour party member and never have been but was working for Halifax at the time.
Naturally todays big story is the showdown between Gordon and Gillian: who would expect the Prime Minister, head of a party that has been government for the past 13 years would have his arrse handed to him by a 66 year old Labour supporter and force him into an embarrassing climb down.
As CSR and I both know, if we'd been dumb enough to do that we would have expected a good shoeing.
But here's the question: despite their drones (and I'm looking at you, @bevaniteellie) the labour campaign has been remarkably lacklustre. Why?
Perhaps - PERHAPS - the problem is this: Mr Brown knows just how bad the state of the public finances are and is looking forward to being in opposition so as a backbencher (after the internecine civil war within the Labour party for the poisoned chalice) he can harangue the new government.
Perhaps - to coin a phrase - the leather is greener on the other Commons benches?
Fellow voters, I beseech you, I implore you - do NOT let him get away with it.
In the clearing of the stables and when the new government find the finances are as bad or worse than we fear, take the following actions:
- arrest the current Labour front bench plus anyone who has been a Labour minister in this government
- charge them with perjury, fraud and sedition
- remand them in custody
- try them, find them guilty and incarcerate them.
Only that way will we be clear of these people who believe they are our betters: Keir Hardie must be appalled.
++++++++++ Posted on behalf of John The Medic ++++++++++
Before I begin this post, I've a confession to make. I have met Gordon Brown, not once or twice but three times.
I know. I'm sorry. And I've repented. I'm not a Labour party member and never have been but was working for Halifax at the time.
Naturally todays big story is the showdown between Gordon and Gillian: who would expect the Prime Minister, head of a party that has been government for the past 13 years would have his arrse handed to him by a 66 year old Labour supporter and force him into an embarrassing climb down.
As CSR and I both know, if we'd been dumb enough to do that we would have expected a good shoeing.
But here's the question: despite their drones (and I'm looking at you, @bevaniteellie) the labour campaign has been remarkably lacklustre. Why?
Perhaps - PERHAPS - the problem is this: Mr Brown knows just how bad the state of the public finances are and is looking forward to being in opposition so as a backbencher (after the internecine civil war within the Labour party for the poisoned chalice) he can harangue the new government.
Perhaps - to coin a phrase - the leather is greener on the other Commons benches?
Fellow voters, I beseech you, I implore you - do NOT let him get away with it.
In the clearing of the stables and when the new government find the finances are as bad or worse than we fear, take the following actions:
- arrest the current Labour front bench plus anyone who has been a Labour minister in this government
- charge them with perjury, fraud and sedition
- remand them in custody
- try them, find them guilty and incarcerate them.
Only that way will we be clear of these people who believe they are our betters: Keir Hardie must be appalled.
++++++++++ Posted on behalf of John The Medic ++++++++++
CSR & The Medic
John The Medic has been invited into the chaotic world that is Cold Steel Rain. He's a switched on type of chap and I look forward to him writing on this blog.
Welcome aboard mate.
Edit - It would be rude not to comment on today's bigotgate so here it is...
Bwa ha ha ha ha ha - No Seriously - Bwa ha ha ha ha ha
Nuff said..
Welcome aboard mate.
Edit - It would be rude not to comment on today's bigotgate so here it is...
Bwa ha ha ha ha ha - No Seriously - Bwa ha ha ha ha ha
Nuff said..
A Guest Post From John
Below is a guest post from John (menelausJohn on Twitter - add him. He's a good man) A former Medic in the British Army - who like me got a suntan in Iraq... Sage words indeed.
"We've had confrontational, argumentative governments in the UK for years and witness the effect:
- prime ministers questions becoming prime ministers obfuscation,
- entirely negative electioneering (witness Brown and Mandelsons myriad
mendaciousness)
- the very real possibility of the Liberal Democrats winning the popular vote in
2010 and their still being third in terms of seats.
Match this with the courts during the last parliament concluding that manifesto promises are meaningless and we're the blind being lead by the stupid.
For the late John Smith MP who campaigned vigorously for one member, one vote in the Labour party, the current electoral system must be making him spin in his grave amongst the other acts - including war crimes - committed by his protege and former colleagues.
Compare and contrast Germany. I'm writing this blogpost on a train in Munich from the airport to a clients site. The main observation is peace, quiet and order - the order that comes from grand coalition government - government of national unity, as in place since 1945, in which each vote matters and no-one is disenfranchised.
We in the UK are utterly, utterly screwed in public finances. Any number quoted for public sector borrowing is soon out of date and the markets have shown a willingness to downgrade: see Greece and Portugal. Greece are paying more interest on their national debt than a sub-prime mortgage.
To fix it, we need to get past this election and within six weeks have:
- repealed many of the more obscure laws of Labour
- arrested and remanded Blair, Brown, Mandelson and Darling for perjury and fraud
- start a short, sharp, shock campaign for proportional representation (PR)
Note, not STV or AV - both halfway houses and as is the case with halfway
houses, compromises which satisfy no-one - but true, public preference, PR.
Onwards!"
Cheers
John
"We've had confrontational, argumentative governments in the UK for years and witness the effect:
- prime ministers questions becoming prime ministers obfuscation,
- entirely negative electioneering (witness Brown and Mandelsons myriad
mendaciousness)
- the very real possibility of the Liberal Democrats winning the popular vote in
2010 and their still being third in terms of seats.
Match this with the courts during the last parliament concluding that manifesto promises are meaningless and we're the blind being lead by the stupid.
For the late John Smith MP who campaigned vigorously for one member, one vote in the Labour party, the current electoral system must be making him spin in his grave amongst the other acts - including war crimes - committed by his protege and former colleagues.
Compare and contrast Germany. I'm writing this blogpost on a train in Munich from the airport to a clients site. The main observation is peace, quiet and order - the order that comes from grand coalition government - government of national unity, as in place since 1945, in which each vote matters and no-one is disenfranchised.
We in the UK are utterly, utterly screwed in public finances. Any number quoted for public sector borrowing is soon out of date and the markets have shown a willingness to downgrade: see Greece and Portugal. Greece are paying more interest on their national debt than a sub-prime mortgage.
To fix it, we need to get past this election and within six weeks have:
- repealed many of the more obscure laws of Labour
- arrested and remanded Blair, Brown, Mandelson and Darling for perjury and fraud
- start a short, sharp, shock campaign for proportional representation (PR)
Note, not STV or AV - both halfway houses and as is the case with halfway
houses, compromises which satisfy no-one - but true, public preference, PR.
Onwards!"
Cheers
John
The Cost Of NuLabour
In August 2007 soldiers of the 1st Bn The Royal Anglian Regiment were engaged in a firefight with the Taliban in Afghanistan.
In order to win the fight Sgt Mark Perren called in an airstrike. The American F15 that responded dropped a 500lb bomb onto the British troops. 3 soldiers were killed in the Blue-on-Blue incident.
Sgt Perren initially gave the correct coordinates to the American Pilot. However, when they were read back to him a single digit was wrong. Sgt Perren confirmed they were right and the bomb hit the wrong target.
The reason Sgt Perren was unable to clearly hear the Pilot was NuLabours disgraceful underfunding of the military.
There was no headset for his Harris radio. The noise of incoming mortar rounds deafened him. Headsets are relatively inexpensive, but they are the type of equipment that is binned in order to trim a few more pennies of an already stretched budget.
NuLabours failure to properly equip British troops has led to several preventable deaths. Sgt Perren did everything in his power to save his comrades and defeat the enemy. Tragically for the men of the 1st Bn The Royal Anglian Regiment the enemy in Whitehall gave them little chance that day.
In order to win the fight Sgt Mark Perren called in an airstrike. The American F15 that responded dropped a 500lb bomb onto the British troops. 3 soldiers were killed in the Blue-on-Blue incident.
Sgt Perren initially gave the correct coordinates to the American Pilot. However, when they were read back to him a single digit was wrong. Sgt Perren confirmed they were right and the bomb hit the wrong target.
The reason Sgt Perren was unable to clearly hear the Pilot was NuLabours disgraceful underfunding of the military.
There was no headset for his Harris radio. The noise of incoming mortar rounds deafened him. Headsets are relatively inexpensive, but they are the type of equipment that is binned in order to trim a few more pennies of an already stretched budget.
NuLabours failure to properly equip British troops has led to several preventable deaths. Sgt Perren did everything in his power to save his comrades and defeat the enemy. Tragically for the men of the 1st Bn The Royal Anglian Regiment the enemy in Whitehall gave them little chance that day.
Tuesday, 27 April 2010
Helicopter Dreams
The helicopter has a steel floor - The loadmaster is grinning as he points to the battlefield below. His eyes are hidden behind dark perspex bug-eyes and he is hanging onto his Machine Gun. I notice a can has been strapped to the side, to help feed the belt of ammunition into it.
Below us shells have carved black holes into the sand. Red smeared petals spread out from them, bizarre flowers made up of cordite and sand, flesh and bone.
Tracer rounds drift lazily up from far away. The loadmaster swings his gun into his shoulder, but quickly loses interest and goes back to surveying the broken war machine below us.
The helicopter touches down. I clamber out closing my eyes as the sand from the rotor blades bites into my face.
The dead no longer look like flowers. They look like the dead. I squeeze the bullet hanging off my dog tag chain. 'Please god - not me' a silent prayer is whispered.
A kneeling soldier reaches out to me. His head is gone - I look around. But it is nowhere. Gone. I close my eyes again. Squeezing them shut. I can taste the cordite hear the distant thump of artillery.
I open my eyes. I'm at home. Empty beer bottles jostle alongside a full ashtray. I light a cigarette and pull in too much smoke. The burn in my throat hurts. I'm alive. It's over.
I stare at the PC. The word delete blurs through my tears. One click. It's gone. The words no longer exist on screen so I go to sleep. To dream. To scream. The words are back today. For now.
Below us shells have carved black holes into the sand. Red smeared petals spread out from them, bizarre flowers made up of cordite and sand, flesh and bone.
Tracer rounds drift lazily up from far away. The loadmaster swings his gun into his shoulder, but quickly loses interest and goes back to surveying the broken war machine below us.
The helicopter touches down. I clamber out closing my eyes as the sand from the rotor blades bites into my face.
The dead no longer look like flowers. They look like the dead. I squeeze the bullet hanging off my dog tag chain. 'Please god - not me' a silent prayer is whispered.
A kneeling soldier reaches out to me. His head is gone - I look around. But it is nowhere. Gone. I close my eyes again. Squeezing them shut. I can taste the cordite hear the distant thump of artillery.
I open my eyes. I'm at home. Empty beer bottles jostle alongside a full ashtray. I light a cigarette and pull in too much smoke. The burn in my throat hurts. I'm alive. It's over.
I stare at the PC. The word delete blurs through my tears. One click. It's gone. The words no longer exist on screen so I go to sleep. To dream. To scream. The words are back today. For now.
Monday, 26 April 2010
Dear Virgin
Thanks awfully for your 'Hows my service been survey.. Please find attached my answer.
I have been paying a tonne of cash for 'The Mother Of All Broadband' Only to have connection speeds somewhat akin to a snail who has a sick note of his Mum as he is a bit wheezy and not quite up to it today..
How ironic that I myself fought in Operation Granby during the Gulf War in 1991 where Saddam Hussein declared it would be 'The Mother of All Battles...' Much like your claim it was in fact a damp squib, with lots of hanging around, endless frustration and lots of questions asking myself why oh why did I fucking choose this.
Kudos to Saddam though, at least in his 'Mother Of All Shenanigans' I got to lob loads of grenades, fire shit loads of tracer and drive a hoofing big Tank really fucking fast. I also got a rather nice suntan and a free beer token of The Sun.
Also please keep up the endless calls asking me if I want to swap to your television service. When I say no thanks I have Sky, you are of course right in thinking I mean 'Please Dwayne at Customer care I am indecisive and actually need another 33 calls of you'
I'm actually not that surprised you are still a Virgin.. As I myself like to be kissed before I get fucked. Have a nice day and all my love to Dwayne...
I have been paying a tonne of cash for 'The Mother Of All Broadband' Only to have connection speeds somewhat akin to a snail who has a sick note of his Mum as he is a bit wheezy and not quite up to it today..
