31 March 2010
Doing a Hildabeest doggie-style
The Hildabeest has now passed into legend since St. Hilda's her natural terrain, has started admitting men. However back in the day standing on Magdalen Bridge and watching the perfumed herd pass by on its way to the grazing grounds and watering holes of Oxford - or expensive restaurants and equally costly bars if you prefer - was a sight to gladden the heart of the most jaded male. After the Oxford Cowgirl the Hildabeest was the commonest prey in Oxford, because like the cowgirl she was relatively easy to catch. Once either or both had been suitably lubricated with cocktails, then the rest of the evening was relatively easy to predict. God knows why St. Hilda's was jocularly referred to as The Virgin Megastore because the idea that any member of the college hadn't wrapped her legs around any number of lusty males was, well, virgin on the ridiculous.
So it came to pass that your memoirist and a certain Hildabeest did make their way down to Christ Church Meadow late one night when whichever bar we had met up in had closed. This is England in the 1980s, people, and hostelries closed at 10.30pm except Friday and Saturday when they stayed open an extra 30 minutes. It was March, if memory serves correctly, and the lady wore a long black overcoat over her undergraduate uniform of wool skirt and blue crew necked sweater.
We stopped to lean against a wooden fence and I found to my delight that madam was only too pleased to put her arms around my neck and gently nibble my right ear as a good Hildabeest should. She did not object as I put my arms around her rump and lifted her skirt to reveal to my delight that she wasn't wearing blue or black woollen tights as I had believed but long socks that reached up to her thighs. Almost as nice as stockings and a damn sight warmer in the chill of an Oxford March. I placed the back of my hand over the magical zone that was still covered by her panties and was delighted to find that her heat pulsated onto my hand. That night was going to be easy-peasy I realised.
I turned her around and pulled her overcoat off her shoulders. Taking it in one hand I put it over the fence and then gently pushed madam onto it. Before she had time to collect her thoughts I pulled her skirt up around her waist and firmly peeled her panties down to her ankles.
Have you ever had a woman that way? There is something incredibly erotic about having her bent over, fully clothed, but with her skirt up and panties down to her ankles. She looks ready to receive whatever her partner chooses to give her. I licked my right middle finger and began to stroke her pussy with it, all the while undoing my trousers with my other hand. Once they were down and my cock was free I mounted her from the rear and began to get a good, steady rhythm going.
She did not shriek or scream, but contenting herself with low heavy moans that seemed to come from deep within her. She reached behind her like a good girl should and took hold of my balls in one of her hands. Cupping them she stroked them with her fingers as I built up the velocity to the killing speed.
Quite a night with quite a lady. I walked her home afterwards - she lived in a house the other side of Folly Bridge - and as I strolled back across the bridge I walked down the steps to the riverbank. I then took out my dick and had a nice long piss in the river.
And reflected that life really didn't get much sweeter.
30 March 2010
Tories move ahead in the poster battle
The Tories reckon that they have come up with a poster campaign that cannot be wrecked by the piss-takers:
On the basis of the pretty lousy effort reproduced below, they may have a point:
It is not that the piss takes aren't funny, but they are not streets ahead of the originals. Previously the satire took flight and reduced the Tories to apoplectic rage as seemingly everyone and his brother had a laugh at their expense. Now the boot is on the other foot as the satirists' work is left looking rather lame.
Could the Tories finally have got their act together? Let's wait and see.
29 March 2010
Multiculturalism has one success
The Independent reports that the shagging shops of London employ at least seventy-seven different nationalities. Say what you like, but here's the proof that multiculturalism has been a fucking success.
Creating a social work industry narrative
The hysteria which the social work industry displayed over at the Guardian on Thursday was something rather special, and it was the blogs which caused it all: clearly new media's day in Britain has finally dawned. However, causing grief for these parasites is one thing, but putting a stop to their insolence is quite another. We have obviously reached the first stage, but how do we get to the second?
What we need to do is write the concluding chapter of this political narrative. We have a full cast of characters, headed by the heroic parents fighting to save their families against the knuckle-dragging troglodytes who wish to rule over them. Then we have councillors who seem keener to work in tandem with the social work maggots than represent the people who elect them, and a system of family courts where anything seems to go and most of it in secret. Faced with such riches the question must be, where to begin?
