Bobby 47
Jan 29, 2015
Leon Brittan, Special Branch and the creation of a surveillance state
It seems to me that we are a great nation when it comes to fighting for freedom but considerably less successful at living it.
Some fool with a deranged ideology blows himself and others up and the bloody politicians are out in force howling, ‘they’ll never beat us’, and then we get a raft of new legislation that chips more away of these freedoms our ancestors fought so hard to keep safe.
The bloody chances of me bumping into some headbanger who’s desperately keen to slice off my head are so remote it’s not worth even considering and yet, the legislation and technical intrusion into all our lives increases every single day Sky rotten News tell us all to be afraid.
I’m not bloody afraid of ISIS. I’m afraid of British Governments. If bloody ISIS ever crept up my path, tapped upon my door and said, ‘convert to Islam fatso are we are going to hack your ravaged body to bits,’ I’ll say, ‘hand me your compass and pass me that there prayer mat’.
It’s all bloody rubbish and I’ll be damned if I allow anybody to make me afraid.
And as for the terrible revelations that scores of children were abused by the Establishment and the apparent tacit approval and turning of a blind eye to their illicit activities, by agencies who’s purpose it was to protect, I spit phlegm in their faces.
These organisations had no such problem finding a purpose to drill holes into the mortar of Scargills home, plant listening devices and listen in on his most private conversations. They had no problem, monitoring his phone calls, following him everywhere, recruiting informants and creating chaos, but they couldn’t be bothered to step forward and stop a young lad being buggared by the great and the good whenever they chose to do it.
No! Because the meek and the bloody mild don’t bloody matter. What matters to them is control and they’ll say and do mostly anything to make us afraid, convince us all that all is well as long as they can do whatever they like to protect us.
We’ll I don’t bloody need protecting thank you very much. I’m just fine and dandy. All I want is a measure of honesty and sincerity that convinces me that the weak and the vulnerable will be cared for, they won’t tilt their satellite half a degree West because I once tapped out the word ‘bo.mb’ and I’m allowed to live my life without being asked to hate someone or some people I’ve never met.
They can all get stuffed if anything I say is worth a jot of notice!
Bobby 47
Mar 25, 2015
Wirral Council’s new CEO Eric Robinson hits the ground running…
You’ve gotta have a little pity for Eric. Yes! Pity and sympathy for his predictable reaction to realising that it was he, Cardin, who’d got hold of his Twitter handle and highlighted to Eric the absurdity of the recent award to Wirral Council that, within a short space of time lifted them from being labelled ‘abnormal’ to startling good and better than all the rest.
Of course, if Eric had any inkling that life in Staffordshire was not the same as that upon the Wirral, and this place, which is the wrong side of the tunnel, was the nesting place for the likes of Cardin, Brace, Justice and a bunch of bloggers who were tied, bound and united in a belief that politics on the Wirral were indeed extremely abnormal, he’d have probably stopped, thought a little and concluded, ‘I’ve gotta tread carefully here. I’ll not ban him but rather open up a kind of light touch dialogue and see where the winds blow me’. That’s what I’d have done. If I thought for one single moment Cardin had got me in his sights, and it was me and the meaty flesh upon my broad buttocks that were his target, I’d have handled this confrontation in an entirely different way.
Course, it’s done now isn’t it! He’s banned Cardin which means that from hereon poor Eric is going to be bitten, chewed and spat out over and over again simply because he refused to countenance that his new employers were a gaggle of chancres all dancing upon the edge of legality.
Poor sod I say! Give this little cutie enough time to park his backside behind his new desk, probably transform anything he can feast his eyes on, including his office furniture and the bloody rotten carpets and he’ll soon rue the moment when he muttered to himself, ‘Cardin can get stuffed’ and banned him from his Twitter account.
I wouldn’t have done that. Never! If it had been me I’d have handled this little encounter in an entirely different way. I’d have reached out, gathered up Cardin, Brace, Justice and all those who’ve become cognisant for sometime that the Wirral is a highly abnormal local authority, popped them all in a tiny floating vessel loaded with ale, cigarettes and some highly promiscuous wanton strumpet and funded the lads to sail away from New Brighton Beach on a twelve month trip around the globe without access to a laptop. Better that than stupidly banning Cardin from his Twitter account
Bobby 47
Apr 15, 2015
Today, in Wallasey Town Hall (Wirral Council HQ) I spoke with new CEO Eric Robinson
This menace to Council skulduggery asks, ‘will Eric unblock me, extend the hand of friendship and open up a line of constructive dialogue?’. No he bloody won’t and I for one don’t blame him.
Poor sod! I mean, there Eric is minding his own bloody business, floating around levitating in joyous celebration that he’s in charge of all of this, and what greets the poor fool? Bloody Cardin! ‘Good bloody grief’, he must have muttered to himself, ‘the suns bloody shining, the last three pointless meetings discussing the joys of yet another barrow load of pointless drivel and tripe have passed without any sane and sensible conclusion, and who’s here to greet me. Bloody Cardin!’
I say, be thankful Eric wasn’t equipped and armed with a two pound mallet, for I fear that he’d have attacked this ‘seeker of truth’, beaten Cardin senseless, howling, ‘stop bloody asking why and where the money went you bloody horror of a blogger’.
No! Given the circumstances and given the position Eric found himself in, I sincerely think that simply smirking at Cardin and not lurching forward and trying to throttle the life out of him was a reasonable and measured response to this delightful and unexpected encounter.
Mind, if it had been me and I was in Eric’s position I would have handled this encounter in a very different way. I’d have said to Paul, ‘buddy, I don’t know where you’re going and I don’t know where you’ve been but why don’t you phone in sick, take the afternoon off and spend your time laid in bed with me at some Holiday Inn and let’s get to know one another and discuss how I can convince you to remove your teeth from my fat arse’
Bobby 47
Apr 22, 2015
What happened when I Googled “Council CEO passionate”? I got a horror show…
Bloody passionate! We all know what the real meaning of passionate is. We all do. It’s no mystery to us who live in the real world where blue sky thinking, sound bites and pointless gimmicks play no part in our mind numbingly boring lives that see us scramble from one month to another hopeful that we may just avoid increasing our personal debt and the Constable doesn’t catch us speeding two miles above thirty that’ll mean, to avoid the penalty points, we’ve all got trudge down to some Industrial Hut and sit there for half a bloody day listening to two retired Police Officers passionately dropping unboiled eggs on the floor howling, this is the wee infant child you’ve flattened and killed you evil bastard of a reckless driver.
Passionate my neighbours left testicle! I know what passionate is and its bugger all to do with Eric’s use of the word. My first introduction to this delightful expression, ‘I am very passionate’ was the blessed day my Latin teacher, a wonderful and beautiful woman kept me behind after the lesson because I’d been playing with my genitals, pulled me pants down, mounted me and rode me rotten upon a chalk covered table. And, at the conclusion of this violation, I distinctly remember thinking to myself, ‘my God what a passionate experience that was’. And thank God it happened I say because that was the first time in my adolescent life that I became familiar with the word ‘passion’.
I mean, presumably when Eric applied for the job of CEO upon the Wirral he must have been up against others equally as qualified as him. Clearly, nowadays within public service they must ultimately judge the candidates for the job on how passionate they are, can become or could become if ever they were made the winner of the contest. In Gods name, what must they have to do to demonstrate how bloody passionate they are?
Clearly, when you are one of several applicants and you know, you just know it in your bones that you’ve gotta ‘out passion’ your opponents you must have to put personal pride and dignity to one side and perform like a demented nutter displaying the full range of your abilities to display just how passionate you are capable of becoming whenever they slide you a sheet of paper that contains three paragraphs of text that explain why a thousand paper clips were returned to the source supplier because they weren’t up to the job of holding together receipts and invoices for a thousand taxi journeys made by Councillors who didn’t fancy getting clubbed to death by concerned ratepayers who’d gathered outside the Town Hall desperate to start the culling.
Whatever it was that won Eric this job, it was nothing at all to do with providing good service and good value for money to the rate paying people of the Wirral. It was, beyond any doubt in my mind, entirely about his demonstration of being passionate. God only knows what indignities that man subjected himself to and how many times he howled, ‘don’t pull me pants up yet. I’m having the time of me life bent over this oak table and I never want it to end’
Bobby 47
Apr 28, 2015
Private: Lord Greville Janner. Man of letters
123
Course, if Lord Janner suddenly has a moment of clarity and directs his companion to drive him up here to my house with the intention of responding to my pigswill of an offering, he’ll find that he’s picked out the wrong sort of victim.
I’m no victim. Never have been, never will be and unless I’m restrained by a dozen fully grown men who’s only intent is to bend me over the bonnet of my car, pull me pants down and pound away at my anus for the next four hours, I’ll never ever, under any circumstances become a victim to Lord Janner.
Never I say! And if, for some unbelievable reason he does tip up here, manages to scurry up my drainpipe, bangs on my window demanding that I make myself available for him to fondle my most private parts, I’m going to get very irate and howl ‘bloody Janner. You’ve crawled up the wrong drainpipe tonight Baron bloody thingy of Braunstone’.
And it wouldn’t be a case of me getting back into bed, ignoring his pleas for personal sexual gratification and continue to nibble on my half kilo of pork rind and swig back my endless pile of ale cans that I consume whilst watching archive episodes of Wrestlemania. No! I’d open the window, pull out my garden hoe that I keep upstairs, beat him over the head demanding to know how he’d managed to scale the drainpipe to my twelfth floor hovel of a one bedroom CareHome accommodation and I’d cause him to fall where, after he’d sucked his last breath of air and succumbed to his terrible injuries, he’d ride the lightening bolt and prepare himself to answer for his past actions that have ruined young vulnerable lives.
Return to Bomb Alley 1982 – The Falklands Deception, by Paul Cardin
Amazon link
Wirral In It Together 