How ironic that I myself fought in Operation Granby during the Gulf War in 1991 where Saddam Hussein declared it would be 'The Mother of All Battles...' Much like your claim it was in fact a damp squib, with lots of hanging around, endless frustration and lots of questions asking myself why oh why did I fucking choose this.
Kudos to Saddam though, at least in his 'Mother Of All Shenanigans' I got to lob loads of grenades, fire shit loads of tracer and drive a hoofing big Tank really fucking fast. I also got a rather nice suntan and a free beer token of The Sun.
Also please keep up the endless calls asking me if I want to swap to your television service. When I say no thanks I have Sky, you are of course right in thinking I mean 'Please Dwayne at Customer care I am indecisive and actually need another 33 calls of you'
I'm actually not that surprised you are still a Virgin.. As I myself like to be kissed before I get fucked. Have a nice day and all my love to Dwayne...
The Secret Life Of Walter Mitty
It is a well known fact in the British Army, that every pub in the United Kingdom has a former member of the Special Air Service drinking there as a regular.
They are easy to spot to the well trained eye. They will have a bushy moustache, a faraway look in the eye and if you ply them with free drinks all night - they'll regale you with tales of derring-do during their time spent with 'The Regiment'.
Trouble is - they're bullshitters.
Unbeknownst to most civilians there are a group of people fondly referred to by the Forces as 'Walts'. Like that fabled character Walter Mitty they dream up tales of heroic past lives where they 'Stormed MG nests' at Goose Green. 'Were the second man on the balcony' at the Iranian Embassy siege and 'Parachuted into the Afghan'
Bullshitting about what one has done in the service of the Crown is a rite of passage for soldiers. Especially if it gains one a free drink off a gullible civvy or a leg-over from a cute Doris. However... Behind these tales must lie an element of truth (unless of course it is the 'Dolphin Trainer' scam)
I've met a few. Serving and Ex-Squaddies are the nemesis of the Walt. You can see the terror in their eyes as they mention a specific campaign and one casually says to them 'You were in the Gulf War - Fuck me mate, so was I! What unit?'
The most curious of all Walts are those who have served - In many cases with distinction - Who then conspire to decieve those around them. The BNP has just found itself a Walt. Adam Walker was spotted out campaigning with Nick Griffin.
Now Adam has been a soldier. But he ain't no more. What he should have done is wear his medals on a Blazer with pride. Nothing further would have been said. We would have moved along.
Alas - Adam wished to dupe the Public and his protests of 'Wearing the Uniform to show solidarity' don't wash. He is a Walt, a Throbber and a Gimp. Show him no pity and pour scorn upon his daftness at appearing in Desert Combats whilst not serving.
Then pour me a pint and I'll tell you about the day I took out the Republican Guard with a tin of bacon burgers, a mess-tin and well thumbed copy of Razzle...
They are easy to spot to the well trained eye. They will have a bushy moustache, a faraway look in the eye and if you ply them with free drinks all night - they'll regale you with tales of derring-do during their time spent with 'The Regiment'.
Trouble is - they're bullshitters.
Unbeknownst to most civilians there are a group of people fondly referred to by the Forces as 'Walts'. Like that fabled character Walter Mitty they dream up tales of heroic past lives where they 'Stormed MG nests' at Goose Green. 'Were the second man on the balcony' at the Iranian Embassy siege and 'Parachuted into the Afghan'
Bullshitting about what one has done in the service of the Crown is a rite of passage for soldiers. Especially if it gains one a free drink off a gullible civvy or a leg-over from a cute Doris. However... Behind these tales must lie an element of truth (unless of course it is the 'Dolphin Trainer' scam)
I've met a few. Serving and Ex-Squaddies are the nemesis of the Walt. You can see the terror in their eyes as they mention a specific campaign and one casually says to them 'You were in the Gulf War - Fuck me mate, so was I! What unit?'
The most curious of all Walts are those who have served - In many cases with distinction - Who then conspire to decieve those around them. The BNP has just found itself a Walt. Adam Walker was spotted out campaigning with Nick Griffin.
Now Adam has been a soldier. But he ain't no more. What he should have done is wear his medals on a Blazer with pride. Nothing further would have been said. We would have moved along.
Alas - Adam wished to dupe the Public and his protests of 'Wearing the Uniform to show solidarity' don't wash. He is a Walt, a Throbber and a Gimp. Show him no pity and pour scorn upon his daftness at appearing in Desert Combats whilst not serving.
Then pour me a pint and I'll tell you about the day I took out the Republican Guard with a tin of bacon burgers, a mess-tin and well thumbed copy of Razzle...
Friday, 23 April 2010
What's In The Box Dad?
My Seven year old son often asks me that. The box in question sits atop a cupboard in the kitchen.
'Oh not much' I say to him as I glance up at the little wooden cube.
That's not true. The box contains a little piece of my life that my son knows nothing of. It has two steel discs inside its battered walls. The letters and figures punched into the discs would have told the men who found my dead body what my number was. My date of birth. My religion and my blood group.
There is also a medal in there. Its ribbon has long since faded and the Queens face is dulled and no longer shines.
Another steel disc lives next to my two. It is inscribed with a language I do not understand. The Arabic symbols must also represent another soldiers basic details. I found the enemy dogtag in a destroyed position. There was no body just a disc.
There are also some photographs. They are sealed in a plastic bag and I have not looked at them for a long time. They are moments of madness, despair and horror captured forever in time. Bloated broken faces stare out of them. As do the tired, frightened and homesick eyes of a teenager at war.
Somewhere inside that box is a child. A child with a rifle who didn't come home. My Mother still mourns his loss and he is seldom spoken of. I try to remember him and how he was before. But like the boy himself the memory has gone.
One day I will bury the box far away from the curious eyes and mind of my young son. But not yet...
'Oh not much' I say to him as I glance up at the little wooden cube.
That's not true. The box contains a little piece of my life that my son knows nothing of. It has two steel discs inside its battered walls. The letters and figures punched into the discs would have told the men who found my dead body what my number was. My date of birth. My religion and my blood group.
There is also a medal in there. Its ribbon has long since faded and the Queens face is dulled and no longer shines.
Another steel disc lives next to my two. It is inscribed with a language I do not understand. The Arabic symbols must also represent another soldiers basic details. I found the enemy dogtag in a destroyed position. There was no body just a disc.
There are also some photographs. They are sealed in a plastic bag and I have not looked at them for a long time. They are moments of madness, despair and horror captured forever in time. Bloated broken faces stare out of them. As do the tired, frightened and homesick eyes of a teenager at war.
Somewhere inside that box is a child. A child with a rifle who didn't come home. My Mother still mourns his loss and he is seldom spoken of. I try to remember him and how he was before. But like the boy himself the memory has gone.
One day I will bury the box far away from the curious eyes and mind of my young son. But not yet...
Thursday, 22 April 2010
Let Them Eat Cake
I like Chocolate cake. I like it a lot actually. This craving of mine for thick wedges of sponge and icing led to me learn a valuable lesson from a very young age.
I could not have my cake and then eat my cake. It was either one or the other. I didn't like this when I was very small and reliant on my folks. So I would scream and kick until my old man grew weary of my strops and clumped me.
I have been thinking about war a lot this week. This annoys me on many levels - I spent a lot of time licking a window several years ago while a kindly and very patient Doctor spent hour upon hour helping me to stop thinking about war.
We're at war right now - Well sort of. It's more of a WarLite you see. Our soldiers are dying and getting wounded. We've got that bit nicely squared away. However... Those who make the decisions up top, don't really have the stomach for a Full Fat Kill-Em-All type war. So we have been given this lukewarm cup of piss that is WarLite in its place.
If we are going to fight this war - it has to be total. We have to absorb massive casualties - inflict tenfold more upon the enemy. We have to spill his guts and show him no mercy - we must fill the cup of victory with his blood. There must be a wholesale slaughter of the enemy. Their rotting corpses should be piled ten feet high around our FireBases. Hundreds of thousand will die and many more will be wounded.
Then they'll give up. We can then bring home our survivors and try our best to patch them up.
The trouble is - You ain't gonna sell that to the Public. Why? Because this fucking war isn't worth the life of but one of our troops, that's why. Our kids are being sent off to fight and die with one arm tied behind their backs. We're either in or we are out. Me - I say we're out.
To those who lead us... Either eat that fucking cake or put it away.
I could not have my cake and then eat my cake. It was either one or the other. I didn't like this when I was very small and reliant on my folks. So I would scream and kick until my old man grew weary of my strops and clumped me.
I have been thinking about war a lot this week. This annoys me on many levels - I spent a lot of time licking a window several years ago while a kindly and very patient Doctor spent hour upon hour helping me to stop thinking about war.
We're at war right now - Well sort of. It's more of a WarLite you see. Our soldiers are dying and getting wounded. We've got that bit nicely squared away. However... Those who make the decisions up top, don't really have the stomach for a Full Fat Kill-Em-All type war. So we have been given this lukewarm cup of piss that is WarLite in its place.
If we are going to fight this war - it has to be total. We have to absorb massive casualties - inflict tenfold more upon the enemy. We have to spill his guts and show him no mercy - we must fill the cup of victory with his blood. There must be a wholesale slaughter of the enemy. Their rotting corpses should be piled ten feet high around our FireBases. Hundreds of thousand will die and many more will be wounded.
Then they'll give up. We can then bring home our survivors and try our best to patch them up.
The trouble is - You ain't gonna sell that to the Public. Why? Because this fucking war isn't worth the life of but one of our troops, that's why. Our kids are being sent off to fight and die with one arm tied behind their backs. We're either in or we are out. Me - I say we're out.
To those who lead us... Either eat that fucking cake or put it away.
I Have Caught The Cleggy
Oh dear - I seem to have picked up a dose of the Cleggy. It's like the Lergy but worse - much worse...
It turns your thoughts slightly LibDemmy wishy washy you see.
I blogged about Sgt Mark Leader earlier this morning. He's the Royal Marine who thumped a Taliban round the cannister with a rubber boot. Not just any old Taliban mind... This was one he'd caught planting an IED.
Sgt Leader has had 3 of his mates killed by IED's. So I've had a rethink on my earlier blog.
Mark Leader should have dragged the Taliban chap somewhere out of sight. He should then have shot him. Lots of times.
We'd then have one less Taliban to kill and one more Marine Sergeant to kill the others.
War is completely shit. I know - I've been to one. You win wars by killing so many of the enemy they get fucked off with dying and they give in. I sometimes forget that. Sgt Leader was doing a shitty job in a shitty war. What he doesn't need is the shitty treatment he just recieved...
Give the man his job back. Fuck knows if we're going to win this nightmare we need men like Sgt Leader at the front...
It turns your thoughts slightly LibDemmy wishy washy you see.
I blogged about Sgt Mark Leader earlier this morning. He's the Royal Marine who thumped a Taliban round the cannister with a rubber boot. Not just any old Taliban mind... This was one he'd caught planting an IED.
Sgt Leader has had 3 of his mates killed by IED's. So I've had a rethink on my earlier blog.
Mark Leader should have dragged the Taliban chap somewhere out of sight. He should then have shot him. Lots of times.
We'd then have one less Taliban to kill and one more Marine Sergeant to kill the others.
War is completely shit. I know - I've been to one. You win wars by killing so many of the enemy they get fucked off with dying and they give in. I sometimes forget that. Sgt Leader was doing a shitty job in a shitty war. What he doesn't need is the shitty treatment he just recieved...
Give the man his job back. Fuck knows if we're going to win this nightmare we need men like Sgt Leader at the front...
Comfort To The Enemy
I've been reading about former Royal Marine Sergeant Mark Leader
Sgt Leader clumped a Taliban suspect his patrol had caught planting an IED. For this moment of madness Sgt Leader has been slung out of the Marines and his life is in ruins. His career is over.
Sgt Leader used a Wellington boot to smack the PW in the chops. He split his lip and loosened a couple of teeth. He didn't shred his lower body. He didn't rip off the mans arms. He didn't blind him or deafen him. He didn't kill him either.
That however is what the Afghan PW was intending for Sgt Leader and his mates.
Don't get me wrong here. Sgt Leader should not have assaulted the Taliban suspect. Enemy PW's should be treated with fairness. However, a momentary lapse of reason should not cost a man his career. It should perhaps have cost him one of his stripes. That would be a hard punishment for a Marine like Mark to swallow.