Your friendly old Exile suggests that we keep it simple. The next election will be fought out between the middle class employed in the private sector who can be expected to vote Tory and their Nu-Labour voting cousins who work in the public arena. The former's taxes help pay for the latter to live in clover. Thus 52 percent of the economy is now generated by the public sector, up from 36 percent a decade ago. All that has to be paid for by people whose labour is productive of some finished good, and that in an economy where manufacturing has declined by half to just over 10 percent of output since 1997. Put bluntly, cuts have to be made in the public sector.
So the narrative should state that we do not object in principle to councils having a small group of well educated social workers who can give advice to people, but look what happened to these heroic, well-balanced families when the bloated, semi-educated polyocracy that makes up today's social work industry gets in on the act - and all at your expense to boot! Would it not be better for society at large if these people were just disposed of, especially in this time of economic crisis when sacrifices are needed across the board?
Like all good narratives this one is easy to articulate, simple to follow, and it ties in with other existing narratives that are already being presented. For instance David Cameron has gone on record as saying that teachers in future should be recruited from the ranks of people who have decent degrees from decent universities: so why should the social worker industry still be allowed to recruit dross from the old polys?
The beautiful thing about blogging is that we don't all need to sing from the same hymnal to make our presence felt. What we do need to do is reach the sort of conclusion outlined in this posting, hopefully from as many different political perspectives as possible. Let the social work industry worry about defending itself against attacks from the left, right or centre. Our aim must be to keep the narrative flowing, keep telling the story, and bring as many people onside as possible to our final aim which is the doing over of these two-legged cockroaches once and for all.
27 March 2010
BA strike: union creates YouTube channel
Just giving up a few minutes of my weekend in a good cause: the Unite Union has a channel up and running at YouTube and is using it to get the truth out about the strike that British Airways has forced the cabin crews to take. Please tell as many people as you can about this channel.
Weekending: tits break free
OK, you men, be careful here because these tits have a mind of their own!
Don't forget that the clocks go forward one hour at 2.00am on Sunday morning.
26 March 2010
Murdoch to charge on-line Times readers
The BBC reports that as of June punters will have to pay Rupert Murdoch £2.00 a week to access the Times and Sunday Times on-line. The Sun and News of the World will remain free for the time being and since they contain the same news, but with added tits, it is hard to see what Murdoch is playing at.
25 March 2010
Social workers stifle debate
Defensive lot the social work industry. A hackette scribbles a piece for the Guardian in which she vilifies the bloggers who attack the social work industry. No links are provided to any of the blogs and when the bloggers themselves arrive to defend their work the comments they leave are deleted. Needless to say, your friendly old Exile has enjoyed himself playing cat and mouse with the censors under several monickers, the most notable being one nicked from an old mate and commentator here, one Nick Urzdown. The silly sods haven't yet twigged that corny joke but never mind.
What is going on is quite straightforward. The social work industry and its allies do not want a debate about the future of the industry. It is the one debate that terrifies them because all we need to do is point to the fact that the average social worker is nothing but a semi-educated lump of lower middle class shit with a poly degree. David Cameron has already attacked the teaching trade for its low standards so the last thing that our social work friends want is for their lumpen educational standards to become a matter for public discourse.
So let's have this debate shall we? Why should public money be poured into the pockets of social work inbreds? Let them go and do something commensurate with their abilities, for instance asking simple questions such as:
"Do you want chips with that burger?"
Update, 25 March 2010, 11.45am:
The Guardian has closed comments for this piece after so many bloggers and their supporters charged in and basically took over the site. The social work vermin were being hit from all sides and the Guardian had to delete literally hundreds of comments, then close the comments down, just to allow those cockroaches to save face.
24 March 2010
Oxford sex with a Zulu
I have only ever gone horizontal jogging with one Zulu and that was at Oxford. . .
We went for a drink in the Bear, one of Oxford's better known hostelries, and I can remember that she could pour beer down her neck as if it were going out of fashion. Pints to boot, as there was none of this ladies' glass nonsense for that African Violet.
I took her back to my room and commenced to undress her. I tend to like a slow build-up to the copulatory ritual but madam was having none of that. Before I know what was happening she had shrugged off her kit and was scrambling into bed with a lascivious grin on her face. I climbed in next to her and she grabbed hold of my chopper and started to rub it until it assumed the correct rigid dimensions. Then she literally pulled me on top of her, placed my porker in the entrance to her body and off we went. I have heard that Irish foreplay involves saying "Brace yourself, Bridget," but that's more then we did that night.
