GEORGE FORMBY’S SECRET ONE OFF VISIT TO BUCKINGHAM PALACE!

Ee by gum George… It’s turned out nice again!

Ee by gum Your Majesty, it ‘as too at that.

You bein’ ere George, you know, both together on our own, gives me the opportunity to talk to you about Buckingham Palace. I don’t mean about you singing here and all that, George… What I really wanted to talk about was all the windows. They all get a bit grimy in t’winter!

I can see your point Your Majesty. They all need cleaning!

That’s exactly my point George. It gives me the chance to do what I’ve always wanted to do! I mean, you of all people know what I’m talking about!

Now from what you’ve already told me Your Majesty there’s not much doing on the Ground Floor. It’s all going on late at night on the First so that way you’ll need a much longer ladder. ‘Specially if it’s round the back of the building where all those ladies in waiting have rooms.

Exactly George! I’ve had an extra-long ladder made and already tried out my first trip with a bucket and leather! T’were last week after all t’guards buggered off! Weren’t all that easy. Tried it round back at first late afternoon. Tricky bein’ up there at first having your first peep looking in on one of the bedrooms. Light was off but no-one in so I didn’t miss much!

Sorry it was like that Your Majesty. Best views always come when least expected!

Damned right George! Got me best view only two days ago after one of our perishing coppers asked me what I was doing up there. I had a gardener’s coat on so he didn’t know who it was! You should have seen his face! Anyway I went back late night. Lady Cynthia Pallisher’s Room it was. Lady-in-Waiting to one of the resident Duchesses! Light was on and all that. Just waited for her to undress before I raised my head up over the parapet then saw her neat pointed little titties all there as she turned the bedside table light off. Just a lovely little triangle of hair too George. You should have seen it!

Sounds like your first score, Your Majesty, and aristocratic and all. Most of the ones a window cleaner gets sight of in Wigan don’t want talkin’ about!

Plenty of flesh on em eh, George? Like to see some of that if me and the wife come north on one of our meet the people trips. Meanwhile though I’m planning on having plenty of fun down here. I mean the Palace has thousands of windows and all of them need some cleaning what with the London air and all that.

Never know what lovely ladies you might get to espy one evenin’ to the next Your Majesty with so many windows to choose from. Get to be the envy of every window cleaner Up North with all those windows.

Damn right George. Nothing like being a nosey parker if you’re the King! There’ll be bound to be more than a handful of ladies interested in showing their Majesty a fistful of beaver. Anyway, what I really wanted to talk to you about George was the Lamppost! After your first couple of concerts here for Elizabeth, you remember, the ones that Mary attended, I had one of them Lampposts installed.

Sounds interesting your Majesty. Was it downstairs, along one of them streets back of the Palace Courtyard you showed me and Beryl some time back when we visited?

Well I certainly tried it George. I certainly did. Got one of my Secretaries to take a trip up to Warrington where he contacted Corporation. Nowt said. Just dug up a couple in one of the streets and brought it to London on’train. Good man the Mayor. We had the first put up along the end of the quadrangle. Ground staff did the hole and in went the Lamp. Concrete had to set though before I took my first lean. Once it did I put on that cap you gave me from the Working Man’s Club in Wigan, lit a cigarette and just rested back on it all. Can’t tell you how I felt when Lady Cowslip passed by. Almost wanted to give her a whistle! No, a girl like that certainly wouldn’t leave a man flat. In fact when I thought of the words of your song, George, I got an enormous erection!    

So, do you go leanin’ a lot Your Majesty?

Well that’s the whole point George. I had the other one put in at the end of the long gallery just before corner reaches the Royal bedrooms. Quite a bit different to Windsor!

With me little stick of Windsor Rock,

Along the Castle Walls I’ll stroll,
It gets sticky but I never complain,
I’ll just take it out and run it
up the Royal flagpole,
The Ladies of the Town tell me
it makes quite a sight,
They can see the flag flying,
on a dark night,
When they’re going home to their husbands,
It gives them a fright,
cos it’s not what they’re getting,
Let then wish as they might,
For me little stick of Windsor Rock.

Nice to hear you burstin’ into song like that your Majesty. If we could work out a tune you could try it out on the Ukelele. Not sure I’ve heard that one before.

You ‘aint George. I just made it up!

Ha ha… Your Majesty. Nice one! So what happened when you put up t’other Lamppost?

You mean one at end of Gallery in Buckingham Palace George? Well that was the place I had figured out for it you see. The Queen would come along from the Changing Room half way up the Gallery and head for her bedroom on there was me at the end, leaning on the Lampost and waiting for her. When she saw me there for the first time, quite unexpected, I’d thought she’d say GEORGE, IS THAT YOU THERE? but she didn’t. She just looked at me... Come over ere yer daft apeth she said with a smile. I was so happy and surprised I just began singing… You know George…

“There’s no other girl I could wait for

But this one I’d break any date for
I won’t have to ask what she’s late for
She wouldn’t leave me flat she’s not a girl like that…”

Well it’s a song any lad can sing to any lass if he loves her, Your Majesty.

Well that’s not the point of the story George. Her Majesty loved the idea of the Lamppost but she was much more interested with what went with it! It was the Flannelette Nightshirt that started it all off and things just got going from there. It was another of those songs you sang us at Windsor but it stuck in my thoughts…

I’ll put it in my own words…

Now into her bedroom I went quite by mistake,

My intentions were honest you see,
But she shouted with laughter – he-he-
I know what you’re after,
Me Auntie Maggie’s remedy

And that’s when everything perked up!

Your Majesty, listening to you makes me think just how amazing you and Her Majesty really are. Little wonder your popularity with all us working folk up north. If you hadn’t been King you’d have been real competition!

Doesn’t matter George. Together we can still make a fine pair. Me and the wife running the Country for the people, you and your ukulele keeping everyone happy.

Never a truer word was spoken. It was an inspirational relationship that lasted almost a decade and a half and took the British people through the Second World War on a high. King and Queen inspiring their people through the Blitz and the worst that the Germans threw at them. George, Beryl and his ukulele giving rich and poor alike genuine working class magic and an endless smile. As for the story above, you can take it as you please!

NEWSWORTHY PERFORMANCES OF THE WEEK

Ouch ouch! David Cameron jumps out the sea after being stung by jellyfish while on holiday at Lanzarote.

Oh did it hurt Mister Cameron? Now you know how it feels all the time if you’re a Saver in this country getting shit interest rates for your money. Then being stung by those energy companies ripping you off with your partners in Government the cheesy little Liberal Democrats promising this that and the other, lying all the time through their back teeth. Having their emotions pissed on by those endlessly provocative bankers bonuses with most people everywhere in desperate straits. That’s really OUCH Mister Cameron. Not having something slimy pump poison into your arse.

 

The Royals Down Under On Holiday!

Now I’m the Duke of Cambridge,

It earns an honest bob,
For a nice young Royal
It’s an interesting job.

I visit lots of countries,

Where people queue to see
Us eating all their lunches
And then shake hands with Me.

In Oz they’re very loyal

To Granny who’s their Queen,
Kiss anything that’s royal,
And more that’s in between!

We go to church on Sundays,

Like all good royals do,
But all the rest are fun days,
At races and the zoo!