The Court Martial that ended his career did so from behind desks whilst sat in comfortable chairs. Their decision has destroyed a Marine and given comfort to the enemy.
It is not difficult to imagine the Taliban laughing as they discuss how weak and pathetic their enemies Leaders are. We are losing this war not on the field of battle, but in the corridors of power back home.
Sgt Leader clumped a Taliban suspect his patrol had caught planting an IED. For this moment of madness Sgt Leader has been slung out of the Marines and his life is in ruins. His career is over.
Sgt Leader used a Wellington boot to smack the PW in the chops. He split his lip and loosened a couple of teeth. He didn't shred his lower body. He didn't rip off the mans arms. He didn't blind him or deafen him. He didn't kill him either.
That however is what the Afghan PW was intending for Sgt Leader and his mates.
Don't get me wrong here. Sgt Leader should not have assaulted the Taliban suspect. Enemy PW's should be treated with fairness. However, a momentary lapse of reason should not cost a man his career. It should perhaps have cost him one of his stripes. That would be a hard punishment for a Marine like Mark to swallow.
The Court Martial that ended his career did so from behind desks whilst sat in comfortable chairs. Their decision has destroyed a Marine and given comfort to the enemy.
It is not difficult to imagine the Taliban laughing as they discuss how weak and pathetic their enemies Leaders are. We are losing this war not on the field of battle, but in the corridors of power back home.
Wednesday, 21 April 2010
A Cleansing Of The Soul
It was easy to get a beer after the war. I'd walk into a bar, order a pint and wait. My skin had been scorched chocolate brown by six months of Middle-Eastern Sun.
Sooner or later someone would comment on it. 'Nice holiday mate' was the usual opening gambit 'Been anywhere nice?'
It became easier to say the word 'Iraq' and I soon learned to ignore the wide eyes that followed my saying it. Without any further words a pint or a short would appear in front of me. 'Legend' 'Have one on me' 'Top job mate' These were the words accompanying the free drink.
My new found friend would then dance around the question they needed answering. We'd discuss tactics, Muslims, beer and women. Then they'd ask. 'Did you kill anyone?'
It was then I'd go back to Iraq.
I would once again be looking at 3 dead soldiers. Twisted, burnt, fucked up and dead. Very dead.
I spoke to my friend and told him to check the dead bodies lying still in the heat.
'What the fuck for?' he replied...
'Make sure they're dead' I said.
7 or 8 shots then rang out. I'd turned my back on the man I'd known since I was 16 and he'd fired his weapon.
'What the fuck are you doing?' I shouted.
'They're dead' he replied.
The rest of that day collapsed into insanity. We found more enemy dead. We searched their stiff lifeless bodies. Hating them for getting killed. Hating the Army for killing them. Hating ourselves for being there.
I looked through a cameras shutter. In front of it was a dead Iraqi. His chest had collapsed under the weight of fire that had claimed his life. Next to him was my friend. My smiling friend. My smiling friend a dead soldier and some cigarettes. I squeezed my trigger finger and the insanity was captured onto a 110 film.
I sat and stared at another human beings brain on that day. it had fallen out of his skull intact. I traced my finger over the grey lumps that had been his life, his memories, his entire existence. I felt nothing.
Did I kill anyone. Yes I did. We all did. Then we came home...
Sooner or later someone would comment on it. 'Nice holiday mate' was the usual opening gambit 'Been anywhere nice?'
It became easier to say the word 'Iraq' and I soon learned to ignore the wide eyes that followed my saying it. Without any further words a pint or a short would appear in front of me. 'Legend' 'Have one on me' 'Top job mate' These were the words accompanying the free drink.
My new found friend would then dance around the question they needed answering. We'd discuss tactics, Muslims, beer and women. Then they'd ask. 'Did you kill anyone?'
It was then I'd go back to Iraq.
I would once again be looking at 3 dead soldiers. Twisted, burnt, fucked up and dead. Very dead.
I spoke to my friend and told him to check the dead bodies lying still in the heat.
'What the fuck for?' he replied...
'Make sure they're dead' I said.
7 or 8 shots then rang out. I'd turned my back on the man I'd known since I was 16 and he'd fired his weapon.
'What the fuck are you doing?' I shouted.
'They're dead' he replied.
The rest of that day collapsed into insanity. We found more enemy dead. We searched their stiff lifeless bodies. Hating them for getting killed. Hating the Army for killing them. Hating ourselves for being there.
I looked through a cameras shutter. In front of it was a dead Iraqi. His chest had collapsed under the weight of fire that had claimed his life. Next to him was my friend. My smiling friend. My smiling friend a dead soldier and some cigarettes. I squeezed my trigger finger and the insanity was captured onto a 110 film.
I sat and stared at another human beings brain on that day. it had fallen out of his skull intact. I traced my finger over the grey lumps that had been his life, his memories, his entire existence. I felt nothing.
Did I kill anyone. Yes I did. We all did. Then we came home...
Nineteen
In 1985 I bought a 12 inch single produced by a Musician called Paul Hardcastle. The song was about American troops in Vietnam and it was called 19. Six years later I went to war. I was 19 years old. In an ironic twist of personal fate 19 years after I came home, Paul Hardcastle has re-released the song - but it now focuses on British troops in Afghanistan.
The first dead soldier I came across shattered my illusions of war in an instant. His limbs were twisted at impossible angles, his unblinking eyes stared through me and his jaw gaped wide open forever stuck in a last silent scream as high velocity rounds had snuffed out his existence.
I spent a long time staring at him. I'd seen hundreds of soldiers die on TV. They clutched their chests and asked their friends to convey messages of love back home. None of them looked like the dead soldier I now stared at. His lifeless hands reached up toward the sky and no matter how long I stared he didn't move.
I saw many dead soldiers in my war. Some were torn apart by high explosives - others lay naked on the floor, their clothes ripped away by the concussion wave caused by detonating shells. Then there were those who looked to be sleeping, but they would never wake.
Their lifeless bodies frightened me. I would stare at them willing them to move. The finality of death weighed heavily upon my young mind. I had thought of war as being glorious. I had not expected the obscenity of seeing young lives shot away in an instant with no goodbyes.
I have been home for 19 years now. There is not a day goes by where I don't find myself back in the desert kneeling beside that dead teenager. I have often wished that instead of leaving him there alone I had buried him. I wonder what his name was. I think of his parents. I cry for us both.
I spoke with my Grandfather before he died about my war and his. I asked him if it ever goes away. My Grandfather smiled as he spoke to me. 'It doesn't ever go away son' He said. 'But you learn to live with it'
I have learned to live with that part of my life when the world went so wrong. There are often times when it hammers into my head without warning and my mind takes me to places I don't want to go. But I try to push it away, I try to stem the tears and I try to ignore the aching void I have inside of me.
The 19 year olds fighting in Afghanistan today will carry their war inside them in the years to come. I downloaded Paul Hardcastles remix of 19 and it made painful listening for me. I thought of my friends and I thought of the enemy and I thought of those weeks when we slaughtered each other and I thought of our boys in The Helmand. I thought about them a lot...
The first dead soldier I came across shattered my illusions of war in an instant. His limbs were twisted at impossible angles, his unblinking eyes stared through me and his jaw gaped wide open forever stuck in a last silent scream as high velocity rounds had snuffed out his existence.
I spent a long time staring at him. I'd seen hundreds of soldiers die on TV. They clutched their chests and asked their friends to convey messages of love back home. None of them looked like the dead soldier I now stared at. His lifeless hands reached up toward the sky and no matter how long I stared he didn't move.
I saw many dead soldiers in my war. Some were torn apart by high explosives - others lay naked on the floor, their clothes ripped away by the concussion wave caused by detonating shells. Then there were those who looked to be sleeping, but they would never wake.
Their lifeless bodies frightened me. I would stare at them willing them to move. The finality of death weighed heavily upon my young mind. I had thought of war as being glorious. I had not expected the obscenity of seeing young lives shot away in an instant with no goodbyes.
I have been home for 19 years now. There is not a day goes by where I don't find myself back in the desert kneeling beside that dead teenager. I have often wished that instead of leaving him there alone I had buried him. I wonder what his name was. I think of his parents. I cry for us both.
I spoke with my Grandfather before he died about my war and his. I asked him if it ever goes away. My Grandfather smiled as he spoke to me. 'It doesn't ever go away son' He said. 'But you learn to live with it'
I have learned to live with that part of my life when the world went so wrong. There are often times when it hammers into my head without warning and my mind takes me to places I don't want to go. But I try to push it away, I try to stem the tears and I try to ignore the aching void I have inside of me.
The 19 year olds fighting in Afghanistan today will carry their war inside them in the years to come. I downloaded Paul Hardcastles remix of 19 and it made painful listening for me. I thought of my friends and I thought of the enemy and I thought of those weeks when we slaughtered each other and I thought of our boys in The Helmand. I thought about them a lot...
Nineteen
Tuesday, 20 April 2010
1000 2000 3000 Check Canopy...
OK job jobbed. I've set up a little donations page you can view right here
Any cash given goes straight into the Combat Stress coffers. So CSR won't be able to drink it!
Now I know what you're thinking. You don't know me. How do you know I wont cry like a girl on the day and bottle it.
Well I do know me and I do know Veterans with PTSD. Lots of them. They need this money. So trust me I'll jump...
So feel free to Tweet, Blog, Facebook and what not this page. It really is for a good cause.
Thanks all. CSR.
P.S. I reserve the right to cry like a girl in the Plane...
Any cash given goes straight into the Combat Stress coffers. So CSR won't be able to drink it!
Now I know what you're thinking. You don't know me. How do you know I wont cry like a girl on the day and bottle it.
Well I do know me and I do know Veterans with PTSD. Lots of them. They need this money. So trust me I'll jump...
So feel free to Tweet, Blog, Facebook and what not this page. It really is for a good cause.
Thanks all. CSR.
P.S. I reserve the right to cry like a girl in the Plane...
Oh Bollocks
I Aint Gettin' On No Plane
Actually that's not true. I am getting on a Plane, even though Planes give me the fear. When I say fear I mean lip-wobbling 'I want my Mum' big girls blouse type fear...
However, I won't be on it when it lands. How is this possible I hear you cry? Well thats easy enough to answer. I'm going to jump out of it.
Yep that's right - CSR got pissed on Saturday. The subject of Combat Stress came up and how we could best raise money for this most worthy of causes.
Now the trouble is CSR gets brave when he's had a drink. Not 'What choo lookin at you slaaaag' type brave - but 'I know - I'll jump out of a Plane to raise some cash for our troops' type brave.
My intentions are these.
1 - To pay for the jump myself (meaning any money donated goes to the worthy and not CSR's beer fund)
2 - To film said jump for the amusement of the masses.
3 - To cry and scream like a girl all the way down.
4 - To stop getting pissed with other ex-squaddies on weekends.
I'm sure in this day and age of the Tinternetz I'll be able to join some sort of web-page meaning you can donate directly (should you wish too) So stand by for that.
In the meantime I shall leave you with this thought. The next fucker who sends me a YouTube link showing a parachute accident - is going to get punched in the eye really hard. It's not big and it's not clever.
However, I won't be on it when it lands. How is this possible I hear you cry? Well thats easy enough to answer. I'm going to jump out of it.
Yep that's right - CSR got pissed on Saturday. The subject of Combat Stress came up and how we could best raise money for this most worthy of causes.
Now the trouble is CSR gets brave when he's had a drink. Not 'What choo lookin at you slaaaag' type brave - but 'I know - I'll jump out of a Plane to raise some cash for our troops' type brave.
My intentions are these.
1 - To pay for the jump myself (meaning any money donated goes to the worthy and not CSR's beer fund)
2 - To film said jump for the amusement of the masses.
3 - To cry and scream like a girl all the way down.
4 - To stop getting pissed with other ex-squaddies on weekends.
I'm sure in this day and age of the Tinternetz I'll be able to join some sort of web-page meaning you can donate directly (should you wish too) So stand by for that.
In the meantime I shall leave you with this thought. The next fucker who sends me a YouTube link showing a parachute accident - is going to get punched in the eye really hard. It's not big and it's not clever.
What The Fuck Was I Thinking
Stop The War
CSR had a bit to do with the Stop The War Coallition a while back. They're an unusual bunch to be sure.