By my arse she was ready for a good riveting! Her nails lacerated my back and it seemed as if I was coupling with a roll of barbed wire. Every time I tried to slow down to a good poking rhythm she would dig her forefinger into my ribs and with her tongue in my ear she would encourage me to faster exertions. I kept on banging away until the tightening in my balls told me that my wad was about to be shot. Try as I might I just couldn't hold it back and I was convinced that some of my teeth were working themselves loose as I pumped my spunk into her.
What can I say? A lovely lady who went on to get a fucking blue and about whom the Magdalen Tower joke was told. You haven't heard the joke? It goes like this:
What's the difference between (Insert name of suitable female here) and Magdalen Tower?
Not everyone in Oxford has been up Magdalen Tower!
As for me, I wished her luck and was not all that sorry to see the back of her. Put simply she just wore me out.
23 March 2010
Introducing Casuals United
Check out @casualsunited69 as they plan to provide a running commentary of any future English Defence League marches. They have a blog at Casuals United Blog - what a surprise, eh?
The blog reveals all the dislike that many working people have for the left these days - and it is the left's own fault. We have got to make it clear that our interest in lifestyle politics such as rampant poofery is nil and the only culture we give a stuff about is ours: the drink beer, shag women and hate the boss culture that we both have in common. We want to collectivise the economy because it is in our interest to share out the bastard work, and we want to see the same maggots who have done so well out of the past few years reduced to pimping their daughters as they do.
Our enemies are the same: let's fucking unite and do 'em over together.
Fake left continue to mither about the EDL
Following on from last night's posting about the English Defence League, the reaction around the world of wank is everything that you would imagine it to be. Just about every so-called leftist blog is screaming about the EDL' racism, fascism and the like. Now a cursory check of the EDL will show that the body is pretty multi-ethnic in its make-up, which makes sense when you consider that it draws its support from working class areas. Not only that but the BNP positively loathes the EDL and wants nothing whatever to do with it. So what's going on?
Your friendly old Exile reckons that the ideologically pure at heart are basically shitting their loads at the thought of the real working class actually taking matters into their own hands and putting forward their own agenda. Note that we said the real working class, not the one that various precious souls fondly believe exists.
Not only that, but the agenda completely cuts out the old Trot-left groupings and leaves them high, dry and dick in hand. People like this really do believe that we are incapable of doing anything without the leadership of the middle class and it must really gall them that we can.
So they scream - and how funny it is to hear them scream. A whole new political world is slowly but surely being created and all these characters can do is scream in impotent rage from the sidelines.
22 March 2010
English Defence League versus Great Unwashed in Bolton
Would you? I mean seriously, would you? Obviously at the end of the night as the last couples make their way to the door and when you have had a few pints in your belly. Would you shag it then?
That is the problem that the left has these days, its people look like circus freaks. As for the ideology what can we say? Take Saturday's disturbance in Bolton as a case in point. The English Defence League, is a working class body that was created spontaneously in March of last year when a group of Muslims protested in Luton at the return of a British regiment from Afghanistan. British people mounted a counter demonstration and you will not be surprised to learn that the police only arrested the British people and left the curry munchers to continue with their antics.
The EDL marched in Bolton on Saturday and an SWP front called Unite Against Fascism mounted a counter march that seems to have consisted of equal parts of the great unwashed and Pakistanis under this banner:
The Trots at Socialist Unity are wanking themselves into a frenzy as the comments to this post show. Being Trots, and therefore very, very stupid, they cannot imagine any working class body not controlled by them that is anything other than a fascist front. The fact that their mere presence is enough to make most working class people walk away in disgust is not something that enters their little minds.
You think that we are exaggerating? Just take a look at the banner that was unfurled by the UAF people on Saturday and then consider the bird in the top photo.
Now go and have a nice long bath: you have earned it.
20 March 2010
Weekending: Wagah border closing ceremony
This is delightful, in a risible sort of way. The soldiers at the Indo-Pakistani border post in the town of Wagah go through this border closing ritual every day. Check out the way in which one Pakistani Ranger collides with another at the 1:58 mark and reflect that no matter how hard they try, your third worlder will always manage to fuck things up somehow.
19 March 2010
Lorry shunts car on motorway
Incredible footage showing a truck on the A1(M) near Wetherby in Yorkshire with a car jammed under its front bumper. The truck driver obviously has no idea what is going on and continues blithely on his merry way. The police are now investigating and by all accounts the woman in the car emerged unhurt.
