Bobby Fortyseven
Nov 17, 2014
A tale of two thefts
Course, the destruction of The Labour Party isn’t entirely the fault of the liar Blair. It can’t be. Afterall, everything that happens is the work of God. It is! Yes, the bloody rotten, stinking liar Blair was the instrument that actually did it, but he only did it because God was behind it.
Yes! God was behind it. He’s behind everything and he does all these things for a reason. Quite why he’d think to himself, ‘let’s destroy the Labour Party’, I’ve no idea and unless Im an odd sort of fish, Id say nobody else knows why either.
You see, this is the way God works. He goes about things in an entirely unusual way. Instead of concentrating his vast and unimaginable powers on people like the liar Blair and some of those associated with The Council who’ve gone out of their way to mismanage and misappropriate public funding, and for example, dropping a large rock on their heads or delivering them an enormous bolt of lightening, God does it all in a roundabout way. This is the way God works. Nothing he does is straightforward and if you want my view, he’s all the poorer for it. In fact, if he wanted to really get us to look up to the heavens, howl ‘Halleluzah!’ and take notice, he’d do well to deliver us all a mighty voice, tell us all who’s going to get it, feel his wrath and why, and let the voltage do the rest.
I reckon God is doing all these things so that the entire model of public service upon the Wirral gets so buggared up, we, the meek and the bloody mild, who are supposedly those who’ll inherit the Kingdom of Heaven, will rise up because God has made it nigh on impossible not to rise bloody up and take matters into their own hands.
Mind, say some lad from Birkenhead takes things into his own hands, builds a vast mincing machine that dispatches all those who’ve been instrumental in the downfall of the Wirral, finds himself stood before the Judge who says, ‘you are a menace to society. Your terrible invention of a machine is a horror and you’ll go to prison for fifty bloody years’, what are we to make of that? Was he just doing what God wanted him to do, namely shoving these people into his dreadful contraption and clearly had no choice in the matter, or was he a bloody nutcase who God had’nt been watching. Mind, then again, God must have noticed this lad from Birkenhead going out of his way buying welding equipment, lots of metals and spending a lot of time sharpening the mincing blades and muttering, ‘I’m going to invite them all up here to my garage, get them to climb inside my dreadful and hideous contraption and end our misery’.
No! I reckon God has gotta start delivering some on the spot summary justice and stop pissing about with all these signs, omens and portents that are only confusing deep thinkers like me. Yes, his way of doing things in a very roundabout way worked in centuries gone by, but it ain’t working today and Id like him to start kicking off and begin to take direct action against those who are getting away with this organised and entirely illicit activity.
Yes, that’s it. Instead of allowing these sycophantic tics to continue getting fat from our funding, allowing their cholesterol to hit twenty nine point bloody nine, clogging up their arteries and gifting them the Mother of all heart attacks and ending them, God should stop pissing about, and when they emerge from their fine homes ready for another day upon the gravey train, he should simply drop a ten ton rock on their heads, thus making it clearly obvious to the people that only God could have managed to raise a ten ton rock above a house and drop it on their heads as they were about to leave home for yet another day in paradise.
That’d make these people think! If I was up to no good and I knew that God was onto me and he had the ability to find a ten ton rock, raise it above my threshold and drop it on me head, it’d make me think twice!!
Bobby Fortyseven
Nov 18, 2014
The Information Commissioner Defends a Broken, Basket Case Council
Bloody forty eight thousand pounds! Bloody hurt feelings! I wish someone would pop round bloody here and hurt my feelings and I got slipped forty eight thousand pounds. Hurt feeling my neighbours right testicle!
I’ll tell you what can hurt your bloody feelings and make you go all bloody sensitive. Getting told to fix bloody bayonets and ordered to charge at a nest of machine guns. That’ll get your muttering, ‘me bloody feelings are hurt’. And it’s no good telling your skipper, ‘you’ve just hurt me bloody feelings. I demand forty eight thousand pounds’. More than likely, he’d fix his own rotten bayonet and shove you out over the wire howling, ‘and don’t come bloody back fatso’.
Whoever this ‘Doris’ is she wants to hack my bloody email in box and read what folk think and say of me. That’d make her think. That’d make her wince. Forty eight bloody thousand pounds, slipped out of the public purse and nobody was ever supposed to know. Bloody hell!
And they wonder why Cardin keeps going. Onward and in this case, bloody downwards, relentlessly pursuing the truth about where the money is going. Mind, it’s actually buggar all to do with Cardin. When he decided to produce his dartboard, or as I saw it, a bloody Ouija Board, listing the names of the girls who may have had the misfortune to become so bloody hurt that they needed forty eight bloody thousand pounds of our money to ease the pain, it was actually God who was behind the thought processes. Yes! God. God is behind everything. He’s into the bloody lot. Quite why he decided that it’d be a good idea to force the hierarchy of Wirral Council to feel compelled to dish out forty eight thousand pounds is a bloody mystery to me.
Course, he obviously knows what he’s doing. He must do but there are times when his roundabout way of doing things leave one muttering, ‘what’s his purpose. What’s he got in store for us’.
And he has got something in store for us. By sanctioning this payment of forty eight thousand pounds he’s set off a chain of events that’ll end in God getting us to go where he wants us to be.
I reckon he’s rubbing our noses in it. Getting us so pissed off we’re all going to kick off, gather together in a howling mob and storm the Town Hall.
And before any of you think me mad, ask yourselves why your reading this undiluted rancid Codswallop. Yes! Gods willed you to do it. Just like he’s given us The Syphilis. Disturbed and generally disappointed that vast areas of the Wirral have become overwhelmed by Dogging Associations, he’s given us the Syphilis so that well think twice before we writhe around on the bonnet of some parked car in pursuit of sexual gratification.
This is the way he does things. In an entirely roundabout way that’s intended to alter the course of future events. Course, if you’ve got the Syphilis I don’t suppose it’ll be much consolation knowing that God gifted it to you. You’d be an odd sort if you thought, ‘thank you Lord for giving me the Syphilis’ especially if you’ve no affiliation with a Dogging Association.
There! I’ve said what’s on me mind!
Bobby Fortyseven
Nov 23, 2014
Protecting the System & Cover ups by Liverpool Labour Council
First and foremost, my best wishes and warmest regards to the ‘Mainman’, his formidable ‘Mammy’ who’s fought this battle, and their family and friends who’ve all had to endure all of ‘this’ because of corporate scheming, cunning and guile and a desire to keep secret an issue that only ever needed a little oppeness, transparency and a measure of goodness and kindness.
Being the proud Grandfather of the most beautiful and the most fascinatingly mysterious little girl in the world, who has a profound disability that, though chromosome related, has some association with Autism, I as much as most completely understand the pain and anguish these barstards have put the Mainman and his family through.
For the most part, all the families in this position feel exactly the same. They grasp the issue, they deal with it, they don’t bloody moan and they build their lives around what is required to love and support their kith and kin. That’s what they bloody do! They ain’t looking to be a burden. They ain’t looking to become a problem. They simply want a fair slice of understanding and a lift up whenever they need a bit of help.
And where’s the help when these good people really needed it? Locked up in a bloody cupboard in an envelope titled, ‘DO NOT DISCLOSE TO THE FAMILY’ because some sycophantic public service bottom feeding tic decided that the corporate message was so much more important than the health and happiness of the Mainman and his family. It makes you want to hurl phlegm!
And as for deploying someone to care for another who has an autistic disability and they’ve had no bloody training, you have to ask yourself the question, ‘who bloody sanctioned that little decision’.
Good bloody grief! To think that the recipient of an OBE could associate himself with this sort of illicit behaviour and not be worried about the consequences of ‘not being bloody bothered to lend a helping hand’.
He should hang his head in shame, consider his position, and then submit a letter of resignation.
Mind, he won’t! He’ll do no such thing. They, you see, do not think as we do. They’ve no honour. No pride and the rules of normal behaviour do not apply to them. They apply to us. But not to them. It’s all very bloody straightforward isn’t it!
Return to Bomb Alley 1982 – The Falklands Deception, by Paul Cardin
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Wirral In It Together 