Those at the top
Those at the top
A Great Man Once Said
we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender
Forgive my little wobble. What is it them NuLab Fanbois keep saying? 'Game On' I should fucking Coco.
Monday, 19 April 2010
The Last Blog
Well for now anyways...
I've just watched a Video that has hurt. A lot. Paul Hardcastle's 19...
I first heard that song when I was 14. I went to war at 19. It's just a tune right? Well it should be. But this tune has been updated.
It now speaks about our kids - Not American kids from the past.
I'm fed up with this election. I'm fed up with the liars who covet my vote. I'm fed up with debates. I'm fed up with polls. I'm fed up with the way things are.
I'm fed up with seeing kids come home in boxes covered with a flag.
None of the Politicians who want my all important kiss want to discuss this fucked up war. Well I do. I want to know what our children are dying for. I want to know what the end game is. I want to know if there's a plan.
This war isn't Vietnam.
I used to be a soldier. I'm many things - but I'm not a hippy. I don't hug trees. I don't burn our flag. I don't spit on our Veterans. But I want to know what our troops are dying for.
A future fair for all. Vote for change. These are just words.
There are no people willing to lead this Nation with the courage worthy of the blood spilled in their name. None of them are going to get my vote. For the first time in my life I am not scoring that box.
What they have is my contempt. My frustration. My despair. My anger. My rage.
I wont blog again until at least after the election. If at all. But I wont stop being angry. I wont stop hurting. That frightens me...
+++++++++++++++ UPDATE +++++++++++++++
I had a bit of a rough night - That video had an impact.
I think if I'm honest, it left me a little shell-shocked. I'm not going to run and hide.
I've just watched a Video that has hurt. A lot. Paul Hardcastle's 19...
I first heard that song when I was 14. I went to war at 19. It's just a tune right? Well it should be. But this tune has been updated.
It now speaks about our kids - Not American kids from the past.
I'm fed up with this election. I'm fed up with the liars who covet my vote. I'm fed up with debates. I'm fed up with polls. I'm fed up with the way things are.
I'm fed up with seeing kids come home in boxes covered with a flag.
None of the Politicians who want my all important kiss want to discuss this fucked up war. Well I do. I want to know what our children are dying for. I want to know what the end game is. I want to know if there's a plan.
This war isn't Vietnam.
I used to be a soldier. I'm many things - but I'm not a hippy. I don't hug trees. I don't burn our flag. I don't spit on our Veterans. But I want to know what our troops are dying for.
A future fair for all. Vote for change. These are just words.
There are no people willing to lead this Nation with the courage worthy of the blood spilled in their name. None of them are going to get my vote. For the first time in my life I am not scoring that box.
What they have is my contempt. My frustration. My despair. My anger. My rage.
I wont blog again until at least after the election. If at all. But I wont stop being angry. I wont stop hurting. That frightens me...
+++++++++++++++ UPDATE +++++++++++++++
I had a bit of a rough night - That video had an impact.
I think if I'm honest, it left me a little shell-shocked. I'm not going to run and hide.
CSR And The Nazi's
I've just had a read of Muffled Vociferations excellent blog and noticed something was afoot.
It would appear the NuLab Nazi's are out in force and cleansing the web of any opposition to their Dear Leader by having all the Downfall Spoofs removed. Actually that's not true. The ones they're having cleansed are those that poke fun at the one-eyed McBroon.
There is of course a delicous irony in the fact NuLab Nazis are having Videos removed of the greatest Nazi of them all because they paint their fucknutleader in a poor light. However...
This is bad. This is very bad. CSR and the Nazi's go way back. You see both of CSR's Grandads and one of his Nans had a bit of a ding-dong with the Nazi's back in the day.
My folks didn't simply roll-over and take that Jack boot up the Jacksy. No! They stood their ground. They said 'Fuck You' and they promptly fucked off to Africa, Italy, France and Germany (well Nan didn't she stayed in London on her Ack-Ack Battery) and they took the fight to the enemy.
CSR spent a Saturday afternoon lampooning the Gorgon in an effort to have a bit of a chuckle and maybe promote Old Holborns bid to be an MP - and the fuckers have had mine pulled. So CSR feels it necessary to do his bit.
As I like Tarantino movies so much I thought I'd quote one - a recent one.
So here it is... The Downfall of Brown Part II Enjoy folks...
It would appear the NuLab Nazi's are out in force and cleansing the web of any opposition to their Dear Leader by having all the Downfall Spoofs removed. Actually that's not true. The ones they're having cleansed are those that poke fun at the one-eyed McBroon.
There is of course a delicous irony in the fact NuLab Nazis are having Videos removed of the greatest Nazi of them all because they paint their fucknutleader in a poor light. However...
This is bad. This is very bad. CSR and the Nazi's go way back. You see both of CSR's Grandads and one of his Nans had a bit of a ding-dong with the Nazi's back in the day.
My folks didn't simply roll-over and take that Jack boot up the Jacksy. No! They stood their ground. They said 'Fuck You' and they promptly fucked off to Africa, Italy, France and Germany (well Nan didn't she stayed in London on her Ack-Ack Battery) and they took the fight to the enemy.
CSR spent a Saturday afternoon lampooning the Gorgon in an effort to have a bit of a chuckle and maybe promote Old Holborns bid to be an MP - and the fuckers have had mine pulled. So CSR feels it necessary to do his bit.
As I like Tarantino movies so much I thought I'd quote one - a recent one.
'You probably heard we ain't in the prisoner-takin' business; we in the killin' Nazi business. And cousin, business is a-boomin'
So here it is... The Downfall of Brown Part II Enjoy folks...
McBroons Downfall from Track Link on Vimeo.
Our Dunkirk Moment
My last blog was about the struggle I had overcoming Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I spoke highly of Combat Stress and how they helped save my life.
Combat Stress provided me with an opportunity for some respite care. I often spent two weeks at Tyrwhitt House - a Country Mansion donated to the Charity where troubled minds could get some rest.
Whilst there I met many characters. I have very fond memories of sitting in the gardens listening to World War Two veterans and their stories.
Many of them had been on the beaches of Dunkirk. They spoke of how they were pursued across France by the 3rd Reich. Ending up on a beach where thousands of Tommy's waited for the boats to take them home, so that they could carry on fighting.
One old boy told me. "You've no idea how desperate the situation was Son. The Nazis were strafing the beaches day and night. Our entire Army was on the run"
He spoke with so much pride as he recalled his mates and their futile efforts at stemming the relentless tide of Stuka's "You'd hear the scream as they began to dive" He said. "And as a single shot rang out from somewhere on the beach we'd shout Fuck You Adolf!"
Dunkirk was a desperate moment in the history of our Nation. Those few days determined our survival and that of the free world. It is therefore so very sad to see NuLabours drones spinning the phrase 'Dunkirk Spirit'
Without a hint of irony NuLabs sycophantic, privately educated Champagne Socialist @BeveniteEllie tweeted the following
We stand as a Nation in peril once more. Those very freedoms and our way of life those Tommy's on the Dunkirk beaches fought so hard to save have been eroded by 13 years of NuLabour. Apathy and disillusion threaten to give us another term for Brown.
If this is another Dunkirk moment then like those Toms back in the day we must fight and like them we must win. We cannot afford five more years of NuLabour...
Combat Stress provided me with an opportunity for some respite care. I often spent two weeks at Tyrwhitt House - a Country Mansion donated to the Charity where troubled minds could get some rest.
Whilst there I met many characters. I have very fond memories of sitting in the gardens listening to World War Two veterans and their stories.
Many of them had been on the beaches of Dunkirk. They spoke of how they were pursued across France by the 3rd Reich. Ending up on a beach where thousands of Tommy's waited for the boats to take them home, so that they could carry on fighting.
One old boy told me. "You've no idea how desperate the situation was Son. The Nazis were strafing the beaches day and night. Our entire Army was on the run"
He spoke with so much pride as he recalled his mates and their futile efforts at stemming the relentless tide of Stuka's "You'd hear the scream as they began to dive" He said. "And as a single shot rang out from somewhere on the beach we'd shout Fuck You Adolf!"
Dunkirk was a desperate moment in the history of our Nation. Those few days determined our survival and that of the free world. It is therefore so very sad to see NuLabours drones spinning the phrase 'Dunkirk Spirit'
Without a hint of irony NuLabs sycophantic, privately educated Champagne Socialist @BeveniteEllie tweeted the following
Indy front page made me smile. #dunkirkspirit #brilliantBritain #voteLabour"The misery and despair felt on the beaches of Dunkirk are right now felt by many people across the land at the prospect of five more years of NuLabour. Much like then - that which we believe in as a Country is under threat.
We stand as a Nation in peril once more. Those very freedoms and our way of life those Tommy's on the Dunkirk beaches fought so hard to save have been eroded by 13 years of NuLabour. Apathy and disillusion threaten to give us another term for Brown.
If this is another Dunkirk moment then like those Toms back in the day we must fight and like them we must win. We cannot afford five more years of NuLabour...
Friday, 16 April 2010
Coming Home
I'd been home from the Gulf for maybe 6 weeks when I woke up screaming for the first time in my life.
'Where's my weapon' I shouted as I thrashed about next to my Girlfriend in our bed 'Where's my fucking weapon?'
I was covered in sweat and sucking in lungfuls of night air as I fought against the rising terror and panic inside me.
'It's ok babe. You're home now' said my partner. She looked frightened and had hold of my hand. In my sleep I'd been unconciously feeling for my rifle. It hadn't left my side for over 6 months - I'd slept beside its cold steel. Eaten along side it. Gone for a piss with it. Fought with it. Now it was gone.
The nightime screaming continued. I would wake my infant Son up and his cries would fill me anger at myself - why couldn't I sleep? I started drinking with the soldiers I'd been out there with. None of us spoke about it, we just simply got obliterated every weekend. It dawned on me that I slept through the night when I was drunk. So my drinking began to increase.
My Girlfriend and I would argue a lot. She hated my drinking - my spending more time with my mates than her. I hated her expectations of a perfect life. She would prepare us a dinner, that I would eat maybe a mouthful of. I began sleeping in the spare room so as not to wake the boy. Intimacy dissapeared from our relationship.
I left the Army and my Girlfriend left me. I would sit at home staring at the photos of my War. The grainy images masking the fear and obscenity that made up that short part of my existence.
I staggered from job to job, unable to take anything seriously. Bosses would whine about deadlines 'get fucked' I'd tell them - 'Who'll die if we miss them'
In the Summer of 99 I went to a BBQ at my Mum and Dads. It was a beautiful day and the mood was relaxed and fun. The Barby went out and my Dad poured petrol over the coals.
The smell of roasting flesh and burning fuel filled my nostrils. I was no longer at my Parents house. I was in Iraq - looking at a dead soldiers burning body hanging out of a Tank. His lips had burnt away to nothing. He was grinning at me.
I was surrounded by dead troops. I was going to die. No one was going to live. We were all going to die. The war had followed me home.
I started screaming and fell to the floor. I then curled up into a ball and started crying. I hadn't cried since I came home - nothing phased me. But now I'd started I couldn't stop. My Mum sent everyone home and called the man who saved my life. My Doctor.
Over the next few weeks and months he selflessly researched my problems and what was bothering me. He told me one cold morning in November that he thought I might have PTSD and help was out there.
'Fuck you Doc' I stabbed at him 'I'm not a fucking coward' I had heard of PTSD. A shirkers illness, a made up condition for the weak and cowardly...
I was diagnosed with Acute PTSD the following January. I learnt about Combat Stress an organisation that is dedicated to helping troops who suffer from what they have seen in the service of the Crown.
I had counselling and spilled a lot of tears. In time I learnt to live with myself and what I had seen and done over there. I got to spend time with others like me at Combat Stress. We shared stories and felt less alone.
Right now our troops are fighting a desperately nasty war. Casualties are mounting as every day goes by. There will be many who come home unscathed who will get on with life and not look back.
There will be others though who struggle with their experiences. Soldiers are self reliant, highly motivated and struggle to ask for help. It is our duty as a Nation to ensure they are looked after.
The Military Covenant has been shattered. It needs rebuilding - dedicated Hospitals must be found to help those with both physical and mental wounds.