Your cynical old Exile is curious to know why the guy who shot this footage on his mobile 'phone then uploaded it to YouTube where anyone can get hold of it? Had he has his wits about him he could have contacted any number of news agencies who would have been only to pleased to punt the video clip on his behalf.
As it is everyone and his brother - and that includes the BBC - is freely reposting the clip all over the web. Someone made a big mistake with this one.
Teacher refused to help Sam Linton as he lay dying
An incredible story is breaking about how a teacher left 11 year old Samuel Linton dying from an asthma attack in a corridor and refused to listen to the pleas of two pupils that she do her job properly. Needless to say no action has been taken against Janet Ford, the teacher concerned, but Stockport Council has promised that: "The school and the local authority will continue to take steps to address issues identified from Samuel's death." Got that? They will set up a working party and create an asthma policy or some such nonsense, just to ensure that this woman keeps her cushy little local government number. That is the way that local government works.
Living in a working class district in Britain is increasingly similar to living in a colonial territory during the days of empire. The residents are the natives, the kaffirs, the chavs, and the colonial administrators are the teachers, police, social workers and assorted council officials, all of whom parachute into the territory in the morning, and then scuttle out as quickly as possible at day's end. Even the councillors, the men and women who are supposed to legitimise these characters' actions, are increasingly outsiders who do not live in the wards that they ostensibly represent.
Nothing has changed in the intervening years and neither has the solution. Working class people must cease to disengage from politics and each estate must have its cadre of community activists who will work to keep the local government rabble in order.
Otherwise nothing will change
18 March 2010
Supermarket bags: what was the government playing at?
Actions have unintended consequences, a fact which Nu-Labour doesn't seem able to take on board. When I last lived in the UK many people used supermarket bags as small bin liners. Today when you go into a supermarket you are given exactly the number of bags that your shopping needs, and as I understand it that came about because of regime pressure on the shops to cease using so many plastic bags. However, people still have bins for their kitchen waste and those bins still need liners, so they buy them in supermarkets. Your friendly old Exile, being a cheapskate, just asked the girl at the checkout for some extra bags and she was only to pleased to hand over half a dozen or so, but it seems that most people are too embarrassed to do that.
This rather begs the question, since people are using plastic bin liners instead of old plastic bags for their rubbish, where exactly is the green benefit?
17 March 2010
Poking in an Oxford punt
Have you ever poked in a punt? I can't remember the exact date when I joined that particular club but it was during the Trinity Term when a fellow named Rob McKay decided to kick seven colours of shit out of Toby Young. Toby ran a magazine called Trib which had printed something nasty about Bro. McKay and on the day in question Rob was chasing Toby down Cornmarket screaming at him to "come back here you cowardly little cunt". Toby may very well have been small, cowardly and vagina-shaped but he was no fool as he ignored the pleas and kept on having it away on his toes, the wrathful McKay in hot pursuit.
Leaving Rob and Toby to their merry frolics I made my way down to Folly Bridge, with a blanket and bottle of wine in one hand and a pretty girl in the other. We reached the bridge and I took delivery of one of the college punts that were moored there. Once bird, booze and blanket were stored away to my satisfaction I punted us away to one of the tributaries off the main river and rammed the punt against a steep bank. That done I stood the punting pole in the mud just behind the craft to wedge the vessel firmly in place and turned my attention to other matters.
We drank the wine, and kissed and touched each other, it was all very languid and just as you would expect an Oxford summer's day to be. Madam was wearing a light cream dress with roses printed on it and I can remember that it had five large buttons running from top to bottom and a belt that went around her waist. The latter I pulled free and then spent a happy few minutes undoing all the buttons to reveal the prize that lay within.
I suppose that you are expecting to hear a report of her expensive lingerie, so I am sorry to disappoint any underwear fetishist when I state that she was wearing a rather simple but sweet ensemble of matching white bra and panties. The former undid at the front which made my task a lot easier, and the latter frothy confection of lace and cotton was then pealed down slowly - these things must never ever be rushed - to reveal a sweet pussy, neatly trimmed but not shaven, just as I like them to be.
The lady had looked nervous at first because of our location and a fear that someone might chance upon us, but I had reassured her that nobody will find us here, darling, which luckily turned out to be true. So we kissed and touched and she sucked my cock and I stroked her breasts and flanks and we prepared each other as my cock became hard and her pussy grew moist.
