17 January 2008
My Social Work Filth & I
Like all predators the social work filth prey on the very young and the very old. I often think of them as Britain's jackals, with a city substituting for the African plains. My experience of these creatures is limited to their attacks on an elderly man - my father - and should not be used as an example of how a father should defend his child. The reason why I say that is that the filth are looking for any excuse to seize a baby and give him for adoption to creatures of their own class. The tactics that I used to defend my father will probably not work in the case of a child: so be careful before adopting any of them.
I moved to Mexico in 1992, but returned to the UK to job hunt in the middle of 1995. By then my eldest son had been born and he was fretting while I was away so I nipped back to Mexico City and arranged with the wife that I would have him in Manchester with me for an indefinite period.
My dad was then very old and frail, but mentally he kept his faculties right up to the end. He wanted to live in his own house, but unfortunately his increasing deafness had brought him into contact with Oldham's social work filth. That filth wanted him in a nursing home so I took up the cudgels on his behalf.
The main lump of social work filth that used to pollute the air that I breathed was a large lump of human excrement that was so fucking ugly it probably had to get its vibrator pissed. It called at the house every week, asking interminable questions. My problem was that I didn't know quite what I was dealing with, and I had no idea what its powers as a lump of social work filth were.
As I opposed the creature's wishes it began to ask questions about my son; where he slept, what we did, things like that. I can recognise a none too subtle threat when I hear one and took the message to heart that if I didn't start to do as the social work industry wished, then that industry would go after my two-year old baby son. As soon as it had left the house I called the wife in Mexico and arranged for her to fly over here and collect the baby.
Leaving Manchester Airport with my son's cries still ringing in my ears I felt a cold anger and decided that come what may, shit was going to happen. Getting back to the house I was on my way to the toilet when the creature rang. As I listen to it prattle I remembered that at no time had any lump of management filth ever had the temerity to call me at home - and this two-legged cockroach was calling me up when I was on my way to have a shit! That did it: fuck the consequences - this was war!
Contempt - Humiliate - Attack
As a worker my policy towards management scum was summed up by those three words. Bastard work was where I went to get my money. Management scum always knew that my interest in bastard work started and ended with that wage packet. Few ever became insolent towards me, but on the rare occasions when one did, then a policy of humiliation and attack was my reply. My contempt they were used to: they got it every fucking day.
This policy began at a quite wonderful thing called a case conference that involved any number of middle class parasites and me. I had been told that people normally dressed up for these occasions, so I kicked to ball off by turning up in jeans and an old shirt with three days' worth of growth on my face. Before going in I took some bicarbonate of soda and sat there scratching my balls ostentatiously and farting every few minutes.
It was downhill all the way from then on in. I used to speak to them with a voice that dripped of venom and hatred. I mixed contempt and humiliation together by always calling those creatures who were female "darling" and always commented on how fat they were. I would ask them if they had problems finding shags? On one memorable occasion I told one creature that if it had the last cunt on earth I would sooner have a wank - you should have seen its face - it was a fucking hilarious site to behold.
The humiliation was mainly to do with the creatures' educational attainments, or rather the lack of them. I used to enjoy sitting there - scratching my dick, naturally, and commenting on how sad it must be to go though life being physically repulsive and a poly graduate as well. The aim - always - to humiliate using whatever words would achieve that end.
Let's be honest and admit that this is a pretty easy task. There is something about middle class vermin that forces them to believe that their work has a utility and meaning above and beyond the money. Don't ask me to explain it but this sense of self worth is very, very fragile. It can be degraded easily with a few mocking questions, but I discovered that a far better approach was to adopt a tone of mock jocularity. As if I knew that they were akin to pigs with their snouts in the public trough. As if I expected them to know it as well...
Always I attacked. I explained in an earlier posting how my use of press releases kept the creatures on the hop. To summarise here, we got to the stage where I was inventing sources within the social work industry and then presenting them to the press as if they were real. The tales were plausible and the filth were investigating each other to see who was leaking information to me. Nobody was - but I had studied my class enemy so closely that I could second guess their actions.
So, by combining these three strategies I slowly wore the social work filth down. One of them asked me what end I had in mind, and I told it that there was no end. The purpose of conflict with middle class filth is more conflict with middle class filth. War without end... Just like having a fucking job all over again. . .
That may have been what changed the creatures' attitudes towards me. By the end they were nice and quiet and respectful as is only fitting when a creature speaks to a working man.
The End. . .
The end came with a whimper, rather than a bang. By the end of 1996 I had been away from my son for almost a year. Although he was then only three, he pestered his mother to call me and used to cry over the telephone. I had to go back.
I left my dad with a young couple who moved into the house and helped him get around. That lasted until early 1997 when they moved on and dad agreed to go into a nursing home as a temporary measure. I had any number of creatures calling me in Mexico telling me that. Very nice they were, and I always used to wash my arse so that it was nice and clean before they kissed it. I told them that I was coming over to try and talk him into living in Mexico City and nobody had the balls to object. I arrived in the UK and sadly my father died a few days later.
There was no great victory. What happened was that a few lumps of lower middle class shit were taught to be respectful and to remember their place.
That was a victory of sorts.