It remains to be seen who will win the election in May. But whoever has the unenviable task of rebuilding Britain must also re-establish the Covenant with our Forces.
Our veterans will mostly try to cope with the trauma they have witnessed. It's what British soldiers do. There are organisations who can help them and they need to be spoken of. Not in hushed whispers but with pride.
Combat Stress will have a fight on their hands in the coming years as they struggle to help our unseen wounded. Honouring the Covenant is the least we can do to help them...
http://www.combatstress.org.uk/
'Where's my weapon' I shouted as I thrashed about next to my Girlfriend in our bed 'Where's my fucking weapon?'
I was covered in sweat and sucking in lungfuls of night air as I fought against the rising terror and panic inside me.
'It's ok babe. You're home now' said my partner. She looked frightened and had hold of my hand. In my sleep I'd been unconciously feeling for my rifle. It hadn't left my side for over 6 months - I'd slept beside its cold steel. Eaten along side it. Gone for a piss with it. Fought with it. Now it was gone.
The nightime screaming continued. I would wake my infant Son up and his cries would fill me anger at myself - why couldn't I sleep? I started drinking with the soldiers I'd been out there with. None of us spoke about it, we just simply got obliterated every weekend. It dawned on me that I slept through the night when I was drunk. So my drinking began to increase.
My Girlfriend and I would argue a lot. She hated my drinking - my spending more time with my mates than her. I hated her expectations of a perfect life. She would prepare us a dinner, that I would eat maybe a mouthful of. I began sleeping in the spare room so as not to wake the boy. Intimacy dissapeared from our relationship.
I left the Army and my Girlfriend left me. I would sit at home staring at the photos of my War. The grainy images masking the fear and obscenity that made up that short part of my existence.
I staggered from job to job, unable to take anything seriously. Bosses would whine about deadlines 'get fucked' I'd tell them - 'Who'll die if we miss them'
In the Summer of 99 I went to a BBQ at my Mum and Dads. It was a beautiful day and the mood was relaxed and fun. The Barby went out and my Dad poured petrol over the coals.
The smell of roasting flesh and burning fuel filled my nostrils. I was no longer at my Parents house. I was in Iraq - looking at a dead soldiers burning body hanging out of a Tank. His lips had burnt away to nothing. He was grinning at me.
I was surrounded by dead troops. I was going to die. No one was going to live. We were all going to die. The war had followed me home.
I started screaming and fell to the floor. I then curled up into a ball and started crying. I hadn't cried since I came home - nothing phased me. But now I'd started I couldn't stop. My Mum sent everyone home and called the man who saved my life. My Doctor.
Over the next few weeks and months he selflessly researched my problems and what was bothering me. He told me one cold morning in November that he thought I might have PTSD and help was out there.
'Fuck you Doc' I stabbed at him 'I'm not a fucking coward' I had heard of PTSD. A shirkers illness, a made up condition for the weak and cowardly...
I was diagnosed with Acute PTSD the following January. I learnt about Combat Stress an organisation that is dedicated to helping troops who suffer from what they have seen in the service of the Crown.
I had counselling and spilled a lot of tears. In time I learnt to live with myself and what I had seen and done over there. I got to spend time with others like me at Combat Stress. We shared stories and felt less alone.
Right now our troops are fighting a desperately nasty war. Casualties are mounting as every day goes by. There will be many who come home unscathed who will get on with life and not look back.
There will be others though who struggle with their experiences. Soldiers are self reliant, highly motivated and struggle to ask for help. It is our duty as a Nation to ensure they are looked after.
The Military Covenant has been shattered. It needs rebuilding - dedicated Hospitals must be found to help those with both physical and mental wounds.
It remains to be seen who will win the election in May. But whoever has the unenviable task of rebuilding Britain must also re-establish the Covenant with our Forces.
Our veterans will mostly try to cope with the trauma they have witnessed. It's what British soldiers do. There are organisations who can help them and they need to be spoken of. Not in hushed whispers but with pride.
Combat Stress will have a fight on their hands in the coming years as they struggle to help our unseen wounded. Honouring the Covenant is the least we can do to help them...
http://www.combatstress.org.uk/
A Lib Dem Army?
After his success in last nights Leaders Debate - Nick Cleggs Lib Dems may well be 'Going back to their constituencies, and preparing for government'
As resident blogger on all things Military (in my own mind) I have scoured the land and the web to find out what our Army may well look like under the Command of the 'Wishy Washies'
Behold the Lib Dem Army!
As resident blogger on all things Military (in my own mind) I have scoured the land and the web to find out what our Army may well look like under the Command of the 'Wishy Washies'
Behold the Lib Dem Army!
Coming Home
I'd been home for maybe 6 weeks when I woke up screaming for the first time in my life.
'Where's my weapon' I shouted as I thrashed about next to my Girlfriend in our bed 'Where's my fucking weapon?'
I was covered in sweat and sucking in lungfuls of night air as I fought against the rising terror and panic inside me.
'It's ok babe. You're home now' said my partner. She looked frightened and had hold of my hand. In my sleep I'd been unconciously feeling for my rifle. It hadn't left my side for over 6 months - I'd slept beside its cold steel. Eaten along side it. Gone for a piss with it. Fought with it. Now it was gone.
The nightime screaming continued. I would wake my infant Son up and his cries would fill me anger at myself - why couldn't I sleep? I started drinking with the soldiers I'd been out there with. None of us spoke about it, we just simply got obliterated every weekend. It dawned on me that I slept through the night when I was drunk. So my drinking began to increase.
My Girlfriend and I would argue a lot. She hated my drinking - my spending more time with my mates than her. I hated her expectations of a perfect life. She would prepare us a dinner, that I would eat maybe a mouthful of. I began sleeping in the spare room so as not to wake the boy. Intimacy dissapeared from our relationship.
I left the Army and my Girlfriend left me. I would sit at home staring at the photos of my War. The grainy images masking the fear and obscenity that made up that short part of my existence.
I staggered from job to job, unable to take anything seriously. Bosses would whine about deadlines 'get fucked' I'd tell them - 'Who'll die if we miss them'
In the Summer of 99 I went to a BBQ at my Mum and Dads. It was a beautiful day and the mood was relaxed and fun. The Barby went out and my Dad poured petrol over the coals.
The smell of roasting flesh and burning fuel filled my nostrils. I was no longer at my Parents. I was in Iraq - looking at a dead soldiers burning body hanging out of a Tank. His lips had burnt away to nothing. He was grinning at me.
I was surrounded by dead troops. I was going to die. No one was going to live. We were all going to die. The war had followed me home.
I started screaming and fell to the floor. I then curled up into a ball and started crying. I hadn't cried since I came home - nothing phased me. But now I'd started I couldn't stop. My Mum sent everyone home and called the man who saved my life. My Doctor.
Over the next few weeks and months he selflessly researched my problems and what was bothering me. He told me one cold morning in November that he thought I might have PTSD.
'Fuck you Doc' I stabbed at him 'I'm not a fucking coward' I had heard of PTSD. A shirkers illness, a made up condition for the weak and cowardly...
I was diagnosed with Acute PTSD the following January. I learnt about Combat Stress an organisation that is dedicated to helping troops who suffer from what they have seen in the service of the Crown.
I had counselling and spilled a lot of tears. In time I learnt to live with myself and what I had seen and done over there. I got to spend time with others like me. We shared stories and felt less alone.
Right now our troops are fighting a desperately nasty war. Casualties are mounting as every day goes by. There will be many who come home unscathed who will get on with life and not look back.
There will be others though who struggle with their experiences. Soldiers are self reliant, highly motivated and struggle to ask for help. It is our duty as a Nation to ensure they are looked after.
The Military Covenant has been shattered. It needs rebuilding - dedicated Hospitals must be found to help those with both physical and mental wounds.
It remains to be seen who will win the election in May. But whoever has the unenviable task of rebuilding Britain must also re-establish the Covenant with our Forces.
Our veterans will mostly try to cope with the trauma they have witnessed. It's what British soldiers do. There are organisations who can help them and they need to be spoken of. Not in hushed whispers but with pride.
Combat Stress will have a fight on their hands in the coming years as they struggle to help our unseen wounded. Honouring the Covenant is the least we can do...
'Where's my weapon' I shouted as I thrashed about next to my Girlfriend in our bed 'Where's my fucking weapon?'
I was covered in sweat and sucking in lungfuls of night air as I fought against the rising terror and panic inside me.
'It's ok babe. You're home now' said my partner. She looked frightened and had hold of my hand. In my sleep I'd been unconciously feeling for my rifle. It hadn't left my side for over 6 months - I'd slept beside its cold steel. Eaten along side it. Gone for a piss with it. Fought with it. Now it was gone.
The nightime screaming continued. I would wake my infant Son up and his cries would fill me anger at myself - why couldn't I sleep? I started drinking with the soldiers I'd been out there with. None of us spoke about it, we just simply got obliterated every weekend. It dawned on me that I slept through the night when I was drunk. So my drinking began to increase.
My Girlfriend and I would argue a lot. She hated my drinking - my spending more time with my mates than her. I hated her expectations of a perfect life. She would prepare us a dinner, that I would eat maybe a mouthful of. I began sleeping in the spare room so as not to wake the boy. Intimacy dissapeared from our relationship.
I left the Army and my Girlfriend left me. I would sit at home staring at the photos of my War. The grainy images masking the fear and obscenity that made up that short part of my existence.
I staggered from job to job, unable to take anything seriously. Bosses would whine about deadlines 'get fucked' I'd tell them - 'Who'll die if we miss them'
In the Summer of 99 I went to a BBQ at my Mum and Dads. It was a beautiful day and the mood was relaxed and fun. The Barby went out and my Dad poured petrol over the coals.
The smell of roasting flesh and burning fuel filled my nostrils. I was no longer at my Parents. I was in Iraq - looking at a dead soldiers burning body hanging out of a Tank. His lips had burnt away to nothing. He was grinning at me.
I was surrounded by dead troops. I was going to die. No one was going to live. We were all going to die. The war had followed me home.
I started screaming and fell to the floor. I then curled up into a ball and started crying. I hadn't cried since I came home - nothing phased me. But now I'd started I couldn't stop. My Mum sent everyone home and called the man who saved my life. My Doctor.
Over the next few weeks and months he selflessly researched my problems and what was bothering me. He told me one cold morning in November that he thought I might have PTSD.
'Fuck you Doc' I stabbed at him 'I'm not a fucking coward' I had heard of PTSD. A shirkers illness, a made up condition for the weak and cowardly...
I was diagnosed with Acute PTSD the following January. I learnt about Combat Stress an organisation that is dedicated to helping troops who suffer from what they have seen in the service of the Crown.
I had counselling and spilled a lot of tears. In time I learnt to live with myself and what I had seen and done over there. I got to spend time with others like me. We shared stories and felt less alone.
Right now our troops are fighting a desperately nasty war. Casualties are mounting as every day goes by. There will be many who come home unscathed who will get on with life and not look back.
There will be others though who struggle with their experiences. Soldiers are self reliant, highly motivated and struggle to ask for help. It is our duty as a Nation to ensure they are looked after.
The Military Covenant has been shattered. It needs rebuilding - dedicated Hospitals must be found to help those with both physical and mental wounds.
It remains to be seen who will win the election in May. But whoever has the unenviable task of rebuilding Britain must also re-establish the Covenant with our Forces.
Our veterans will mostly try to cope with the trauma they have witnessed. It's what British soldiers do. There are organisations who can help them and they need to be spoken of. Not in hushed whispers but with pride.
Combat Stress will have a fight on their hands in the coming years as they struggle to help our unseen wounded. Honouring the Covenant is the least we can do...
Thursday, 15 April 2010
Cometh The Hour - Cometh The Ban
The Ban Hammer has fallen once more. 4-methylmethcathinone AKA Mephedrone or simply Meow Meow is, as of today, a controlled substance. It is no longer plant food - It's a Class B Drug.
The Meeja had a field day with this particular clubbers drug of choice. Headlines screamed at us drug teen ripped his scrotum off as well as Meow meow sank its claws into my mind With hysteric glee the Meeja told us how Mephedrone would claim all of our first born sons and destroy the foundations of civilisation.
So the Government banned it.