What can I say about the sex? By definition a well fed, well cared for 19 year old wench is going to be perfection itself and this one was a real spring morning of a girl. The sex was just so very good and I built up a good rhythm that led to an even better climax. I remember that she sank her teeth into my left shoulder as we reached the conclusion but I didn't notice the pain until much later.
Quite a girl as I am sure that you will agree. I heard years later that she had married a banker and I felt a slight twinge at the memory of loss. Then I consoled myself with the thought that I was the one who had riveted her on the river that long ago Oxford afternoon whilst Toby Young was fleeing for his life, and with a shrug I went back to being my old self.
16 March 2010
What a combination: boobies & kittens!
Feeling cheesed off? Hardly surprising given the news that Labour has scabbed on the BA workers and looks set to support the management vermin in the coming strike. What you need is something to cheer you up. How about boobs? Lots of them in fact. And kittens, yes, lots of them too. Boobies and kittens, what a combination and one guaranteed to put the smile back on your lips.
New Labour scabs on BA workers
Just when you thought that Nu-Labour couldn't get any more anti-working class the party surprises you by reaching a whole new rancid level. In a nutshell British Airways has forced its cabin crew to take strike action. The Unite union that they belong to is one of Labour's biggest contributors and now Gordon Brown has called the workers' action "unjustified and deplorable".
Great - so just remind me again why any working person should vote for this shower of shit? The argument that the Tories will be worse will hardly wash in this case: just how can the Tories be any more pro-management than the present regime?
The Tories are gaining in the polls once again, probably as people digest this latest loathsome act by the party that was established to defend their interests but which now only speaks for the owners of capital and their middle class lickspittles.
15 March 2010
The world of local government
Filling in application forms is a soul destroying activity, especially where the work involves the Magical Kingdom of Localgovernmentland. This is a land where the concepts of profit and loss do not apply, and where someone else has to produce the monies that the elves and pixies who make up the Magical Kingdom's population spend freely.
So for instance if you are a lecturer seeking work in the further education sector, having degrees from Russell Group universities and a modest list of publications to your name is not enough to even get an interview these days. You must be able to demonstrate "a commitment to diversity," and prove that your belief in the council's policy of "working towards the eradication of sexism, ageism, racism" is total. Presumably you do this via the two-minute hate, thought your friendly old Exile. Alas that is not the case - what you have to do is know the buzzwords that are in vogue at the moment and make damn sure that they go on that application form. Then a committee will spend a whole day going through those forms and will only invite for interview those people who have met the complete person specification.
Being a cynical old sod who had lived far too many years in Mexico, I decided that the system must work the same as it does in that country. Namely the issue is not what the papers contain, rather that there be lots of them with lots of writing on both sides of the sheets. Then the papers go into a file which goes into an archive and everyone feels that they have done their bit for the day. And the job goes to someone's cousin, or to the person who stumps up the biggest bribe.
However in the Magical Kingdom of Localgovernmentland that is not the case. This is because the kingdom's administrative elite, the polyocracy, really do go through all this drivel line by line. Let's face it, if you had a third from some scratty old poly that John Major allowed to degrade the name of university, you would feel pretty bloody insecure as well, wouldn't you? As part of the process of self-justification you would take old tosh like this very, very seriously indeed.
Neither this blog, nor its writer, will be supporting the Tories at the coming general election. That said, wouldn't it be nice if Prime Minister Cameron decided to send an army of troglodytes into the Magical Kingdom and reduced it to ashes?
13 March 2010
Weekending: ripe for a knobbing
This MILF is just aching to be knobbed - just watch the clip if you don't believe me.
12 March 2010
Liberal-Democrats sign up to Thatcherism
It's common knowledge that just thinking about Margaret Thatcher gives Tony Blair a thumping great blue-veiner; after all it was under his watch that the statue to the rancid creature was erected in the House of Commons' lobby. However it has now emerged that the Liberal-Democrats' leader Nick Clegg also likes to give himself one with the wrist at the mention of her name. How else do we explain the recent interview in which he nailed his party's colours firmly to the economic liberal mast? By promising cuts of 100% and praising Thatcher's anti-working class policies to the high heavens, Clegg laid to rest the myth that there is anything to choose between the three main parties.