The British people back at home,

All love us don’t you see,
They gladly pay for all our trips
And munch on chips and tripe for tea.

 

To be hummed to the tune of George Formby’s When I’m Cleaning Windows

 

GRAND OPERA

Oscar Pistorius continues to thrill us with his performances from the Opera House in Pretoria of the great universal tragedy, Love Me Or Leave Me, where the lover goes on trial for the murder of his beloved. Just as in all great dramatic masterpieces, the great tenor’s endless cries of anguish over his tragic loss and pleas of innocence echo through our hearts, competing with his grim accuser’s dark insistence of guilt. It’s all very intense yet we can somehow imagine the hero, unseen by us, looking up to heaven, not to commune with the almighty but because he has a vision of Reeva, his lost love, shining down on him like a Madonna.

 

STAGE MANAGEMENT

Congratulation should be given to BBC Television. No, not for its reporters in the Ukraine recently playing an important role in actively stage managing the political takeover in Kiev by openly Nazi supporting  groups on behalf of British and American intelligence services, but for carefully crafting the disappearance from its former intense news coverage of the Malaysian Aircraft tragedy. With the passing of days the once world-captivating item has gradually been allowed to slip down the Ceefax back pages to oblivion with now no more than an occasional murmur about searches by deep sea vessels failing to find anything!

Of course they won’t find anything! Under political pressure from the United States, the entire search effort of Britain and Australia has been little more than a joke with ships and planes searching in the wrong place and only doing this after a lengthy and carefully calculated waste of time so that recorder equipment aboard the aircraft would ultimately fail. The aircraft is where it came down. In the sea south-east of Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam, see one of my previous posts.  

The area alas now has another disaster with the disappearance from a capsized ferry containing many hundreds of its Captain! Whoops, what was that? Captain disappears from his sinking ship! I mean didn’t that happen only a year back when jack-the-lad Captain of an Italian Cruise ship, Schettino , did a bunk in a lifeboat with his ship rolling over! And now there’s the South Korean Captain admitting that a seriously junior officer was put in charge of his ship while it was negotiating dangerous waters. Hundreds of kids drowned, hundreds still missing. A good time for the inhabitants of these shark infested waters currently dining out on child’s leg soup. Sorry, families and relatives, if you want to get angry don’t get angry with me but get your hands on Government officials who allowed it to happen and the ship’s Captain who put an amateur in charge of his vessel knowing there were hundreds of children aboard.   

FINALLY THE CRIMEA!

So President Obama, with that walking corpse from the State Department, John Kerry, behind him, and further back that noisome little pipsqueak William Hague pretending he’s something more important than an American dummy, piping up from the wings, are all in chorus threatening President Putin and Russia with COSTS and SANCTIONS if they don’t get busy dissuading Russian activists to stop taking over cities in Eastern Ukraine. YES, THEIR WILL BE COSTS AND SANCTIONS!

Yes, it’s either hold out your hand for the cane or over the desk for the slipper!

Quite frankly, even if you regard such threats as a joke they’re still of weak political taste. The United States is economically bankrupt. I mean totally bankrupt to China and Saudi Arabia. In addition more than a few countries in Europe are likewise. Then there’s the situation of one third of Germany’s industrial output being dependent on Russian gas imports and very considerable swathes of the French economy being tied up with Russia, apart from all of which the Ukraine itself gets all its gas and most of its oil from Russia.

All in all then, the endlessly threatening posture of Britain and America are little more than juvenile and whereas it is true that nasty little children can be dangerous, as is only too evident when Child Hague opens his whining little Yorkshire gob, it’s hardly likely that Putin’s quaking in his boots. What is really nasty, however, is that Yorkie Boy Hague has made serious threats against Russia in the name of the whole British people! That’s both in my name and yours.

Well I for one cannot recall giving the said pipsqueak any authority to speak in my name when making threats against another country and its people, so I therefore require of you, said pipsqueak, WHO GAVE YOU PERMISSION TO SPEAK IN MY NAME WHEN YOU THREATEN MILLIONS OF OTHERS?

MARKET TRADING DELIGHTS

I’d originally given this Post the title, PORNOGRAPHY! One of the subjects most frequently accessed through the internet by the British public, among whom may be counted our delightful police! It was actually an experiment. In the past I’ve often observed that the readership of my Posts was directly associated with their title. People attracted by something which informed them about the subject matter and commanding greater attention if it was headed by a pungent or provocative opener rather than something neutral or weak. Without topicality or dramatic punch.

The experiment I thought I’d try out was in a way really no different to many of the headlines dished up by the lower end tabloids, sometimes referred to as the dirt end of the market by the prim and prissy readership of the higher end stuff. It was all very well for higher end readers to snigger and sneer and tell the lower end that they only got what they paid for but quite frankly that’s not always the case. As Rudyard Kipling once pointedly remarked, the Colonel’s lady and Judy O’Grady are sisters under the skin to say nothing about the Colonel himself and his secret subscription to the lad-mags!

All of this said I was simply curious to find out just how many people would initially latch onto the title and maybe retain their interest, reading further to the real subject matter which are two powerful sketches by a trader recounting experiences from his life on the London street markets. If the resulting download proved considerably heavier than usual it would confirm my initial hypothesis. If not the experiment would still prove educational for its result. The important thing for me was to try out my hypothesis!

Well I did! The blog was initially posted under the title PORNOGRAPHY and a day later I got the result. A really poor visit of 10! Most interesting! Maybe the British are a nation of prudes after all or maybe they were just scared of being caught logging on to the title! Anyway, I’ve changed it to the above but its content remains. I hope you enjoy my revelations!

In beginning my first sketch I have an important confession to make. Once, while working at Covent Garden Market central London I was very rude to some Americans! Americans, let me tell you, are notorious among market traders wherever they are and whatever they sell! It’s a fact. A truth which market traders universally hold to be self-evident! Market traders in general don’t like Americans. That’s because they talk a great deal. Yabber, yabber, yabber and that’s about it. What they don’t do is buy! It’s the general opinion among street traders that they’re just full of shit! That’s not because they’re nasty or unpleasant people it’s because all they like to do is talk rather than buy anything! They’ll talk about what you’re selling and whether they like it and its price. Then they’ll talk about you and your wife and your family. Then about their wife and children and family… and what it’s like back home in Idaho or Texas or Alabama. And it doesn’t matter if you tell them how lovely these places are… well actually it does because then you’ve got another half hour talking crap with them about how you know that it’s lovely! And so you go on and on and on. Unfortunately it’s not at your stall alone that they do it but the one before yours so you’ve already heard it all before they get to you and once they’ve finished at your stall they go on to the next, and the next and the next! Talking endless crap, taking up your time and never buying anything from anyone. NOTHING!

It’s like that talking to you for half an hour or more makes them think that they’ve come away with something and there you are! You’re only there to take money otherwise you wouldn’t touch the filthy market you’re in with a barge pole! It’s like you’re doing them a favor just by being there! All this said, Americans are everyone’s worst customers. Just a nightmare you have to deal with on a daily basis if you’re trading in one of the popular London Street markets like Camden Lock, Covent Garden or Piccadilly. And after the Americans come the French. Adults that is. Famous for their plain bloody meanness. Americans on the other hand are notorious for trying to bargain! The object you’re selling may cost just a quid, maybe fifty pence. Whatever the case they’ll ask for a discount. If its fifty pence then usually half price! What puts traders backs up is the sheer cheek of it. In all truth though it’s more likely something home grown. They come to Europe thinking we’re all somehow like natives, like gormless country cousins, and we’ll take just about anything, even their largesse on a fifty percent discount. Yes, we’re so very pleased to have the honor of your presence standing in front of our stall that you can have anything you like for half price! A view to which most traders will simply think, well take your arses back to Kentucky and go fuck yourselves!