What that has achieved is this. Meow meow will now cost the average clubber slightly more to buy. They wont be able to buy it online anymore from a business that was scrutinised by elfin safety laws. They'll have to buy it off Drug Dealers and buy it they will.
The Dealers will want profit. They'll cut the drug with other substances to make their supply go further. So the eager clubbers will no longer have any certainty of what's in their little bag of powder. The Dealers will also offer other drugs to their new clients. It's good business sense.
Anyone caught with the drug now faces prosecution. An on-the-spot-fine to help top up the Countries depleted Piggy Bank. Or perhaps arrest leading to a Criminal Record and DNA records being held.
I take drugs - my drugs of choice are Nicotine and Alchohol. The Ban Hammer has already had a good go at one of them and is readying itself for the other.
Banning is not the answer. Guns were banned - our Cities resemble warzones. Cigarettes were banned from pubs - Pubs are struggling to survive. All the Government have achieved today is to criminalise a part of society and put more money into organised crime. Well done on that.
Oh and I suppose I should mention the Leaders Debate... A big bowl of Cunt Soup IMHO...
The Meeja had a field day with this particular clubbers drug of choice. Headlines screamed at us drug teen ripped his scrotum off as well as Meow meow sank its claws into my mind With hysteric glee the Meeja told us how Mephedrone would claim all of our first born sons and destroy the foundations of civilisation.
So the Government banned it.
What that has achieved is this. Meow meow will now cost the average clubber slightly more to buy. They wont be able to buy it online anymore from a business that was scrutinised by elfin safety laws. They'll have to buy it off Drug Dealers and buy it they will.
The Dealers will want profit. They'll cut the drug with other substances to make their supply go further. So the eager clubbers will no longer have any certainty of what's in their little bag of powder. The Dealers will also offer other drugs to their new clients. It's good business sense.
Anyone caught with the drug now faces prosecution. An on-the-spot-fine to help top up the Countries depleted Piggy Bank. Or perhaps arrest leading to a Criminal Record and DNA records being held.
I take drugs - my drugs of choice are Nicotine and Alchohol. The Ban Hammer has already had a good go at one of them and is readying itself for the other.
Banning is not the answer. Guns were banned - our Cities resemble warzones. Cigarettes were banned from pubs - Pubs are struggling to survive. All the Government have achieved today is to criminalise a part of society and put more money into organised crime. Well done on that.
Oh and I suppose I should mention the Leaders Debate... A big bowl of Cunt Soup IMHO...
DK And The Brillo Pad
Lot's of blogging going on about DK and the Brillo - Here's my shiny tuppence worth...
I think it's mostly about DK's job and him wanting to keep it as to why his blog has been decimated. DK was a Political Virgin sacrificed upon the Altar of smugness. His honesty was refreshing but ultimately naieve.
As the man says in Bladerunner 'If you ain't cop - you're little people' Right now, us bloggers... We are those little people. But times they are a changing.
DK stuck his head over the parapet and got shot at (all be it by a syrup wearing throbber) He's chosen to stick it back down. Fair play to him, he tried)
However... That wasn't the end of the war. It was just the opening salvos.
The Bloggers lost that one and a fine, if somewhat colourful Blog, has fallen in the fight.
Brillo doesn't like the Bloggers. We don't conform. We don't fit into his picture of what the Meeja should be. I expect he is patting his well fed bought off belly as he smugly admires DK's scalp.
But he underestimates us at his peril. Pyjama wearing determined people destroyed the most powerful Army the world has ever known in Vietnam.
I'm sure they are chortling away in the Mainstream Meeja - let them.
I think it's mostly about DK's job and him wanting to keep it as to why his blog has been decimated. DK was a Political Virgin sacrificed upon the Altar of smugness. His honesty was refreshing but ultimately naieve.
As the man says in Bladerunner 'If you ain't cop - you're little people' Right now, us bloggers... We are those little people. But times they are a changing.
DK stuck his head over the parapet and got shot at (all be it by a syrup wearing throbber) He's chosen to stick it back down. Fair play to him, he tried)
However... That wasn't the end of the war. It was just the opening salvos.
The Bloggers lost that one and a fine, if somewhat colourful Blog, has fallen in the fight.
Brillo doesn't like the Bloggers. We don't conform. We don't fit into his picture of what the Meeja should be. I expect he is patting his well fed bought off belly as he smugly admires DK's scalp.
But he underestimates us at his peril. Pyjama wearing determined people destroyed the most powerful Army the world has ever known in Vietnam.
I'm sure they are chortling away in the Mainstream Meeja - let them.
Wednesday, 14 April 2010
I Want My MTV
I blogged about Tilern DeBique just the other day.
Miss DeBique is the former soldier who refused to carry out her duties as she'd failed to get her child looked after. I wrote the following.
That six figure sum she wants turns out to be £1.1million.
That's not a compensation payout - it's a Lottery win. Miss DeBique did not have her legs shattered by a landmine. She was not hit in the head by a snipers bullet. She was not blinded by an RPG.
She was given a bollocking for failing to carry out her duties.
It remains to be seen as to whether or not Miss DeBique will receive the amount she is asking for. I hope common sense reigns and she is told to bugger off.
I fear this wont be the case though. Too many adverts litter Daytime TV offering 'free money' to the sick, lame and lazy. Too many shirkers now see an opportunity for a payout around every corner. Much like Dire Straights they want their 'Money for nothing and their cheques for free'
Miss DeBique is no doubt sat at home today with her fingers crossed awaiting her Lottery win thinking 'It could be me'
Meanwhile in the Helmand Province her former comrades sit in their holes at night praying 'Please God don't let it be me'
Miss DeBique is the former soldier who refused to carry out her duties as she'd failed to get her child looked after. I wrote the following.
Miss DeBique is now seeking a six figure sum. A compensation claim. Thanks to the Tribunals verdict I expect she'll get it.
That six figure sum she wants turns out to be £1.1million.
That's not a compensation payout - it's a Lottery win. Miss DeBique did not have her legs shattered by a landmine. She was not hit in the head by a snipers bullet. She was not blinded by an RPG.
She was given a bollocking for failing to carry out her duties.
It remains to be seen as to whether or not Miss DeBique will receive the amount she is asking for. I hope common sense reigns and she is told to bugger off.
I fear this wont be the case though. Too many adverts litter Daytime TV offering 'free money' to the sick, lame and lazy. Too many shirkers now see an opportunity for a payout around every corner. Much like Dire Straights they want their 'Money for nothing and their cheques for free'
Miss DeBique is no doubt sat at home today with her fingers crossed awaiting her Lottery win thinking 'It could be me'
Meanwhile in the Helmand Province her former comrades sit in their holes at night praying 'Please God don't let it be me'
The Afghan
For those who have fallen - Those who fight - For my friends out there now.
The Afghan
I saw a fallen soldier laid upon the Afghan floor
And wondered what had killed him in this nasty pointless war
Was he slain by lack of kit to save a precious pound
How much was saved I wondered as he bled into the ground
Perhaps his life was cut short by a fool who wore a grin
Who was blinded by his arrogance and drunk on victory gin
Did he really give his life, or was it taken by a thief
Who did not care how many died nor of a nations grief
Beneath banner and flag lies the warriors tomb
The rare meat of battle still fresh from the womb.
How many more names must be carved into stone
Before this is done and we bring our troops home...
Bring them home. Now.
The Afghan
I saw a fallen soldier laid upon the Afghan floor
And wondered what had killed him in this nasty pointless war
Was he slain by lack of kit to save a precious pound
How much was saved I wondered as he bled into the ground
Perhaps his life was cut short by a fool who wore a grin
Who was blinded by his arrogance and drunk on victory gin
Did he really give his life, or was it taken by a thief
Who did not care how many died nor of a nations grief
Beneath banner and flag lies the warriors tomb
The rare meat of battle still fresh from the womb.
How many more names must be carved into stone
Before this is done and we bring our troops home...
Bring them home. Now.
Hitler - The MP - The Teddy And The Pram
Just had a little moment here! You may recall I punted a Downfall Video supporting Old Holborns election bid.
It would appear John Howell, a Tory candidate for Henley-on-Thames has also been Hitler'd Rather than chuckling at himself though John has bought a First Class ticket for the outrage bus and called in the Polizei.
Fortunately my little pop at MP's and such like appears to have gone un-noticed. I'm quite pleased about that. Smoking endless Cigars to irritate PC Plod when he visits me is becoming expensive!
IMHO Mr Howell would do well to Man-Up a little bit. If he can't hack a piss take I'm not entirely sure he's fit to be elected.
Dry your eyes Princess - It's a YouTube vid. You ain't getting shot at... /facepalm
+++ UPDATE +++
Someone has no sense of Humour... My vids been pulled. The throbbers.
It would appear John Howell, a Tory candidate for Henley-on-Thames has also been Hitler'd Rather than chuckling at himself though John has bought a First Class ticket for the outrage bus and called in the Polizei.
Fortunately my little pop at MP's and such like appears to have gone un-noticed. I'm quite pleased about that. Smoking endless Cigars to irritate PC Plod when he visits me is becoming expensive!
IMHO Mr Howell would do well to Man-Up a little bit. If he can't hack a piss take I'm not entirely sure he's fit to be elected.
Dry your eyes Princess - It's a YouTube vid. You ain't getting shot at... /facepalm
For You Blogger Ze Var Is Over
+++ UPDATE +++
Someone has no sense of Humour... My vids been pulled. The throbbers.
Courage
Lydia Cross is nine years old. She lost both her legs aged 2 after contracting meningitis.
She could have sat back and thought, as so many do in todays society - This isn't fair. Why me?
Instead though Lydia has decided to raise money for troops who have lost limbs in Iraq and Afghanistan.
This courageous little girl can be seen here
I honestly don't know what breaks my heart more. Lydia's selfless determination to help wounded troops. Or the fact there are so many of them she feels she has to help.
Well done Lydia. You are quite simply a little gem.
She could have sat back and thought, as so many do in todays society - This isn't fair. Why me?
Instead though Lydia has decided to raise money for troops who have lost limbs in Iraq and Afghanistan.
This courageous little girl can be seen here
I honestly don't know what breaks my heart more. Lydia's selfless determination to help wounded troops. Or the fact there are so many of them she feels she has to help.
Well done Lydia. You are quite simply a little gem.
270 Reasons Not To Vote Labour
One for every Pound my mate Si has spent ensuring he has decent kit to deploy to the Helmand with today.
Shame on you NuLab. Shame on you NuLabVoters.
Shame on you NuLab. Shame on you NuLabVoters.
Porno For The Blind
The Telegraph are reporting today about a new magazine bringing Porno to the blind
I ummed and ahhhed about this story before deciding not to make a cheap joke about it. As the story is too close to home.
I had a deaf girlfriend who left me after having an affair you see. I just didn't see the signs...
I'll get my coat!
I ummed and ahhhed about this story before deciding not to make a cheap joke about it. As the story is too close to home.
I had a deaf girlfriend who left me after having an affair you see. I just didn't see the signs...
I'll get my coat!
Tuesday, 13 April 2010
Tinker Tailor Single Mother Sailor
The Army is a curious organisation to those of us outside of it. In our iPhone driven, Starbucks slurping modern lives the Armies methods seem a bit antiquated and quirky.
I mean come on. Who gives a toss if you're late for work. Fire off a text or a tweet. Email the boss, leave a voicemail what's the big deal?
Who needs screamy shouty bosses these days? Let's chill in a breakout room. Flexi time is happy time right? There's nothing that can't be solved over a SkinnyFrappeLatte is there?
These modern values clash with the Army and it's stuffy - You will be on time. You will be well dressed. You will be part of our unflexible machine attitude.
However. The Army has this attitude for a reason. Self Discipline.
We've all dragged our heavy suitcases into our homes after a long journey. We are tired and grumpy. We throw our luggage to the floor and collapse into a heap wanting nothing more than a cuppa and a kip.
The soldiers in Afghanistan do not have this luxury. Their kit weighs in excess of 80lb. When they end their patrols they do not drop their kit, brew-up and snooze (although this is what they desperately want to do) they maintain their weapons. They carry out sentry duties. They take care of their feet.
Despite complete exhaustion British troops prepare for war. They are able to do this because self discipline has been hammered into them from day one of recruit training.