The only thing that ordinary people can do as a gesture of protest is either vote for a minority party or not vote at all.
Cheers: Tweet from George Galloway.
11 March 2010
Well, fuck a duck!
First came multi-culturalism, now let's hear it for multi-specieism. We at Team Exile can't wait for the first council to start offering a diversity training day for putative duck fuckers. Or something. . .
10 March 2010
Anna Span to run for parliament
Anna Arrowsmith Tweets to say that she has been chosen as the Liberal-Democrat candidate for Gravesham, Kent. You have never heard of Anna Arrowsmith? Probably because she shoots her porno vids under the name of Anna Span. That's right - the Lib-Dems have a porno person carrying one of their colours into battle.
Sex with an Oxford Cowgirl
A friend of mine once remarked that of the two things in the world that smelled of fish he preferred the varieties that were trawled up from the North Sea. For my part I have nothing against the other kind and although I am not addicted to the art of muff diving, I do find it rewarding when the lady in question starts to scream like a banshee, since it makes me feel that all my efforts have been worthwhile.
However, in the Oxford of paper thin college walls and over enthusiastic Oxford Cowgirls, that screaming can be a problem. The Ox & Cow, or the Oxford and Country Secretarial College to give it the full name that nobody ever used, closed its doors at 34 St Giles' Street in 1999. It merged with another secretarial college, acquired an even more pompous name, and presumably still carries on helping the intellectually challenged daughters of home counties daddies to find husbands.
The cowgirl that I was busily undressing that afternoon was under the impression that she was in The Ruskin School of Art instead of Ruskin College, and kept prattling on about the Pre-Raphaelites, presumably having had a half hour course on art at the Ox & Cow. I didn't want to overtax her poor mind with the intricacies of why Oxford had two colleges named after the same man, besides I was more interested in getting her knickers down. That I duly did with a minimum off fuss and a maximum of squealing. The dress went the same way as did her bra, but for some reason I let the girl keep her shoes on. You never know, there might have been a fire or something.
Having completed the preliminaries I grabbed a good handful of bouncer and proceeded on my merry way down below. The moment my tongue had parted her labia the little darling let out a yell that I was sure had woken the dead or at least the members of my college which probably amounted to the same thing. Not being a man easily put off his stride I turned my head to the right so that my lips ran parallel with hers, as it were, and then I just let my tongue enter her body before moving it up and down in a side to side motion. I will never forget that she bucked like a bronco - come on, men, it's great when they lose control like that, isn't it?
Sex followed in due course, and the screams continued unabated. Not just screams, but what my little cowgirl obviously thought of as cries that would spur me on to greater feats. Thus I was treated to "golly," and "this is jolly good," to say nothing of "oh gracious," all at higher and higher volume as the poke rhythm quickened to the killing velocity.
Some time later I was drinking coffee in the television room when the Welshman who lived two doors down on my corridor commented: "Made a bit of noise, didn't she?"
"An Oxford Cowgirl," I replied.
"Thought as much," he said.
Coming up next Wednesday: Poking in an Oxford punt!
09 March 2010
The left and the price of bread
The disconnect between ordinary people and the so-called left that claims to represent them becomes more and more apparent as we trawl through the socialist blogs. You don't have to look far to find debates about Palestine, war or identity politics, but finding something that ordinary people can relate to is next to impossible.
Let's take bread as a case in point. A loaf costs about £1.30 with many supermarkets offering them at two for £2.00. You cannot stand in any supermarket's bread section for more than a few minutes without someone complaining about the price of them, so why is the left not banging the drum about this vitally important matter? It is vitally important, of course, because bread is the difference between a full stomach and going to bed hungry.
Millions of our people live on benefits and a single, unemployed person gets the princely sum of around £65.00 per week to live on. A minimum wager earns £5.80 an hour which come to £232.00 for a 40 hour week. Less stoppages, of course, for national insurance and tax.
Now you know why people stand in supermarkets and complain to each other about the cost of this most basic part of any working class diet. So why is the left ignoring this issue? The only answer that this writer can come up with is that the left ignores this issue precisely because it is a working class concern. This new-left is just another section of the middle class that talks to itself and to other middle class types. It doesn't give a stuff about us or our concerns.
Which is why we don't give a stuff about it.
08 March 2010
A horsey kind of girl
Poor girl - out on the razzle all weekend and feeling pretty horse today.
