Loose-Cannon

Watching those veterans, old and young, able and crippled, marching in the Rememberance parade, I was remainded of an important distinction -

click on the Poppy Cross to enlarge

I sometimes forget that hating the business of war blinds me to the faith of those who have to die in it. What annoys me however are those cowardly politicians who jump on the bandwagon of today's commemorations to convince us that wars are worth dying for, especially when someone else does the dying.

This is how David Haye defeated Nikolai, the Goliath.

click on Goliath to enlarge

On that note, boxing should be banned and anyone who wished to knock somebody's brains out with his fists should be tried for grievious bodily harm. As far as I am concerned boxing is nothing but legalised crime of physical violence.

Legions of unemployed, good-for-nothing misfits will soon appear on the tranquil British horizon as all MPs' relatives are set to lose their jobs. It has been reported that the banking system will not be able to absorb them all and some may sadly be forced to sign up for the dole. They are already making provisions for the eventuality: -

Click your tongue and say tut-tut to enlarge

Click on Barbarossa's beard to enlarge

I may be cynical about the Treaty but I believe in United Europe to put an end to our petty tribalisms and nationalisms, to put an end to all future wars on this beautiful, ancient continent of ours.

Yet I am saddened by how this unity was achieved - by circumventing all democractic process of public consultation in most European countries. It was more or less coupe de etat. Ceasar, Barbarossa and Napoleon wouldn't have done it better.

Happy Halloween!

Click on the link or the picture to link to our Halloween message.

Did you hear what Tony, the Convertible is planning now? As soon as he snatches the office of EU President... hear it from the horse's mouth...

click on Tony's grin to enlarge

Reportedly, the Pope has already annointed Tony in the best imperial tradition. Long Live the King!

Something from the archives of my now deceased blog that I liked.

PART 1: RUSSIA AND AMERICA
As the final clash for world domination looms on the horizon (it has to be resolved before we run out of fuel, you see, and that doesn’t leave us with much time), I think of the horrors that will come with that ultimate confrontation of bad faith. Then I think of all the horror movies that scared me shitless in my lifetime - Scoobie Doo amongst them.

Imagine if instead of nations the final battle between evil and more evil here on Earth is fought by horror characters. So who do we have in the race? Russia, America and the most unwelcome as they say in Washington – China. But China came in late, so here goes Russia and America.

Russia is the vampire of nations. With her long history of sucking every other nation’s blood, she can only be a vampire. But she is also a vampire because she is so refined, well educated and philosophical. She ponders her failings. She floats around vast Siberia cast in perpetual ice, with a rueful smile, regretting the unintended victims of her own imperial survival. Russia is an elegant vampire, aristocratic – no longer a Bolshevik commoner, but a noble, a countess – true daughter of Count Aleksey, the Impaler. There is a lot of melancholy in Russia’s greed. It is soulful greed – vampiric greed of which the deep-thinking Russia is ashamed but which she cannot escape if she wants to live into another millennium. It is her cursed fate. She produced world’s best writers and composers, poets and scientists, and incidentally, she sucks dry every full-blooded nation that stands in its way.

America on the other hand has no historical justification on this planet. It (I shall call it “it” because it lacks clear sexual orientation) is a new arrival on the block, and it arrived from the outer space of course. America is the Dalek of Earth. It doesn’t think, its brain works on schematic circuit arrangements dictated by Hollywood series of “Die Hard” and “Mission Impossible” blockbusters. It isn’t very shapely by our earthly standards – it’s rounded all over, wobbly, it can’t climb the stairs because of the weight of double pounder galactic Macs with extra-large chips in its rear. Yes, America has a big arse… IS a big arse.
America is on a mission (sic “Mission Impossible”). It doesn’t need to dwell on the purpose or consequences of its mission, it just follows orders of its crooked-nose master who, surrounded by tubes and beeping sounds, has been on life-support since the Great Flood. Anyway, America believes its Master. America is a bunch of duped, retarded mercenaries praising the Lord while they detonate another atomic bomb.
The Daleks, not capable of producing its own thought, go around the globe kidnapping, amongst others, the great Russian and German scientists who then show the Daleks how to climb the stairs and, of course, how to shoot a gun. No matter how hard they try, they can’t teach them how to hold a fork.