A tribunal has ruled single mother and soldier, Tilern DeBique, was within her rights to miss training when she could not find anyone to look after her daughter.
Miss DeBique is now seeking a six figure sum. A compensation claim. Thanks to the Tribunals verdict I expect she'll get it.
Meanwhile - The soldiers in The Helmand will continue to patrol. They will not be late. Their weapons will be clean. Their Harbour areas will be secure. Because they are soldiers.
Miss DeBique's selfish attitude and lack of self discipline would get people killed. The Army is well shot of her...
I mean come on. Who gives a toss if you're late for work. Fire off a text or a tweet. Email the boss, leave a voicemail what's the big deal?
Who needs screamy shouty bosses these days? Let's chill in a breakout room. Flexi time is happy time right? There's nothing that can't be solved over a SkinnyFrappeLatte is there?
These modern values clash with the Army and it's stuffy - You will be on time. You will be well dressed. You will be part of our unflexible machine attitude.
However. The Army has this attitude for a reason. Self Discipline.
We've all dragged our heavy suitcases into our homes after a long journey. We are tired and grumpy. We throw our luggage to the floor and collapse into a heap wanting nothing more than a cuppa and a kip.
The soldiers in Afghanistan do not have this luxury. Their kit weighs in excess of 80lb. When they end their patrols they do not drop their kit, brew-up and snooze (although this is what they desperately want to do) they maintain their weapons. They carry out sentry duties. They take care of their feet.
Despite complete exhaustion British troops prepare for war. They are able to do this because self discipline has been hammered into them from day one of recruit training.
A tribunal has ruled single mother and soldier, Tilern DeBique, was within her rights to miss training when she could not find anyone to look after her daughter.
Miss DeBique is now seeking a six figure sum. A compensation claim. Thanks to the Tribunals verdict I expect she'll get it.
Meanwhile - The soldiers in The Helmand will continue to patrol. They will not be late. Their weapons will be clean. Their Harbour areas will be secure. Because they are soldiers.
Miss DeBique's selfish attitude and lack of self discipline would get people killed. The Army is well shot of her...
Monday, 12 April 2010
Working Class Heroes
NuLabour are a curious bunch to be sure. Gordon launched his Manifesto today (you know - that list of promises they aim to break once elected)
Introducing the Optically-Challenged One was a certain Ellie Gellard AKA @BevaniteEllie AKA Comical Elle . A NuLabour sycophantic twitter junkie who tweets devotion to her 'Working Class' party at every waking moment of her day.
I'm working class.
I have been since I was spawned into a Council Estate 39 years ago. I've never stated I'm proud to be working class, I think those sort of declarations of pride are a bit daft. It would be a bit like being proud of having green eyes. Or having Sky Plus.
In many ways I fit nicely into the working class/sink estate scum bracket quite nicely. I own a Staffordshire Bull Terrier. I drink in a Pub where debates about football often lead to split-lips and black eyes and I have tattoos. Lots and lots of tattoos.
My forearms sport a dragon and the ubiquitous black panther. I also have a Union Jack tattoo on my bicep and 'Made In England' around my belly button. I was once accused by a group of very drunk Students of being a racist because of my ink. They hurled abuse at me even as I walked calmly away from them.
'Chav Scum!' They cried 'Fucking Nazi Prick!'
It would be sickeningly cliched if I were to say 'Some of my best friends are black' right now. So I wont. What I will say is this. Stood in the queue with me at the tattooists also awaiting his 'Made In England' tattoo was a black lad we called Midnight (this was long ago - in the days before elfin safety and PCness)
Much like most of the other lads I got inked with that day, I've lost touch with him. Which is a shame because I stood next to Midnight on one of the most frightening days of my life and I fought not for my Queen or my Country but for him and he fought for me. It's what mates do at the front.
Midnight was also working class. We didn't quaff champagne. We weren't educated at the best schools. We didn't get invited to plush Manifesto launches.
Comical Ellie sums up nicely everything that is wrong with NuLab. She couldn't be further from the Working Classes if she tried. Her dribbling adoration of what was once a Party for the working class is nauesating.
Chav Scum - Maybe...
Fucking Nazi Prick - No...
Working Class - All my damn life...
Labour Voter - Not a fucking chance...
Labour have a unique legacy - Since being in office they have fucked up every war they've entered into. Nice to know the 'Class War' they so badly wanted just went the same way with their disasterous decision to wheel out Comical Ellie. Roll on May 6th. It really cant come soon enough.
Introducing the Optically-Challenged One was a certain Ellie Gellard AKA @BevaniteEllie AKA Comical Elle . A NuLabour sycophantic twitter junkie who tweets devotion to her 'Working Class' party at every waking moment of her day.
I'm working class.
I have been since I was spawned into a Council Estate 39 years ago. I've never stated I'm proud to be working class, I think those sort of declarations of pride are a bit daft. It would be a bit like being proud of having green eyes. Or having Sky Plus.
In many ways I fit nicely into the working class/sink estate scum bracket quite nicely. I own a Staffordshire Bull Terrier. I drink in a Pub where debates about football often lead to split-lips and black eyes and I have tattoos. Lots and lots of tattoos.
My forearms sport a dragon and the ubiquitous black panther. I also have a Union Jack tattoo on my bicep and 'Made In England' around my belly button. I was once accused by a group of very drunk Students of being a racist because of my ink. They hurled abuse at me even as I walked calmly away from them.
'Chav Scum!' They cried 'Fucking Nazi Prick!'
It would be sickeningly cliched if I were to say 'Some of my best friends are black' right now. So I wont. What I will say is this. Stood in the queue with me at the tattooists also awaiting his 'Made In England' tattoo was a black lad we called Midnight (this was long ago - in the days before elfin safety and PCness)
Much like most of the other lads I got inked with that day, I've lost touch with him. Which is a shame because I stood next to Midnight on one of the most frightening days of my life and I fought not for my Queen or my Country but for him and he fought for me. It's what mates do at the front.
Midnight was also working class. We didn't quaff champagne. We weren't educated at the best schools. We didn't get invited to plush Manifesto launches.
Comical Ellie sums up nicely everything that is wrong with NuLab. She couldn't be further from the Working Classes if she tried. Her dribbling adoration of what was once a Party for the working class is nauesating.
Chav Scum - Maybe...
Fucking Nazi Prick - No...
Working Class - All my damn life...
Labour Voter - Not a fucking chance...
Labour have a unique legacy - Since being in office they have fucked up every war they've entered into. Nice to know the 'Class War' they so badly wanted just went the same way with their disasterous decision to wheel out Comical Ellie. Roll on May 6th. It really cant come soon enough.
Throbber Of The Week
Ladies & Gentlemen I give you Pc Harvey Watson The Copper who has enlisted dance group Diversity to help tackle crime...
PC Watson was quoted as saying
"Keepin' it real Geezer innit. Coz like Diversity is a street group in touch wiv da local crews. I az got all of their moves man - dem is proper hardcore." (Or something like that. Probably)
/facepalm
My faith (already stretched this weekend) in the Police just reached breaking point. Diversity are an OK dance group. They are about as in touch with what is happening on 'the streets' as my Aunty Babs is.
PC Watson was quoted as saying
"Keepin' it real Geezer innit. Coz like Diversity is a street group in touch wiv da local crews. I az got all of their moves man - dem is proper hardcore." (Or something like that. Probably)
/facepalm
My faith (already stretched this weekend) in the Police just reached breaking point. Diversity are an OK dance group. They are about as in touch with what is happening on 'the streets' as my Aunty Babs is.
A Policeman
The Angry Policeman
What an interesting weekend CSR has had to be sure. My normal routine of laying in my bed on Saturday morning, attempting to recollect the evening before whilst simultaneously swearing to 'never again' move onto the Tequilas was shattered by a visit from PC Plod.
Stood at the door were what at first glance appeared to be two Tie-Fighter pilots. Clad in combat boots, body armour and more radios than was really necessary were in fact two officers of the law.
It turns out my Nephew has alledgedly been caught in posession of a (very) large amount of Cocaine. The trouble is... ...said Nephew rents out my flat. So my name was dragged into the plot.
I'm a polite fellow - even when hungover. So I offered the boys-in-blue a cup of tea and when they declined busied myself making one for me. This seemed to annoy the younger of the two (I'd say he was pushing 14 perhaps even 15 years old)
'This is very important sir' He quipped.
I informed him I was sure it was, however in my home I have my routine in the morning. It involves tea and cigarettes - lots of cigarettes.
We sat down in the lounge, I then took a good mouthful of hot tea before lighting the best cigarette of the day. It was at this point Plod the younger really threw his teddy out of his pram.
'Do you mind sir?' He asked as he waved his hand furiously about his face.
'Do I mind what?' I replied whilst blowing some very impressive blue rings across the room.
'The cigarette sir' replied the now very irritated Policeman.
'Oh. Please forgive my manners' I said offering the pack toward him. 'Would you like one'
I'm fairly confident that PC TeenyBopper would have nicked me there and then for a breach of whatever, had his older, wiser and more likeable colleague not intervened.
I was then questioned in order to 'eliminate me from their enquiries' Having done absolutely nothing wrong, I was of course extremely concerned at this point. So I tweeted.
It was a simple tweet. Informing my 5 followers the Polizei were here. PC Notyetshaving erupted at this point.
'Do you realise' He spluttered. 'How serious this situation is' His youthful eyes bulging through the blue haze only 10 chain-smoked Camel cigarettes can produce.
I smiled and pointed to a picture above the mantelpiece. Peering out from the grainy image is a young soldier in the middle of a war. He has that faraway look in his eyes. Eyes that have seen far too much killing than is good for a 19 year old. His helmet looks too big as it sits atop his head at a slighty cocked angle giving him a childlike appearence. He appears desperately tired and if you look closely enough, you can see he is trying but failing to hide his fear.
'See that' I said 'Thats me in a serious situation - now either nick me or fuck off'
For one brief delicious moment, I believe PC Growup was actually about to slap on the cuffs and haul me off for failing to be intimidated by a bullying twat. But the veteran Copper intervened.
'Thank you for your time sir - we'll be in touch'
I'm sure they will too. So I've ordered some Cuban Cigars...
Stood at the door were what at first glance appeared to be two Tie-Fighter pilots. Clad in combat boots, body armour and more radios than was really necessary were in fact two officers of the law.
It turns out my Nephew has alledgedly been caught in posession of a (very) large amount of Cocaine. The trouble is... ...said Nephew rents out my flat. So my name was dragged into the plot.
I'm a polite fellow - even when hungover. So I offered the boys-in-blue a cup of tea and when they declined busied myself making one for me. This seemed to annoy the younger of the two (I'd say he was pushing 14 perhaps even 15 years old)
'This is very important sir' He quipped.
I informed him I was sure it was, however in my home I have my routine in the morning. It involves tea and cigarettes - lots of cigarettes.
We sat down in the lounge, I then took a good mouthful of hot tea before lighting the best cigarette of the day. It was at this point Plod the younger really threw his teddy out of his pram.
'Do you mind sir?' He asked as he waved his hand furiously about his face.
'Do I mind what?' I replied whilst blowing some very impressive blue rings across the room.
'The cigarette sir' replied the now very irritated Policeman.
'Oh. Please forgive my manners' I said offering the pack toward him. 'Would you like one'
I'm fairly confident that PC TeenyBopper would have nicked me there and then for a breach of whatever, had his older, wiser and more likeable colleague not intervened.
I was then questioned in order to 'eliminate me from their enquiries' Having done absolutely nothing wrong, I was of course extremely concerned at this point. So I tweeted.
It was a simple tweet. Informing my 5 followers the Polizei were here. PC Notyetshaving erupted at this point.
'Do you realise' He spluttered. 'How serious this situation is' His youthful eyes bulging through the blue haze only 10 chain-smoked Camel cigarettes can produce.
I smiled and pointed to a picture above the mantelpiece. Peering out from the grainy image is a young soldier in the middle of a war. He has that faraway look in his eyes. Eyes that have seen far too much killing than is good for a 19 year old. His helmet looks too big as it sits atop his head at a slighty cocked angle giving him a childlike appearence. He appears desperately tired and if you look closely enough, you can see he is trying but failing to hide his fear.