It was on a bright sunny Friday morning when I picked up on the yabber coming from the stall next to me, the one with Skinny Hazel selling the New Age Jewelry, all lovingly handcrafted and made in her workshop at home don’t you know! The usual patter making the Americans think it was all seriously home spun and genuinely ‘crafty’. Hazel working hard to give them the story of homespun originality when she’d actually bought it all in from Nepal! There they were, these two mid-thirties something middle class American academics, as I soon picked up, initially telling her how lovely it all was and that they were looking for presents for their daughters and that it didn’t sound at all expensive. Then their questions about whether she made it all herself, and where she lived and how long she’d been doing it for. On and on, all the usual stuff. Setting her up for a purchase then saying that they’d think about it but would definitely come back, before moving on to my stall and taking in my Gem-trees, semi-precious necklaces of Tiger Eye and Malachite, mineral specimens and all the rest of the shit that I sold.

Taking it in, giving it admiring glances and setting me up for half an hour or more of idle, useless, bollock-wash conversation. And me some miserable little trader standing there all primed up and ready! Mess about with me? I thought angrily, like the creative writer’s brain that I had was only there to serve their bullshit.  No thanks, I had plans! I’d use them for a little experiment of my own. Something psychological! Hello, I said with an ingratiating smile… are you two Americans? They both purred, like I’d somehow recognised their divinity! Yes they were. Americans eh, I responded, well you’d better fuck off!

I said it coldly and loud. Without any rancor. Just told them to fuck off!

For quite a while they were speechless. Just didn’t know whether they’d heard right. Stood there in sheer disbelieve before the man opened his mouth. Did he hear me saying what he thought he’d heard me saying? I nodded my head. Yes, I grinned, I told you to fuck off! His face took on a sheer disbelief. I could see they were both angry by now. Sorry, I quickly added, I simply don’t sell to Americans! I just won’t sell you any of my stuff so fuck off! It was like they didn’t know where to put themselves. Even so they weren’t leaving the stall… I’d thrown down a challenge, which being American intellectuals they had to pick up! Was I refusing to sell them my things because I didn’t like them personally or was it because I was just anti-American. That I blamed Americans for all kinds of things? I smiled inwardly. I already had their curiosity. Now I’d slowly turn it all friendly! No, no, nothing like that, I held up my hands deferentially, that’s not it at all. In fact my wife and father in law are American, I lied affably. I just never sold to Americans because they never bought anything anyway and just liked to talk. They were just wasting my time when I had hundreds of customers to sell my hand-made gem-trees to. They were much in demand. My wife made them. The money we earned bought us our food. She was a talented artist and I was a writer, I lied through my teeth!

And then the primer. Well most traders knew that Americans really didn’t have any money so they were just wasting their time with them anyway! As for me I wasn’t really a rude man. I just couldn’t afford to waste any time I said cool but pleasant!

It seemed to mollify them. Okay, they’d intended going to the management to make a strong complaint about me refusing to sell to Americans but now they wouldn’t. Fine I said. I hoped they’d have a good time in London and with that studiously turned my eyes away, concentrating on the stuff on the table and letting them have a little think. Either they’d move off or start making enquiries! A bit of coughing to attract my attention before they tentatively got down to the latter; especially the trees. My replies came quick and breezy. Almost noncommittal! They were very durable I said, deliberately twisting one up and throwing another onto the floor; made of real semi-precious stones, I said emphatically. No mention of price. I’d let them ask. Meanwhile I’d carefully changed my disposition and became marginally affable. Were they teachers I wondered. Academics perhaps? Now it was my turn to make with the bullshit, but nothing too heavy. I needed to come over likeable. Besides, the trees were seriously craft objects. No-one else made them anywhere except ourselves. It was a very British tradition I said quickly, solemnly turning my attention to a couple of Italians who asked a few questions and bought a couple of miniatures. They were like that the Italians, if they saw something they liked and it sparkled they bought! I put them into bags with a flourish and they were off!

The Americans took it all in. Quick as that eh? A bit of conversation between them and a couple of questions. Yes, I responded. Most of the gems on my trees were birthstones. And I might even give them a discount on two or more as they were genuine people. They were welcome to pick them up if they wanted. That was it. A friendly end of conversation. I’d ascertained that they were definitely drawn in and wasn’t wrong. No more humming and hawing. With birthstones dominating proceedings I sold them three of the smaller trees with a built in discount, artificial of course, then three of the large. One for their home, the others for mothers! And finally a free gift of one of the small jobs with garnets! Those are real garnets I purred, slyly adding that they should keep it for themselves.

And the outcome of my little experiment? Ninety quid in my pocket after a little intelligent work in the psychology of manipulation. I was simply a genius I thought to myself, confirming the fact that all my fellow traders had long realised. After the Americans had left some who’d heard the whole story came over to congratulate me on my work. Yes, I was a true genius I laughed raising my coffee cup. Well, here’s to the next time I tell Americans where to go shove it!

*****

It was a cold dull day at Leather Lane, one of the dreariest, most desperate of all the London Street Markets. Seriously filthy. Only a rush of people walking through between twelve and two, most without any money. If anything sold it was fruit and veg, tee-shirts, crap clothing, a few disreputable looking pots and pans and some cheap looking plaster ornaments. Basically just barrow loads of nothing. To get a stall there, even as a casual, you had to pay Charley, Camden’s slimy Indian market inspector now deceased, a fiver extra from the palm of your hand, or if it was for the better trading at the top end near Chancery Lane, a tenner. Twenty casuals, fiver or tenner a day, five days a week! Charley it was rumored, owned a Rolls Royce!

Yes a cold dull day at this goddamned awful market where most times we took a hundred at best and our stall a complete marvel and novelty to everyone there. The fruit and veg men often came over to gawp at our gem-trees, glowing in many colors near the lights of the shops we were close to, our delicate agate slices, strange volcanic geodes, attractive crystalline necklaces and pendants. There’d never been anything like it in Leather Lane Market and there we were, so close to Hatton Garden, the diamond and precious jewels center of Europe itself let alone London. Our stall and its contents were a total one off. In a word QUALITY compared to everything else, so the two people who ran it had to be toffs! On one side of us Diamond Sid selling god knows what. He was well over eighty and neither of us had ever seen anything at all on his table. Ever! Further down were the Pampermoose Mob. Heavies with whom we always kept it extra friendly and they for some reason with us. Stuff off the backs of lorries was their scene and they called us TREES! Awright today Trees? Was a real friendly greeting.