PART 2: GERMANY AND POLAND
When the subject is world conflicts, we simply cannot overlook the main culprit on the block – Germany. And if a German is in action, there is bound to be a Pole getting under his feet. If it hadn’t been for the Poles the Germans would have taken the whole world without one shot being fired on their second attempt. But seriously, think about it, in the many-thousand-year World’s history, there have only been two World Wars, both of them instigated by the Germans. Not a bad track record, huh?

Back to horror. Germany is a male (that being due to high testosterone levels in an average German male’s – or female’s - bloodstream.) I would love to liken Germany to Frankenstein – the name is just right and so are the looks, but no, I will go for Werewolf. Think about it. Overall, on a good day, Germany is a good boy: he has his socks well mended, his shirts are properly starched, he is in school on time, two Minutens before the bell goes off. He knows his times-tables backwards. His gets married at 25, has three boys and a girl by 32, and… by 35 dies in another war (the last event being a bit of a bummer in the otherwise perfect German existence).
A German is well groomed (ok, he burps after meals but that’s only to show appreciation to his devoted German wife who is a bit deaf after all the explosions of the experimental rockets he has fired in their perfect German backyard, next to her washing line). He is also loyal. Not like you, the English! He never argues with his wife and never judges her appearance by comparing her unfavourably to the seductive Polish vixen who lives round the block and leads him into temptation, which he doesn’t fall for, of course. He values his Bratwurst mit Sauerkraut und Berliner Weiße too much to give it up for a moment of madness with a treacherous Pole.
So life is perfect as it should be for our good, prim and proper Germany, until the full moon. Sheiße! Something animalistic, bestial even, kicks in! Our poor German cannot control it or stop it. He starts growing ginger hair all over his back, arms and chest, his solid, square hands turn into paws, and his body expands thereby tearing his perfectly starched shirt. And then he has to go and conquer, hunt and feed on fresh meat. Oh yes, he howls at his misery! But what’s done, is done… And then when the Moon wanes, so does our werewolf’s facial hair and he promptly returns to his basement to write a philosophical dissertation about racial purity. It’s all well intended.

The German story does not leave much room for my Poles. So briefly – Poland is a woman. She is hauntingly beautiful, tall and slim. She is been brought up on Romantic notions to believe in a better world that apparently has once existed, but there is no evidence of it anywhere in sight. But Poland doesn’t care about such trivia as tangible evidence. Poland is an idealist and has been seen fighting tanks with swords off horseback, with some degree of success.
As for horror – Poland is a closet witch. Daytime she attends Sunday mass without a fail and goes to confession to talk about domestic affairs, but at night… At night she practices black magic, makes poisonous concoctions out of snake’s spit and foxglove to add them to the chicken broth she makes for her pain-in-the-arse neighbour who fell victim to some mysterious illness (she denies it had anything to do with her “Fuck my Neighbour” spell). She is so superstitious that her foot will never pass under a ladder, or on a crack of a broken paving stone, or across the path of a back cat! On Friday, the 13th she sleeps under the bed and always keeps her fingers crossed when she lies. She is a witch alright… And in her irrationality she so irritates her sensible, perfect neighbour that he screws her every chance he gets. And that gives him an excuse for another World War.

PART 3: ENGLAND AND FRANCE
Back to our Horrific Horror Movie characters. They are all waiting to get out of the closet. England has been scratching the door from the inside, complaining of stale air and dampness. No wonder – England is a Mummy.

England used to be a gentleman-explorer wearing a top hat and a pleasant smile when, full of hope and expectations, he was leaving the friendly (but wet and miserable) shores of British Isles to sail and take over the world. Which he did.