'See that' I said 'Thats me in a serious situation - now either nick me or fuck off'
For one brief delicious moment, I believe PC Growup was actually about to slap on the cuffs and haul me off for failing to be intimidated by a bullying twat. But the veteran Copper intervened.
'Thank you for your time sir - we'll be in touch'
I'm sure they will too. So I've ordered some Cuban Cigars...
Friday, 9 April 2010
Poets Day
You know - Piss Off Early Tomorrows Saturday. Works for me. Anyways... I just found this poem I wrote a long time ago.
Poetry for Poets Day by CSR.
The Enemy
There's something that I want to say,
About what happened on that day.
When I left you alone back there,
Please don't think I did not care.
It's just that I was scared of you,
I wasn't sure what I should do.
And if I could get back to that place,
I'd close your eyes and kiss your face.
Then dig your grave and say goodbye,
To the boy who I saw die.
Poetry for Poets Day by CSR.
The Enemy
There's something that I want to say,
About what happened on that day.
When I left you alone back there,
Please don't think I did not care.
It's just that I was scared of you,
I wasn't sure what I should do.
And if I could get back to that place,
I'd close your eyes and kiss your face.
Then dig your grave and say goodbye,
To the boy who I saw die.
YouStasi
I don't like people who drop litter. It's bad personal admin. It doesn't take a lot to pick up your gash and pop it into your pocket. However....
What I really despise is this nasty little story.
Step forward Albert Berer and his band of merry Stasi. Albert and his chums in theWaffen SS St Peters Neighbourhood Monitoring Group have decided to film folk dropping litter before uploading the results onto YouTube.
Albert Berer said "some culprits had already come forward. Some of (the people shown) have been quite shocked with our approach, they can't believe that we've taken their image and we've put them on-line.
"But once they've given us all their contact information we will take that information and pass it to Leicester City Council."
At first glance this seems like the harmless actions of curtain twitching busy-bodies attempting to clean up the streets. If Albert and his pals had said to the offenders 'We're going to put this on YouTube with the Benny Hill Theme tune' I'd have no problem with this story. But no, Albert informed the State. This is the thin edge of a very nasty wedge. The same wedge that last century sent 6 Million people to the Gas Chambers...
What I really despise is this nasty little story.
Step forward Albert Berer and his band of merry Stasi. Albert and his chums in the
Albert Berer said "some culprits had already come forward. Some of (the people shown) have been quite shocked with our approach, they can't believe that we've taken their image and we've put them on-line.
"But once they've given us all their contact information we will take that information and pass it to Leicester City Council."
At first glance this seems like the harmless actions of curtain twitching busy-bodies attempting to clean up the streets. If Albert and his pals had said to the offenders 'We're going to put this on YouTube with the Benny Hill Theme tune' I'd have no problem with this story. But no, Albert informed the State. This is the thin edge of a very nasty wedge. The same wedge that last century sent 6 Million people to the Gas Chambers...
We Can See You
Thursday, 8 April 2010
Target Practice
Oh dear... It seems the Armys efforts to try and keep its troops alive have pissed off some Muslims.
Bearded ranting twat Chief executive of the Bradford Council for Mosques, Mohammed Saleem Khan said.
''We are trying to achieve unity and cohesion and encourage British Muslims to participate in the Army and we accommodate visits from the Army.
Oh purlease Mohammed - trying to achieve unity and cohesion my arse. You're whining and ranting over fuck all mate. Much like your cohorts did during the 'Cartoon Riots'
British soldiers are fucking dying in a shitty Muslim country day after day you twat. The MOD has put up some generic buildings to assist in training the troops who are deploying there. So that some might make it out of that shit hole alive.
It's tossers like you Mohammed who stir up anger and hatred over nothing. Now fuck off and when you get there - fuck off again you sanctimonious twat.
My Kind Of Target
Wednesday, 7 April 2010
I Don't Like Shepherds Pie
I've just had to turn off Question Time on the Beeb.. I don't like it when someone tries to piss down my neck and then tries to tell me it's raining.
They were discussing the Christians who told a couple of Poofs to fuck off.
I mean let's have it right - Tony Blair waltzed into Downing Street telling us 'Things can only get better'
Well here we are. A Country (my Country) is on its fucking knees. It has been bled dry by the most inept, incompetent Government since forever. What are NuLabours Cabinet and their (bbc-rent-a-crowd) lackeys grabbing hold of to get their teeth into, on a once great show that used to (back in the day) dissect Political argument... I'll tell you.
A couple of Poofs are upset about being told to fuck off by someone who doesn't like what they do.
I don't like Shepherd's Pie. It's an odd thing to dislike I know. Some of my friends love it, some of them tolerate it and others enjoy it. But me? I fucking hate it and between you and me - I've not had to eat a mouthful of it since I tipped my arse out of my old mans house when I was 16 and joined the Army.
From what I saw in the BBC tonight, there are some folk trying to get elected who have a dream. That dream not only involves me eating Shepherds Pie it involves me saying 'Mmmmmm I like this'
To them I say this this. Get fucked. I don't like Shepherds Pie. I never have. If you insist on trying to force feed me it... I'll pick up a rifle and fucking shoot you... That is all.
They were discussing the Christians who told a couple of Poofs to fuck off.
I mean let's have it right - Tony Blair waltzed into Downing Street telling us 'Things can only get better'
Well here we are. A Country (my Country) is on its fucking knees. It has been bled dry by the most inept, incompetent Government since forever. What are NuLabours Cabinet and their (bbc-rent-a-crowd) lackeys grabbing hold of to get their teeth into, on a once great show that used to (back in the day) dissect Political argument... I'll tell you.
A couple of Poofs are upset about being told to fuck off by someone who doesn't like what they do.
I don't like Shepherd's Pie. It's an odd thing to dislike I know. Some of my friends love it, some of them tolerate it and others enjoy it. But me? I fucking hate it and between you and me - I've not had to eat a mouthful of it since I tipped my arse out of my old mans house when I was 16 and joined the Army.
From what I saw in the BBC tonight, there are some folk trying to get elected who have a dream. That dream not only involves me eating Shepherds Pie it involves me saying 'Mmmmmm I like this'
To them I say this this. Get fucked. I don't like Shepherds Pie. I never have. If you insist on trying to force feed me it... I'll pick up a rifle and fucking shoot you... That is all.
Hindsight
I'm already fucked off with the Election. It's all over the Meeja and the Blogosphere.
So instead of blogging about it - I'm putting up a pic that just made oi larf...
So instead of blogging about it - I'm putting up a pic that just made oi larf...
The Sinking
May 6th looms on the horizon. The Goodship Britain is adrift in a sea of red-tape and high taxes. Her bow is sinking under the weight of the debt washing over her forrard decks.
The Captain is drunk with power - he clings to the tiller wildly swinging from port to starboard an insane glint in his one good eye - he cares not that the ship is rudderless and drifting into treacherous waters without purpose. He cares only that he clings onto the helm.
A mutiny stirs among the crew. They look to the young man who would usurp the demented Captain - but he is nowhere to be seen. He is dangling in the ships wake, unable or unwilling to find the courage to hack away the politically correct barnacles that fester below the water line.
A European current has the ship in it's grasp. The battered and broken hull is tugged ever closer into the heart of swirling menace that cares not who pilots the ship - wanting only to devour her.
Below-decks the passengers quietly sit and wait. Some of them shout to their fellows 'We can end this madness' But their apathy is overwhelming. They have witnessed all of the ships crew gorge on their meagre supplies as they make do with hard-tack and expensive rum.
The Captains spys are everywhere and the stench of fear is ripe in the bowels of the sinking ship. They quietly sit with their heads clutched in their hands and wonder to each other in whispered tones. 'How did it get to this...'
The Captain is drunk with power - he clings to the tiller wildly swinging from port to starboard an insane glint in his one good eye - he cares not that the ship is rudderless and drifting into treacherous waters without purpose. He cares only that he clings onto the helm.
A mutiny stirs among the crew. They look to the young man who would usurp the demented Captain - but he is nowhere to be seen. He is dangling in the ships wake, unable or unwilling to find the courage to hack away the politically correct barnacles that fester below the water line.
A European current has the ship in it's grasp. The battered and broken hull is tugged ever closer into the heart of swirling menace that cares not who pilots the ship - wanting only to devour her.
Below-decks the passengers quietly sit and wait. Some of them shout to their fellows 'We can end this madness' But their apathy is overwhelming. They have witnessed all of the ships crew gorge on their meagre supplies as they make do with hard-tack and expensive rum.
The Captains spys are everywhere and the stench of fear is ripe in the bowels of the sinking ship. They quietly sit with their heads clutched in their hands and wonder to each other in whispered tones. 'How did it get to this...'
Tuesday, 6 April 2010
War & YouTube
A video has been posted on Wikileaks (it shows people dying - best avoided if you're squeamish)
This video shows the gun camera footage from an Apache helicopter that fired on a group of Iraqis killing 2 journalists 3 years ago.
I've just watched the video - It's one of those surreal black and white movies that captures someones death on camera as soldiers calmly talk over their radios.
The video is causing uproar because two unarmed hacks were killed.
The Wikileaks report is laced with emotive comments and it is clear their intention is to portray the US pilots as murderers - the film itself is called Collateral Murder.
However, the soldiers request time and again permission to engage what they believe to be Insurgents (several of the group are clearly armed with AK47's - Wikileaks bizarrely state that although armed they were very calm)
War is a very nasty business. And all of those who die in it - be they friend or foe - deserve a better fate than ending up on YouTube scoring cheap points for anti-American propaganda.
I've been to war and several of my comrades were killed by an American in a blue-on-blue contact. I hold no ill feeling toward the pilot who killed them because I know, that just like me, he was frightened and wanted to go home alive.
The pilots in the Wikileaks video did exactly what they are trained and paid to do. War is hell.
This video shows the gun camera footage from an Apache helicopter that fired on a group of Iraqis killing 2 journalists 3 years ago.
I've just watched the video - It's one of those surreal black and white movies that captures someones death on camera as soldiers calmly talk over their radios.
The video is causing uproar because two unarmed hacks were killed.
The Wikileaks report is laced with emotive comments and it is clear their intention is to portray the US pilots as murderers - the film itself is called Collateral Murder.
However, the soldiers request time and again permission to engage what they believe to be Insurgents (several of the group are clearly armed with AK47's - Wikileaks bizarrely state that although armed they were very calm)
War is a very nasty business. And all of those who die in it - be they friend or foe - deserve a better fate than ending up on YouTube scoring cheap points for anti-American propaganda.
I've been to war and several of my comrades were killed by an American in a blue-on-blue contact. I hold no ill feeling toward the pilot who killed them because I know, that just like me, he was frightened and wanted to go home alive.
The pilots in the Wikileaks video did exactly what they are trained and paid to do. War is hell.
Thursday, 1 April 2010
Have A Good Easter
Right I'm off to wander the woods and paint my face green and black - Have a good one.
And if you laugh at this... You are going to Hell!
And if you laugh at this... You are going to Hell!
Hey Teacher - Leave Them Kids Alone
The blogosphere is blogged out methinks regarding some lefty twats, Diane Abbot and the brain washing of school kids. So I thought I'd just post a rather cool tune.
Pink Floyd live - Best guitar solo ever. Job Jobbed...
I won't be blogging over Easter as I shall be crawling around a field. Have a good one you crazy kids.
Pink Floyd live - Best guitar solo ever. Job Jobbed...
I won't be blogging over Easter as I shall be crawling around a field. Have a good one you crazy kids.
Tin Foil Hats On
I like the 1st of April... It brings out the best in me.
I have an iPhone. That iPhone has a GPS built in. So I blagged a free app called 'Tracker'
I then find a victim and ask them if they have their mobile phone with them and if so what's the number. I punch it in and low and behold Google Earth pinpoints their exact position in the world... Which of course it doesn't - it simply locates my GPS signal.
I've caught 7 people so far. Lots of concerned faces. Bwa ha ha ha ha ha
I have an iPhone. That iPhone has a GPS built in. So I blagged a free app called 'Tracker'
I then find a victim and ask them if they have their mobile phone with them and if so what's the number. I punch it in and low and behold Google Earth pinpoints their exact position in the world... Which of course it doesn't - it simply locates my GPS signal.
I've caught 7 people so far. Lots of concerned faces. Bwa ha ha ha ha ha
I Can See You!
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