Bob Wareing retires
David Lindsay tweets to say that Bob Wareing will stand down at the election, and a quick look at the Liverpool Echo confirms the sad news. As David says there is a limit to what we can expect a 78 year old to do, but it does mean that yet another old Labour man is about to depart the stage. He will be replaced, probably, by Stephen Twigg, a southern, middle class homosexual who has absolutely no understanding of working class life, desires or aims. All this chancer wants is a safe seat.
If you live in Liverpool West Derby, then don't vote as it only encourages 'em.
Labour - Respect coalition talks
The Labour Party seems to be planning for a hung parliament as "very senior Labour figures have approached George Galloway to find out" what the Respect Party's price would be to support a minority Labour ministry in office. The interesting thing about this is the fact that Labour accepts that Respect will hold one and possibly two seats in the Tower Hamlets borough of London, otherwise they would not have bothered making the approach. With Salma Yaqoob also being tipped to take a seat in Birmingham a Labour-Respect coalition is not all that unlikely.
The Respect Party has put forward three conditions that Labour would have to agree to:
1. A massive council house building programme.
2. Withdrawal of all British forces from America's wars.
3. Democratisation of Parliament, with the introduction of proportional representation, ending of the right of hereditary peers to sit in the upper chamber and an end to the expenses scandals.
Labour could agree to the second and third conditions quite easily. America wants to withdraw its forces starting next year, and the British are highly unlikely to remain in the country alone. The government has already put forward its PR proposals, so that should not be a sticking point.
The problem is the campaign to build houses because that means taxing Labour's precious middle England voters. It really all depends on how much Gordon Brown wants to stay in office. The Exile's bet is that he wants to stick around for as long as possible, so tax rises for the middle class cannot be ruled out.
06 March 2010
Weekending: MILF flashes her tits
Yeah, it's an advert and not a real MILF, but it is pretty funny all the same.
05 March 2010
Apathy reigns on the general election front
Here's an interesting thought, well, interesting to me at any rate. We are now less than two months away from the general election and nobody seems to give a shit. The apathy is such that when I blogged about matters political last week the hit counter seemed to be going in reverse. As soon as I sleazed things up again then we started to get statporn that was very wankable indeed.
We are heading for an election that could change the face of 21st century politics as much as the election of 1918 did for the previous century. The Labour Party is still in danger of extinction, and new parties could emerge to take up the slack - just as happened after 1918. Yet nobody seems to care.
Watching people sleepwalk into the future is a strange experience.
04 March 2010
Cameron & Harman: like two peas in a pod
Here's a thought that should keep any reasonable working man awake at night. If David Cameron wins the coming election then it is highly likely that Gordon Brown will resign as Labour leader. It is then not too fanciful to suggest that Hattie Harman might become the party's new leader.
OK, Cameron was educated at Eton and Hattie went to St. Paul's Girls' School. The parents pay£15,000 a year these days to educate a Pauline, but the Harmans wasted their brass on young Hattie because all she managed to get was a place at the University of York, unlike Dave who is a Brazenose College, Oxford, man. The only other difference that I can find between them is that Hattie likes to wear an anti-stab vest when walking about her constituency, which probably tells you all that you ever wanted to know about her real views of her constituents.
Other than that the similarities are frightening. Neither has ever had anything approaching a real job. Hattie did a stint for a pressure group before entering the Commons and Cameron was a political researcher and held a cushy number in the media for a time. Both are products of the far reaches of the upper-middle-class where it touches on the old aristocracy. Hattie is related to the Earls of Longford, and Cameron is a direct descendent of King William 1V. In fact the two are also distant cousins, - there is nothing like keeping things in the family, is there?
This is worse than 1910 - at least in those days working class people had the image on the horizon of a country where the producers of wealth were also its consumers and where the parasitic middle and upper classes had been dealt with. Today all we have is the memory of what might have been and the awful looming reality of a government headed by a walking bell-end and an opposition led by his cousin, a creature so fucking ugly that if she had the last cunt on earth, most working men would certainly prefer to have a wank.
How could we allow things to reach this level?
03 March 2010
Michael Foot has died
I have just spoken to Neil Clark on the telephone to confirm our lunch in Oxford later today. Neil reports that Michael Foot had died earlier today at the ripe old age of 96. The BBC has an obituary and Neil is writing one for the First Post which should go up later today.