He followed all the right paths of justifiable conquest and diplomatic channels to scramble to power and achieve his lofty purpose nicknamed “Rule Britannia”. In order to rule however, and rule efficiently, he had to civilise the savages so that they could understand the principles of the Rule of Law and social order. Alas, the savages misinterpreted his teachings (obstinate wild things that they were) and have promptly elevated him to the status of revered God, whereafter they decided to empirically explore the idea of his immortality. Unfortunately the experiment went wrong and the bastards, against their best scientific intentions, managed to smother our Englishman to death.

Never mind, they said, God is dead, let’s pretend he isn’t or there will be riots and unrest. So they took out his guts and other internal offal (which reverently consumed), bathed him in scented vinegar and wrapped him tightly in bandages made of only natural fibre. All through the entire process, our Englishman didn’t bat an eyelid and kept stiff upper lip (which shouldn’t surprise, considering he was dead) and from then on the English became world-famous for their stiff upper lip.

After the mummification, our misunderstood God was carried into a nice comfortable chamber at the centre of a pyramid. Some obscenities have been written in hieroglyphics all over the walls of his chamber by the most talented local graffiti artists. As the obscenities were pretty explicit, the linguists of latter day pretended they could not decipher them – they were too embarrassed – until of course, that Frenchman came and sacrileged the illusion out of pure French spite towards the English.

Centuries later the Mummy was excavated and brought back home to be displayed in the British Museum. A whole retinue of chieftains, scribes, astrologers, street beggars, peddlers and all sorts accompanied their old God to the Mother Country, and since he was long dead and buried, decided to settle down nearby the British Museum to keep him company, where they remain to this day.

The Englishman enjoys his peaceful rest (though since he is back, rheumatism kicked in and he misses the sunshine and dry air of the desert. Secretly he wishes his remains could be borrowed by the Spanish Museum of Human History in Madrid. The weather there is immeasurably more mummy-friendly, but he naturally no longer has any say in how the British Museum or indeed the world is run so he keep up his stiff upper lip).

Sometimes, American tourists come to take a few pictures of him, which irritates him beyond endurance but he is too much of a gentleman to say anything. He only resents the fact that for all his kind heart he is being represented in schools to little children (whom he adores)as the epitome of evil and in America they use his nicely clipped accent for all evil characters in Disney movies. Again, he won’t bat an eyelid, even though it hurts somewhere deep down where his guts used to be.

A few times he awoke to appear in two Hollywood movies, “Mummy” and “Mummy Returns”, but on each occasion he was exterminated by one Dalek called Brendan Fraser (good looking but alas American).

With all eternity ahead of him, our mummified Englishman has only one worry –with all the shortages they may one day recycle his bandages to make environmentally friendly Sainsbury bags, and then they will discover the God-King is… naked.

FRANCE
France, our dearest, beautiful, graceful and coquettish France! The mother of Asterix le Gaulois, of butter croissant, of underarm hairois, Arsene Lupin, the guillotine, and short men wearing white leggings and oversized hats with rosettes! She is all but a ghost now.

Joan de Arc of Europe, she used to have visions of grandeur once, she used to lead masses into battle on a white horse, with her hair loose and one of her breasts popping our of her bra (or was it Marseille?). She used to dance cancan, flashing her knickers (or their absence), wriggling her bottom under layers of twirling frills and singing L’Amour in a seductive, husky voice drenched in red wine.

Today, she is a ghost, floating in the attic, watching wide-eyed those who live in her erstwhile home. She is shocked to see them eat with their hands, plunging their fingers in a cow’s skull to get to the delicacy of its brain. She flinches – and her image goes into a transitory flicker – as she observes women not only don’t flash their knickers, but they don’t even flash their faces, only the whites of their eyes.

She drifts away into the never-land of her past, further and further away with every day, she becomes only a memory, and one day even that memory bursts like a rainbow-coloured bubble. This was the last in the long line of French Revolutions…

With all that un-civil unrest at the Royal Mail grassroot level, our post seems to be... going down the drain. Crap, I say, crap!

What's next?... I am hoping for the British Army to embark on a strike action in Afghanistan.

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