Today, though cold and dull, everything was going to be different only we didn’t yet know it! It was like the heavens would open up, the sun smile and an angel come down upon us. On me rather as I was alone that day of all days when the miracle would happen. It was midday. I’d stalled out by eleven, middle of the market. Neither good nor bad. Maybe sixty quid if I was lucky! Soon after twelve two or three customers and a handful of lookers. Then some short nondescript guy came along. Reasonably dressed. Neither shabby or smart, eyeing up the stuff on the stall. No questions, just spending time taking it in. I watched with interest. Leather Lane Market wasn’t a place for careful lookers. It was either walk by and glance or stop, ask and buy, but this man was paying careful attention. His first questions were about durability. How strong were the trees? Would they easily break? Then what were they made of? What were the stones?

I went through the list of semi-precious, pointing out each that I named, then the different types of the trees that we had. The tall green ones were palms made of Aventurine or Green Quartz with little bunches of Tiger Eye dates underneath. Then we had small trees, Bonsais made of Crystal, Rose Quartz and Amethyst and Willows that looked beautiful in Crystal and Green Quartz. A finger pointed to the necklaces and I gave him the detail. He nodded for a while, looking everything over even more carefully. I felt increasingly curious but said nothing. Maybe he was a buyer from a department store or some kind of wholesaler, or maybe nothing at all. Just one of those curiosities we occasionally got on the markets. Well at Covent Garden maybe but Leather Lane? Most of the punters were from the office towers nearby out on lunch break, come over from Fleet Street or wandering up from the Garden. Cheese roll and half a pint in a pub then back to the drudge. Some fucking life and me out there telling them tales of minerals and stones, mines in faraway places and the natives we had to deal with to get hold of our gems!

The man looked up and began asking prices. I carefully went through the list, pricing each category along with the necklaces. He held up his hand stopping me short at the minerals then asked me to repeat. I did so casually, even affably, believing it was now end of story. Maybe one, two at absolute best. You lived in hope. It was that kind of day, that kind of market! Yea hope! It wasn’t to be. He thanked me, turned and was off, strangely brisk for my liking. I put it all to one side, rolled a liquorish and puffed. Man and incident forgotten. Half an hour later, by one, I’d sold three or four small trees and a cluster of pendants. Just one of those days I thought then caught the eye of the recently departed. Back again for more questions I thought.

It was nothing like that. Did I have any boxes he asked? Boxes, yes we put them back in their boxes when we packed them away I said, pointing to the long cardboard containers we had under the table. He looked for a moment then asked how I wrapped all the trees. Plastic bags, I said. Each had its own bag.

He again looked over the table. I want all of the large, he said quickly. Everything there on the table. And all the palm trees and bonsais. And I want fifty of the smaller trees. It’s more than you’ve got there. Have you got anything else underneath? I nodded and quickly brought another bag up. He hadn’t yet finished. And I want all the necklaces. Everything there and anything else that you’ve got.

I had a dozen more strings underneath I said coolly. Best quality Malachite! Them too he muttered.

I was staggered. More puzzled than anything. How would he transport it all? He shook his head. Not to worry about that! It’s all sorted out! Now you’ll be wanting some money!

Naturally I thought he was talking cards. The idea made me nervous. Someone pitches up out the blue, clears the table, buys just about everything I’ve got then  disappears up Stephen Hawking’s arsehole leaving me deep in a black hole. I hesitated for a moment. He noticed and a smile flickered over his face. I’m talking notes my son, he said quickly, so total it up.

I began writing it all down on some paper I had with me. Big trees so and so. Palms, bonsais and all the smaller stuff… Then the necklaces… Total well over a thousand quid! I hesitated to tell him. Adds up to twelve-fifty in all, I gulped. No problem. Seconds later he pulled a bundle out of his pocket and began counting out fifties. There we are my son, twelve ‘undred and fifty! Now you’d better get wrappin’.

I put the wad into my shirt pocket, did up the zipper and got wrapping. I was half the way through when I heard the sound of a motor. Looking up there next to the stall was a black taxi. Door open and he was already loading the boxes. I worked hard and careful. Making sure everything was well wrapped and packed perfect. Fifteen minutes later my table top almost empty along with the space underneath he took his leave. Lovely stuff, he said sweetly. Make really nice presents for the wife and kids and the rest of the family.

Together, me and the cabbie having loaded the last of the boxes he gave me a wave and was off. I couldn’t believe it. Stall completely cleaned out in Leather Lane like he was an angel, only he wasn’t. One of the fruit and veg men came over. Got out the nick just a few days ago, he confided. Big robbery. All in the papers five years ago. Police never found what ‘ee did with the money.

I pretended to be busy. Putting anything I had left on the table. A man of real quality I felt. Buying presents for his family and all. Cleaned me out of most of my stock on a cold dull day in the market. One of those miracle days. Only happens to a trader once in a blue moon. Well if he wasn’t saying anything neither was I, and then the money helped pay for my daughter’s wedding three months later. I mean, how was I to know whether the fruit and veg man was telling the truth!

ARE YOU ‘AVIN A LARF?

In recent days Her Most Gracious Majesty’s Chief Inspector of Constabulary (it’s got to have capitals or it  doesn’t count!) gave the British Police Service a B+ for doing well but marked it down it from an A because it could do better. In other words there was room for improvement! The mark down in fact was due to a wide variety of police naughtiness that came to the attention of the public over the last year or so. Here, in case you’ve forgotten, are a few examples. Firstly their seriously illegal conduct in undercover operations such as having sex with women they were spying on; spying on Stephen Lawrence’s parents while investigating their son’s murder, grossly manipulating enquiries into the murder along with manipulating evidence presented in a public enquiry into Stephen Lawrence’s death; falsifying evidence relating to the Hillsborough Disaster; telling lies about Tory Chief Whip Andrew Mitchell and forcing his resignation; the unacceptably large number of deaths of innocent civilians in police custody in the last two years; the repeated refusal of the police to look into allegations of serious sexual misconduct by Jimmy Savile made by many young men and women over many years.

And for that they get a B+ for doing well but could do better!

Actually, ARE YOU HAVING A LAUGH? How about the large number of fit-ups and frame-ups of innocent people in recent years, the attacks on members of the public such as the newspaper seller in the City of London resulting in his death, the shooting to death of innocent people like as Charles de Menezes on a London tube train and the endless roughing up of student demonstrators to mention only the tip of the iceberg! This vast backlog of appalling conduct might under all normal circumstances allow you to kick off with a C minus at best, that is if you weren’t doing this assessment of your own conduct yourselves. A C minus from which you’d go steadily down the alphabet. But as it is your very own Inspectorate of Constabulary doing the assessing one naturally expects this only too typical manipulation of judgement.

Added to it all however is the front page news from the Daily Mail this Saturday 12^th April. A nasty little matter already known for some time but now a big breaking story. Namely the appalling cover up of the staggering paedophile activities of Sir Cyril Smith. You remember him don’t you? The jovial 29 stone tub of lard Liberal MP? His was a record that made the long dirty career of Jimmy Savile look like a playground romp. During the course of Sir Cyril’s history of crime over 140 complaints were made to the police by boys he offended against. He was arrested more than once but no charges were brought. The police and Crown Prosecution Service it seems were leaned on by the security services and prevented from acting so all the complaints were ignored. One hundred and forty or more sexually abused children betrayed in a hateful cover up with everyone shrugging their shoulders. The police knew the truth and stayed silent.  

And Her Majesty’s Inspectorate of Constabulary thinks the force deserves a B plus and could do better next time! Okay, so tell me… for what services to children were Jimmy Savile and Cyril Smith knighted?