Introducing Oxford Memories
Following right along from our last posting, your friendly old Exile has to admit that his days as a serious philanderer are probably numbered to put it at its best. This being so, and given that reverie is probably a more realistic option than ambition, lets take a trip down memory lane shall we?
The number of Oxbridge students who are chronicling their sex lives seems to be growing by the minute and has awoken memories of Oxford in the early to mid-1980s. Somerville, St. Hugh's, St. Hilda's, the Oxford and Country Secretarial College, all those wonderful institutions that provided rest and recreation to the men of my time - they are coming alive once again in my mind.
Starting next week let's think back to a time when the summers were as hot as the university's maidens, when the labias glistened moistly in eager anticipation of the tongues that were about to explore their inner recesses, and when the cocks stood hard and tall as they considered the shinings to come.
The fucking memories series will start next Wednesday!
The Exile's Pledge
And his balls go cold, and the end of his knob turns blue,
When it's bent in the middle like a one string fiddle,
He can tell you a tale or two. . .
I was leaving a curry house the other night and found a young fellow with his back to me blocking my way. The chap's girlfriend realised the problem and nudged her man to one side. I thanked her and with the sweetest of smiles on her face the delectable young thing told me that her father walks with a stick and she understood exactly what I was going through. . . So I pointed out twixt gritted teeth that it was really great when a beautiful young woman told me that I reminded her of her dad. At least she had the decency to laugh in delicious embarrassment.
Yesterday I was hobbling out of the Railway Inn, Putney, when a very nice teenage miniskirt scampered out of her seat and held the door open for me. I thanked her as I had thanked the other girl because I am just the whitest man around these parts, and the miniskirt gave me a lovely smile, placed her hand lightly on my shoulder, and told me that her grandfather had broken his hip and had to walk with a stick. That's right, she compared me to her fucking grandfather. . .
Ladies, I put you all on notice that I will not be a semi-invalid forever, and that the mighty organ of generation that has created so many ex-virgins is only slumbering whilst my legs get back to normal. When it awakens verily you will tremble as you anticipate the lockjaw and stretched pussy to come.
When a man grows old and his balls grow cold,
And the end of his knob turns blue,
When the hole in the middle refuses to piddle,
I'd say he was fucked, wouldn't you?
02 March 2010
They bury the babies four to a pit in London
They bury the paupers' babies four to a grave in London, with the paupers themselves going into a pit deep enough to hold six. The chief executive of Islington Council didn't believe that such Dickensian common pits still existed in the London of the twenty-first century until the Evening Standard's reporter showed him the figures: over 200 men, women and children buried communally in one cemetery in one London borough over the past three years. At least the £210,000 a year parasite had the decency to be "shame-faced," as well he might.
The Standard is running a series of reports all this week dedicated to uncovering stories such as this and the big Labour lie that they expose. Remember that back in 1999 the regime promised to halve child poverty by 2010 and end it completely by 2020. The regime lied: just look at the coffins of the babies as they lie in an unmarked common pit waiting for enough small, white boxes to be placed in the grave so that it can be filled in if you doubt that.
This regime is evil and it must be destroyed. Its carcass must be taken to a crossroads at the dead of night and buried, face down, with a stake that runs deep through its body and into the good earth below. It must never rise again.
We owe it to the babies in their common pits.
01 March 2010
The Russians in London
Is it just me or does anyone else think that the Russians who are now blessing London with their presence are all complete and utter shits? Take yesterday as a case in point when I had an appointment with a Russian chiropodist who turned out to be not only a revolting tub of lard, but also the owner of some seriously wonky views to boot.
I'm not quite sure how the conversation turned to the Russian Revolution, but I was amazed to discover, courtesy of that rancid hag, that none of the revolutionary leaders was actually Russian. To start with Lenin was "German bastard with bit of Tartar gypsy blood". I think that the tub meant that his ancestors were Volga-German and Tarter, but her comments were less about cultural background and had more to do with the purity of the blood and stuff like that.
Staying on this theme I discovered that Uncle Joe Stalin was Georgian and that Trotsky was Joeish. I was also asked if I was Joeish, partly because it seems that I look Joeish, but also because only a Joe could refer to the man who helped kill the last royal family as uncle. The tub then went on to explain that the Romanovs have been sanctified by the Orthodox Church and that she has a shrine to their memory in her flat in one of the shittier parts of South London.
The following video is reproduced here especially for all and any fat tubs of lard who may drop by: