Bobby 47
Apr 29, 2015
What happened when I Googled “Council CEO passionate”? I got a horror show…
I bloody hate them! There’s a high flying public service fella down here, down the A49 in Hereford, where if someone shouts out ‘daddy’ everyone turns round, who’s out passioned bloody Eric. I forget this fools name and frankly it’s not giving me a moments concern, who has said, ‘I’ve an unquenchable desire and passion to deliver a positive outcome to our service users’.
The bastard! The utter bastard. I’d like to meet this fool and stab him in the eye with a soft leaded pencil. My God, as if ‘ desire and passion to deliver a positive outcome to our service users’ wasn’t bloody enough. This passionate bastard of a bottom feeding, parasitical tic has to outshine the others and give me the rotten word ‘unquenchable’.
‘Unquenchable’! Sweet loving Jesus. My God. Just how far have you got to stoop before someone halts this bloody slide toward utter stupidity and embraces the idea that ‘talking rubbish’ was something that needed to be immediately punished. If, for some miraculous reason I could be gifted super human powers I’d become ‘ talking shit man’. Yes, Talking Shit Man!.
I’d be at home, minding me own bloody business, probably recycling me bloody rubbish or masturbating again to the execution of Saddam Hussein on Youtube when my super human ears picked up a signal from within the Council buildings that clearly indicated that some ‘passionate bastard’ had either uttered some shit or was about to transmit some rancid undiluted bollocks of a phrase that qualified me to mutter, ‘Hi up, that’s a load of shit.’ Then, off I’d bloody fly at a remarkable speed wearing some bloody bright coloured jersey with the letters T.S.M adorned upon its front.
I’d fly through the window toward the unquestionable source of the shit and I’d say, ‘you know who I am don’t you’, and he’d say, ‘of course, you are Talking Shit Man, you’ve identified me as someone who’s guilty of talking shift and you are here to punish me’.
And I would! I’d drop a ten ton boulder on his head and tell him, ‘ if you can summon up an unquenchable passionate desire to release your flattened body from this ten ton bloody boulder, and it’s humanly possible for you to continue communicating your thoughts either verbally or via electronic transmission do not, under and known circumstances give me anymore shit.’
And then, off I’d fly, back to my hovel of a home where I’d get out of my costume and continue minding me own bloody business hoping and praying that this ridiculous language and method of communicating a simple thought would cease and be no more!
Bobby 47
May 1, 2015
Who’s blocking us on Twitter?
Thirteen! Thirteen Twitter account holders have blocked Cardin. That’s some achievement for a humble blogger from the Wirral. You don’t get thirteen account holders blocking you if they like you and are keen to read what you’ve got to say. Moreoften than not, they quickly conclude, ‘this fella is a threat to me and my peace of mind and so, from hereon, I’ll be damned if I have to put up with him and his bloody questions’.
Course, there’s a few upon this list that are understandably keen to see the backend of the source of their itch. Esther McVey, Mayor Anderson and Eric, to name just three. But, the rest. Why have they decided to rid themselves of Cardin?
My guess is they’ve quite rightly concluded, having read Wirral In It Together, that like the tide, there’s nothing you can do to stop this lad ploughing on and pushing this huge boulder up the bloody hill. In short, Cardin is relentless and my only surprise to this disclosure by Paul is that there are only thirteen.
Cardin won’t stop. He’ll never stop. Ever! There’s more chance of Elizabeth Hurley banging on my bakery door, grabbing my attention as I knead my fifteenth thousand lump of dough and squealing, ‘dust the flower from your hands, hang up your apron and let’s grab a room at the local Holiday Inn and spend the afternoon making love while I feed you fat face with a platter of Clams freshly harvested off of New Brighton Beach this very morning’.
Mind, I’ll say this so that it’s absolutely clear. When Cardin uses the term and common expression ‘us’ that clearly implies he’s not alone and we’re all in it together should the wheel fall off and he’s dragged before the local Magistrate to be labelled ‘ a vexcacious menace’ for the fourth time he’ll quickly realise I’m right behind him.
Yes! Right behind him. Ninety miles behind him in fact and by phone
Bobby 47
May 10, 2015
Who’s blocking us on Twitter?
And now Cardin, this little cutie is your Honourable Member of Parliament which, given the reality that you are still out there relentlessly shovelling out the mountain of inconvenient truths that her local Labour Council Administration have been either secreting or ignoring, makes for her, ‘Little Miss Wannabee’ a most uncomfortable time.
Course, when the bubble bursts, and it will and ‘they’ are held to account for misappropriating the funds of people with disability, you can be sure of one thing. She’ll be first at the front howling, ‘if only I’d bloody known’. Then, of course, she’ll seek out Martin Moreton, embrace him and call for a fair measure of openness and transparency and a modicum of respect for those who chose to blow the whistle on past wrongdoing. Then, armed with her photo opportunity with MM, it’ll be down to the Wirral Globe, onto the front page and she’ll deliver some pointless drivel of a sound bite that implies she’s passionate about protecting the rights of the weak and the vulnerable, ignoring the real reason why she sought High Office which was to walk with the great and the good, get famous and with a little luck and good fortune make enough money exploiting all the contacts that were made whilst ‘serving’ the people of the Wirral
Bobby 47
May 15, 2015
Direct Telephone Numbers for Heads of Service at Wirral Council
‘We are not allowed to disclose their phone numbers’! And this one very simple example illustrates perfectly the thinking of bloody them toward us. They don’t want to talk to us and they don’t want their time being taken up fielding any contact with the general public who might want to discuss something that’s of importance to them.
Detached, arrogant and full of their own self importance they’ve completely lost sight of why they are there sat in their seats overseeing the fruits of our labours and the huge wad of money that we provide to fund this dysfunctional arrangement.
If they were so bloody passionate and driven by their unquenchable yearning to be passionate in their service toward us, you’d think that they’d grab hold of every single bloody opportunity to have a natter with the ratepayers on the rotten bloody phone and instruct the switchboard, ‘if the public want to talk to me, give them my telephone number so that I can talk passionately about how thrilled I am to be given the golden opportunity to talk directly to them.’
An FOI to get this information! Good bloody grief and they wonder why so many people have taken to their keyboards demanding to know things because on a previous occasion they’ve politely phoned or written a letter only to be told, ‘you are not entitled to know that’.
It’s truly a desperately depressing state of affairs when you can’t get a bloody phone number and speak to some red rosy cheeked connoisseur of fine red wine who’s become fat and bloated after being gifted a job title that one can barely understand and who thinks ‘I don’t want to talk to the public’.
Return to Bomb Alley 1982 – The Falklands Deception, by Paul Cardin
Amazon link
Wirral In It Together 