Were the politicians who organised those rewards ACTUALLY HAVING A LAUGH?

Recently however, as the police have only been too keen to let the public see, they’ve been quick to refer public complaint about police conduct to the Independent Police Complaints Commission, the body set up years back to investigate police misdemeanor. So, the police refer most of the serious complaints to this body thinking, that will sort it as far as the public are concerned and in this they are right. The IPCC was set up to investigate complaints about the police and most people accept that as their function. Whether they do it satisfactorily or not is another matter entirely. Indeed it’s not been satisfactory at all for the vast majority of complainants.

The trouble with the so called IPCC, as has been known for many years, is that the name is seriously misleading. This organisation isn’t at all independent! Far from it. A very fair proportion of its staff who make up the teams investigating public complaints about the police are, wait for it, former policemen! In fact the organisation is packed to the rafters with ex- policemen so it’s generally a case of the police once again investigating themselves, same as it’s always been for small scale misdemeanor. With the more serious offences, those likely to attract the attention of the media, there’s a rush to the IPCC. Yes, that ought to do it, the public seeing that we’ve handed things over to an independent body… joke-joke! That means that there’s no reasonable grounds for suspicion, even among all those nasty suspicious people about!

Again, it’s more than clear that over the years too many complaints have strangely got nowhere or simply been airbrushed out of existent while the IPCC, always kept strangely short of genuinely independent staff, have taken on more and more former policemen as people supposedly experienced in doing investigative work to fill the gap, that being to investigate complaints against fellow members of the fraternity! Police investigating police with a permanent high rate of inefficiency and ever low rate of conviction. OH DEAR WHAT A SURPRISE!

So when I see Chief Constables rushing to refer serious misdemeanors within their force to the Independent Police Complaints Commission in cases of police violence or the many other cases of police criminality that invariably get nowhere I can only think along with so many others, ARE YOU HAVING A LAUGH?

Okay Mister Pistorius, so you fired four bullets through a closed door thinking there was an intruder in the bathroom?

Yes My Lady!

Well Mister Pistorius, how do you think an intruder got into the gated, high security housing complex that your house is in without being detected and without knowing you lived there chose your window especially to climb into?

I don’t know my Lady. Anything is possible.

Well Mister Pistorius, if anything is possible, when you heard the sound in the bathroom and felt anxious why didn’t you give Reeva a nudge to tell her and make sure she was okay? Why didn’t you think about her for a moment? I mean, just make sure she was there. That it wasn’t her in the bathroom taking a leak or a dump before you fired your gun so quickly. Why didn’t you shout out, Reeva, are you in there taking a leak? I mean, didn’t you think it just might be her?

No My Lady! I was very axious. I thought it was an intruder in there. I had to act fast.

You had to act, you say Mister Pistorius, before checking on Reeva, even though you thought she was right next to you in bed? I mean she would have only been inches away so why didn’t you give her a nudge… Reeva, I can hear a noise in the bathroom… Maybe an intruder’s got in through the window and is taking a leak?

Why didn’t you do that Mister Pistorius?

I’m sorry My Lady, I don’t understand. Why would an intruder be taking a leak?

Okay Mister Pistorius, when you broke down the door and found Reeva inside the toilet why do you think she had her mobile phone with her. I mean, what do you think made her take it into the toilet? Do you think she wanted to talk to you maybe or call one of her friends. I mean there she was. She’d got out of bed and went to the toilet taking her mobile with her then locked the door. Isn’t it unusual to get up in the middle of the night, go to the toilet with your mobile and lock the door? What I’m asking Mister Pistorius is whether she’d done it before? I mean, had you ever had any conversation with her before from the bathroom where she’d been taking a dump and wanted to phone you.

No My Lady. We never talked before on the mobile from the bathroom.

In that case why do you think the bathroom door was locked Mister Pistorius?  If it was an intruder who’d come through the window why would he lock the bathroom door from the inside if he wanted to get into the house?

I had no way of knowing if it was locked My Lady. All I remember thinking was I had to act fast. Maybe someone was coming in to attack me! I picked up my gun by the bed and fired on instinct.

Four loud shots Mister Pistorius, straight through the door, and you say you heard no-one scream. Not even after the first two that you fired? I mean, why didn’t you assume that you’d already killed someone in there if you didn’t hear any screams before you fired another two rounds?

I don’t know My Lady. I heard no one scream.

Now those shots that you fired. They must have been loud. Don’t you think they would have woken Reeva up if she was still lying in bed? That she might have asked you what you were doing or shouted something at you?

No My Lady. I assumed she was sound asleep.

What, even after those loud bangs from the first two shots. Now Mister Pistorius. I’m the Chief Prosecutor of South Africa and I’m putting these questions to you and hear what you say. So tell me Mister Pistorious,

ARE YOU HAVING A LAUGH?

Maria Miller looked safe! She’d done the taxpayer for forty-five grand. No problem. Everything looked good till some Labour pipsqueak stepped in and asked for it all to be looked at. Looked at again after the initial enquiry had cleared her for forty. Okay she’d come out on top with forty large. Just pay back the rest, don’t make a fuss and say sorry. It’s all easy-peasy. Say sorry and look like you mean it. You know what it’s like. We do it all the time and for much less! Just sorry, express your regrets and off you go with a quick forty.

Maria was safe. Repay the five grand as required. Don’t get indignant with anyone and promise to be a good girl in future!

But no! Maria was someone with scruples. She was a working class-lower middle class girl who come up through the ranks. She really hadn’t done anything wrong, and she’d looked after her parents! She wasn’t taking advice from any arse-holes. She’d apologize, but only as much as was needed. And more than anything else she had David Cameron on her side. Three times he never denied her. Labour was incensed but the Tories were pissed. She was too up front. After the expenses scandal five years back the House of Commons was now an honorable place, and politicians honorable people. Tory Grandees like Lord Tebbit put in the boot. There was disquiet over the back-benches. It didn’t matter. She was still safe. And looking more like Thatcher than ever. No, she wouldn’t be bullied out of her job!

Not until fate lend a hand. Up spoke Boris Johnson, the leery shifty-eyed jackanapes and admirer of Thatcher. Silence those critics! Maria Miller was brilliant where she was. He wouldn’t have her bullied out of her job… bla-bla-bla. He was on her side with support from the Tory hard right!

That did it! It was Cameron’s decision, not his. He’d supported her up to the eyeballs till now and didn’t need Boris there in the frame. It wasn’t looking good anymore with the electorate. The Tories at the Telegraph were incensed. The moment Boris stepped in Maria Miller was doomed.

ARE YOU HAVING A LAUGH BORIS? Thinking that your support carried more weight than mine?

So goodbye Maria, see you in the next life. You never know who your real friends are with the Tories!

BBC Television News, fresh from its wall to wall coverage of recent events in the Ukraine where its reporters played an active role in encouraging the takeover in Kiev by openly Nazi friendly political groups has recently turned its attention to new and presumably more relevant news with extensive coverage given to the early death of twenty-five year old Peaches Geldof. Who’s that you may ask? Was she an important scientist or politician, a major sports star or entertainer, educator, philanthropist or artist who already had remarkable achievements to her name. Alas none of these. She was the mother of two young children and daughter of minor musician Bob Geldof and his wife Paula Yates, herself an entirely artificial celebrity of some notoriety. Why then did BBC television think it important to give the death of this entirely socially unimportant individual such massive coverage? After all, there are many other young mothers out there who die at a tragically young age so why this one, along with the pathetic tweeted tributes of a variety of so called celebrity friends. In short, who the hell was this person who’d done nothing in her life to deserve such attention for the BBC to rummage around in her demise?  

With its recent Nazi friendly coverage of events in the Ukraine the BBC finally lost any trace of respect that anyone may have previously had for its impartial, unbiased reporting. Now, with its seeming obsession for reporting details of individuals whose newsworthy status was entirely dependent on family connections one increasingly feels the need to ask precisely what, tell us, are we paying you a license fee for when your reporting has turned into politically biased or minor celebrity inspired rubbish?

Countless people quite frankly got Peaches Geldof coming out of their eyeballs. The wretched attention you gave to her was as incestuously intrusive on her life as it was tedious, fatuous and unnecessary to ours. The head of your news service must have been mad to think that he was doing us some sort of favour. The public do not want silly tabloid style celebrity crap reportage that competes with the yellow press all the way down to the gutter. They still need to be inspirationally engaged rather than have your reporters rope them in on behalf of the American intelligence services.

So, to the Controller of BBC Television News from a member of the public…  

ARE YOU HAVING A LAUGH?

… at the expense of your viewers. Taking their money and giving them cheap celebrity crap because if that’s what you’ve got planned for us in the future I’d much rather watch Al Jazeera who are actually pretty good with the News and News Reporting. Furthermore the public have had enough of your outfit being a reality program channel for estate agents, property developers, the auctioning of old people’s crap, do-it- yourself fixing on behalf of stores such as Homebase and B&Q along with bailiff invasion of people’s homes and police rough stuff activity on teenagers going large a bit to put it in the words of Rudyard Kipling. Your cheap, low cost incursion into people’s lives is only of interest to stay at home underclass long term television addicts and if your program controllers think it’s fun or educational for people to watch police and bailiffs playing at bullies well quite frankly it’s not. Your daily diet of property hash, dished out state violence, oldie auctions, needless celebrity titillation and strictly soft porn is intrusive, uninteresting and boring.

ARE YOU HAVING A LAUGH ON THE TAXPAYER BECAUSE YOU’VE GOT THE MONOPOLY ON THE LICENSE FEE?  

Hello President Barak Hussein Obama! So sorry about all the recent shootings of high school kids, university students and military personnel at their barracks in recent weeks. Something must be seriously wrong with America when the whole world can see your people regularly killing each other! Something must be seriously wrong with your country when so many of your people live in the kind of abject poverty we more generally associate with India yet you spend so much time and money threatening other countries, invading them and bombing their people! Something’s just not right when you have so many poor people at home yet spend so much money spying on them, that is, apart from everyone else you spy on round the globe.

Spying on people, threatening them, bullying other nations and bombing them. Then there’s your ghastly system of criminal justice which is an affront to any modern civilized society. Little wonder that you’re on such good terms with Saudi Arabia, Mister President!

But then you also spend so much time telling everyone what a great and free society you are and that your land of the free has so much to admire, to be copied and envied! Tell me Mister President, have you forgotten that one of the first genocides of modern times was one committed by Americans in your own country in the late 19^th century, against your own people, the tens of thousands of Native Americans that you hunted down, shot and killed or put away in Reservations which were little better than starvation camps?

Honestly Mister President, if yours was a society of genuinely free people given to social equality, justice and decency I’d say fine, we consider that you incorporate all the best of human values and inculcate them in your people, but as you actually are, behaving like violent spoilt little children or adolescent juveniles and lecturing everyone about your non-existent virtues, I can only say,

MISTER PRESIDENT, ARE YOU ACTUALLY HAVING A LAUGH?

APRIL GHOULS

This post is about the second televised debate between Lib-Dem leader Nick Clegg and the leader of UKIP, the redoubtable Nigel Farage, later followed by a couple of candidates nominated by me for the award of the post’s title!

To briefly summarize the second hour long televised treat, Nick Clegg’s position in respect of EU membership and attitude towards Nigel Farage was twofold. Firstly, in economic terms we could not afford to give it up because we, the British public, had to consider Britain’s place in the modern world. Leaving the EU would result in a major loss of employment at home and a serious loss of trade. The major argument for retaining membership was therefore economic and those who opposed it like Farage and UKIP were plain little Englanders. Secondly, Clegg repeatedly castigated Farage for being supportive of Russia’s President Putin with respect to recent events in the Ukraine and likewise in Syria. With this he hoped to make serious political capital in the current political background of accusation by America and the EU of Russian’s annexation of the Crimea. This repeated attempt to smear his opponent came across as singularly distasteful.

Early on in the debate Clegg tried to position Farage as someone who was economically small minded and provincial whereas he, as Deputy Prime Minister in a Coalition Government, was a political leader with a modern world view. Someone who sought sensible immigration control which he maintained was possible contrary to the demands of UKIP which were both impractical and lacking in economic sense. Crucially however, when required to answer a question about the British people being given the opportunity to have   a referendum on whether to stay in Europe or leave he prevaricated. His overriding concern he stated was economic, his view being that a Referendum might jeopardize the economic prospects of the British people which would be unwise while the country was still on the road to economic recovery. With this he clearly ruled out any Lib-Dem support for David Cameron’s intention to have a Referendum on staying or leaving if the Tories won the General Election of 2015.

NO SUPPORT FROM THE LIB-DEMS FOR ANY REFERENDUM WHILE BRITAIN WAS STILL ON THE ROAD TO ECONOMIC RECOVERY!         

In this he was clear. As to when he and his Lib-Dems judged that recovery to have taken place he couldn’t say and quite frankly you didn’t need to be a political sharpie to realise that his reply was an only too typical piece of Lib-Dem opportunism so very similar to their election manifesto promises, all of which, despite their endless rhetoric about the wonders they’d achieved, were dropped like hot potatoes once they came into Government.  

Nonetheless this was a fair presentation of him strutting the Liberal Democrat stuff. Full of grandiose assurances and promises with smears hurled in for good measure. Tactics all very typical of the political class, Farage retorted when he was given the chance. In the first half of the debate Clegg worked hard to monopolize the talking. In the second, Farage came back the stronger, particularly when the subject turned to immigration, substantial future increases of which, he pointed out, were inexorably tied to Britain’s continued EU membership. Clegg’s responses to this came across as weak and unconvincing. Immigration was good for the country he repeatedly maintained, along with throwing in pro-Putin smears hoping they’d stick and cause consternation. This was a cheap political trick which clearly failed. In recent weeks Farage has stated that the EU had “blood on its hands,” in respect of the involvement of its senior officials in the recent takeover of the Ukrainian Government while also praising Putin’s common sense attitude to the crisis in Syria. This, Clegg maintained, showed his support for Putin’s invasion of the Ukraine and annexation of  the Crimea along with supporting the regime of Assad in Syria.

Clegg’s remarks are indeed interesting and require some consideration. Clearly, he and his Party supported the takeover of the previously democratically elected Government of the Ukraine by armed gangs in Kiev led by Nazi-supporting thugs from the Right Sector and Svoboda political groupings. The Nazi political allegiance of both these ultra-nationalist groups is unmistakable and without contention as are the anti-Semitic activities of both in recent times with Jews being attacked on the streets of Western Ukrainian cities and synagogues attacked and vandalized. It is therefore hard to understand on what basis Clegg would choose to attack Nigel Farage for condemning support given by EU leaders to these far right, pro-Nazi political groupings by saying that they had “blood on their hands.” However, given the remorseless anti-Putin fervor in the Western media, his linking Farage with support for Putin was a pretty cheap shot. Of course he said nothing about the entirely democratically conducted Referendum in the Crimea in which the people there were given an open choice of their sovereignty but simply followed the EU and American line of Russian invasion with which he challenged Farage! Did he support it or not?

It may be a fair to ask such a question, but not when coming from a position of entirely failing to condemn the EU’s support for the Nazi inspired takeover of Kiev! A situation of the EU indeed having blood on its hands. I mean, it sounds like you supported the Ukrainian Nazis yourself Mr Clegg because I didn’t hear you say anything against them!

With all of this, Clegg came across as part of the established highly conservative political class with a concern for business, labour regulation, Euro-bureaucracy and undemocratic hard right political activism. There was above all no sign of any liberalism, worker’s rights, minimum wage guarantees, labour relations or anything at all that could be construed in any way as fair minded or democratic. How far these people have shifted even from the bullshit rhetoric of what they once were five years ago is remarkable, but then you only needed to get a smell of their verbal garbage and promises time back to know that they were really only political opportunists. In an entirely opposite sense Farage came across in an entirely forthright and genuine sense of being concerned about working people’s rights, economic justice for Britain’s poor along with a wide range of concern for open and honest democratic government. You had a very clear sense that the man was entirely forthright, earnest and truthful. With Farage you got meat and two veg. It was plain on the plate. With Clegg you got a Cornish Pasty and you just didn’t know what was in it. Newspaper polls conducted the following day confirmed this to be so. The viewing public gave its support to Farage two to one. With this the Cornish pasty analogy holds.

After all, the electorate took a serious bite on the Lib-Dems at the last General Election, The pasty they were told was full of steak meat, potato and swede. Instead it turned out to be a kind of meat sludge. Made you feel that you’d been had. Liberal Democrat Cornish Pasty promises? No thanks. Not after the first lot!

GHOULS ARE US

In the last week we’ve had the sight of William Hague appearing alongside Angelina Jolie, film star and United Nations emissary, in Bosnia in support of a women’s campaign there against rape and otherwise sponsoring feminine issues. Most deeply memorable of all was the sight of the British Foreign Secretary and the look on his face. Not for many years have I seen so solemn an expression so profoundly artificial. A look of sincerity so utterly contrived. It was an amazingly grisly masterpiece of deep felt concern against awfulness. There was Hague, in all the wonderful depth of his caring-sharing compassion. In all his humanity sharing the televised stage with so called women’s rights icon, Jolie! The two taking a stand against violation.

Well regarding William Hague, in order to cut through the crap of the expression presented, all you simply needed to know that he’s never had the fundamental intelligence or depth of human warmth to really be able to care sincerely or deeply about anything. These things are not organic or natural in him. They’re a manufactured condition. Something created and put together out of necessity when the time for a political show arises. Oh he might care about things alright only he doesn’t quite understand WHY he cares. That’s because he was always an ambitious Tory-boy spending much of his life to date climbing the greasy pole of British political life to high office. The fundamental character of morality and ethics is something that had to be learned. Not something that was felt deep from the heart.

Poor William, putting on a face of sincere, heartfelt concern for those poor women in Bosnia when not so long back you were all hot for the NATO civilian mass bombing of Serbia. You were marvellous to catch glimpses of on television, watching you doing your bit for humanity no less with that slimy heartfelt expression of yours. What an opportunity to show yourself to the British public for the caring human being you are. Supporting your lovely leader Margaret Thatcher not so long back when she took away milk from so many schoolchildren. And now you alongside the sombre caring Angelina Jolie doing your bit. It’s hard work Billy Hague, being caring, but you don’t have to wear the face all the time. But then, when you occasionally smile, dear chap, you’ll always know that you somehow look like an LED backlit full moon!    

However for the superbly artificially constructed caring face you maintained in Bosnia you are awarded the honor of APRIL GHOUL.

Second candidate up for nomination is Culture Secretary Maria Miller, recently up for investigation for a forty thousand plus dodgy expenses claim by the Parliamentary expenses watchdog on the back of a complaint by a Labour MP. Most of the money however was okayed by these worthy gentlemen except for some  five and half grand which was deemed quite E/N (that’s Extra Naughty to plebs like me and you) with the demand that the sum be repaid with the requirement that she publically apologize in the House of Commons for saucy financial conduct which she’d otherwise thought might go unnoticed. Mme Miller seemed unhappy with this and any suggestion that she’d done any half inching but nonetheless graciously returned the sum demanded as well as making the apology required. publically in the House of Commons for her saucy financial conduct that she’d otherwise thought might go unnoticed.

Alas it was but never mind! A brief 32 second statement to half empty benches with no sign of groveling was all that it took. Nothing in any way resembling contrition! If she’d been caught with her knickers off it was nothing that serious because she had the support of David Cameron himself who clearly thought that altogether too much was being made of a genuine mistake! She was his Culture Secretary after all and a cultured lady at that who’d never do a naughty thing for forty grand knowingly, and furthermore it just wasn’t right for Labour MPs to go on and on about it.

To my mind however the real point is not that she made an excessive claim and was caught doing so or even the fact that she was forced to apologize. It’s that she submitted something wonky in the first place believing it to be quite okay, otherwise she’d have taken advice beforehand from the Committee dealing with such matters. In short she had no second thoughts. And therein lies the problem of what some MPs think is okay and gets passed as such by worthy gentlemen who actually don’t look too hard and what actually isn’t and gets sussed by hard-nosed enquiries.

Maria Miller has appeared on televised news recently, her face alternatively a delicious mixture of smiles and deep scowls and quite frankly very little contrition about her. Well that’s okay. She feels genuinely aggrieved! What’s not okay though is for a Parliamentary aide of hers to phone the editor of the Daily Telegraph in respect of the story the paper proposed running about her bosses expenses and mention the Leveson Enquiry which dealt with the propriety of newspaper conduct. The call and mention of Leveson to the editor was viewed by him as threatening, particularly with Miller as Culture Secretary being responsible for implementing the recommendations of the judge’s report! Alas, this piece of silliness re-opened what was a cut with a plaster on it into something potentially septic and nasty. And all because the lady took it altogether too seriously!

You got caught for the £5,800 Maria, were made to look dishonest, had to pay it back and apologize. Don’t you understand my dear that in terms of modern British political hanky-panky it’s all rather trivial! Five and a half grand for God’s sake when you were cleared for most of the rest. I mean, you’re right at the top end of British political life my dear. Don’t tell me you thought you could ever get that far and still be a virgin?

And because in that sense you just may be somewhat naïve, I am NOT going to award you the title of APRIL GHOUL because as the good David Cameron knows, it’s all just a smacked bottom offence. Nothing in any way Saudi Arabian. Sorry, you’ll have to try much harder if you want to be an April Ghoul!

However, for Nick Clegg claiming the high moral ground over Nigel Farage with support for the EU and its conduct in the Ukraine while smearing the UKIP leader for association with Putin and the Referendum in the Crimea I am pleased to award him the honor of APRIL GHOUL for distinguished services to political opportunism and lying.

My final award of APRIL GHOUL goes to Americas ‘Walking Cadaver’ Secretary of State John Kerry, discovered by President Obama some months ago languishing in the Democrat Party political dustbin, given a spruce up with grey hair tonic and rolled out onto the world stage to threaten just about anybody, except of course his best English buddies. If you want to know why he deserves the award so well may I suggest that you just take a look at him. Sorry John, that’s what you get for still wanting to be someone important after fifty years!

THE LOST MALAYSIAN AIRCRAFT: A SERIOUSLY STINKING COVER UP

I’ve already posted two items on this subject but now, after a month’s careful deliberation, with all the twists and turns of the news story in the media, dribs and drabs of carefully released information about passengers and pilots, satellite and search technology, changing search areas, so called expert opinion on a whole range of subjects along with the daily Malaysian Government briefing I have come to the conclusion that the real truth about what we actually have is a plain seriously stinking cover up.

In this respect let me say immediately that I am certainly no conspiracy theorist. I have seriously considered all the information to hand and have concluded that taken together, from the timeline of events to the various searches and technology used, that there is very little of this story that fits together, that none of it makes any sense and that something is seriously wrong. I am also convinced that a whole catalogue of misinformation had been put about by various agencies including the Malaysian Government, probably at the behest of the United States and the Obama Administration whose recent activities have included a vast world-wide spying operation and facilitation of a fascist take-over of the Ukraine by clearly Nazi-inspired thugs. In my last post on the subject I suggested the possibility of an Iranian hijack but came down much more firmly on the view that both cause and motive were to be found with the pilot, namely personal breakdown due to family loss.

Over the last week, considering the situation overall, I have concluded from evidence already to hand but primarily ignored, that the truth lies elsewhere. What I notice more than anything is the continual change in the so-called search areas over the last 4 weeks and the huge loss of time that this has entailed, particularly important in finding the black box flight recorders that would record just about everything that transpired on the flight. Now, with so much time wasted and the signalling technology of these boxes about to give out, the chance of finding them is close to zero and I have to ask what it all actually means?

I have to consider the fact that none of the searches so far by aircraft or ships have found any debris or wreckage but far more important perhaps, why none of this seeming armada of ships failed to reach any of these search sites for weeks let alone days. All that we’ve heard from an only too easily accepting media are reports of bad weather hindering search efforts, stories of problematic technology and conflicting detail of ocean depth and floor character from smooth plateaus to mountains and valleys. All of this in my view has been stitched together to create a vast tissue of bullshit.

The continuing change of information about the Boeing’s flight path is only one side of the story. Of equal importance has been the details released about the people aboard. If anything stands out over the weeks it’s the news we’ve had about the passengers and crew and the sight of their relatives, friends and loved ones  coming forward. In all of it there’s been one glaring exception. We’ve heard nothing from the families of the two Iranians aboard and nothing from the Iranian Government to confirm or contradict the story that they were supposedly heading for Germany. We’ve heard from just about everyone else but the silence from the Iranians is quite frankly deafening. It is inconceivable that these two men simply came out of nowhere. According to the Malaysian Government they were checked out and okayed by Interpol but quite frankly that says little to nothing given that this agency’s a CIA affiliate. No, the mystery of the two Iranians aboard on false passports stands out like a sore thumb, same as the changing information about the aircraft’s flight path and the strange, deadly delays in the sea search for debris and flight recorders.

On precisely the same day the aircraft disappeared off the radar screens a large fireball was clearly seen coming out of the skies by a New Zealand worker on an oil rig out at sea. At Latitude 08º 22’ 30.23” N: Longitude 108º 42’ 22.26” E, far closer to the position of the last radar contact than the area in the southern Indian Ocean off the coast of Australia, a supposed five hours flight time away. I’m firmly of the opinion that the five hours flight time scenario recorded by satellite along with the change of flight path in the well trumpeted southern so called arc are part of a fiction. A blind worked up to cover the truth which brought the Australians, currently only too willing collaborators with the United States, into the act. It’s not that these people couldn’t find a kangaroo in a bath tub, just that they’re looking in the wrong place.

I now provide the email sent by Michael Jerome McKay at 6.24 on 12^th March 2014. It begins,

 

“Gentlemen,

I believe I saw the Malaysian Airlines plane come down. The timing is right.

I tried to contact the Malaysian and Vietnam officials several days ago. But I do not know if the
message has been received…

This email I think is fairly explicit. Note that the plane was burning but appeared to be in ONE piece as stressed. Its siting and position could not be clearer. The red dot on the Google Map below shows it precisely.

 

 

 

The red dot position is a short distance flying time east of Kuala Lumpur across the Gulf of Thailand, NOT thousands of miles south, west of Australia. It was certainly off course for Ho Chi Minh City but not by that much. Its flight path is clearly observed. The plane was burning when first observed then the flames went out ten to fifteen seconds later. When first observed it appeared to be in one piece. All this says much and all the information was indeed relayed to the Malaysian Government.

Astoundingly the email and precise geographical location of the siting have been generally ignored by the media but then perhaps it would be of more interest to the families and friends of the passengers along with the Government of China than anyone else. The media in the UK such as BBC Television, Channel Four and all the rest have simply played silly and dumb, basically reporting what they are told to report same as with the Ukraine so it’s quite natural that crucial information such as this would be casually mentioned, if indeed mentioned at all, then dropped out of sight… after which a whole story made up about flight arcs, five hours flying time, wreckage spotted by satellite, new specialist equipment being brought weeks later, and on it goes!

Until finally the wretched Deputy Malaysian Transport Minister wringing his hands at the daily press conference for the world’s media and wailing that the aircraft may never be found.

So what happened then? Probably that there was a hijack in progress on route to Ho Chi Minh City by the two Iranians and the plane diverted south-east. There may have been weapons fired aboard during a struggle between passengers and terrorists or maybe a bomb or grenade had been detonated. Small arms fire is the more likely. The terrorists had early announced a hijack, gained access to the cockpit and ordered the disconnection of all communication equipment after which possibly the struggle had occurred.

It’s not that hard to put together now we have a much better understanding of the position of the plane. This of course was seriously bad news to the Government of the United States in view of President Obama’s current overtures to the terror regime governing Iran, along with those from Britain and the EU. From DAY ONE when the presence of the two Iranians aboard the missing flight was made known A WHOLE NEW STORY WAS MADE UP PIECE BY PIECE AND WENT INTO OVERDRIVE FOR THE WORLD’S MEDIA! It had to be! And quite frankly it wasn’t such a big deal. Not after all the recent revelations about America’s world-wide spying operation and more recently its sponsorship of the fascist takeover in the Ukraine! Support for its Obama-led rapprochement with Iran, dragging the EU along with it, was strategically more important for the interests of the United States than anything else. Set against this an Iranian hijack job was just about the worst thing that could happen which is why perhaps no ships or planes will start search for wreckage close to the red dot on the map.

That is, with the possible exception of the Chinese!

This is NOT a conspiracy theory. If you doubt it take another look at the email then a look at the map!