Category Archives: Bloody idiots

Compulsory anhedonia

Frank Davis is disgusted by an article in the Independent, as am I.

Trigger warning: if you are usually upset by references to government overreach, the hypocrisy of the élite scum and the nanny state in general, you may want to go outside and fire a few rounds from a pump-action shotgun before reading further.

I will not quote the authoritarian filth in the government and quangocracy because they deserve no further publicity and I did promise to try to do something about my blood pressure. It’s all in the newspaper if you’re that way inclined:

Restaurants, cafés and pubs have reportedly been ordered to make their food and drink healthier or face being named and shamed for contributing to the obesity crisis.

My points in brief are these:

MPs enjoy a subsidised bar which is the only one in the country where smoking is still permitted. All of their lavish restaurants are subsidised. Specially-made sweets (‘House of Commons Fudge’ and ‘House of Lords Humbugs’, if I remember rightly) and unique Sobranie cigarettes in elegant boxes, gold-blocked and unsullied by antismoking advertising, adorn their subsidised gift shops. Anyone who tolerates scolding, nagging, hectoring and nannying from such self-seeking hypocrites as these is in my view far too tolerant.

Furthermore, anyone who tolerates the existence at all of such outrageous pseudoquangos as ‘Public Heath England’, never mind crediting the hoity-toity bossy bullying of their ‘chief executives’ (I can’t help wondering how much more than the prime minister this one is paid), is in my view tolerant to the point of clearly hazardous excess about which Something really ought to be Done.

However, I suspect that the point of diminishing returns has long since been passed, and that these measures will backfire.

Exhibit A: those silly little ‘traffic light’ anti-food markings which the unemployable middle class have forced upon supermarkets. Expected result: well-trained, docile sheep picks up package, sees that not all boxes are green, obediently puts it back and looks for one on which they are. Actual result: all goats know that in theory the most delicious item in the whole supermarket must be the one on which all five boxes are red, and search hopefully for it (it is called Baklava, and is usually available from Messrs. LidL).

Therefore, if a restaurant serves generous portions of fine food which discerning people like to eat, then though it may be named, it can hardly be shamed.

Listing those restaurants which boldly defy the government’s compulsory anhedonia (this is an expensive psychiatric word meaning ‘inability to experience pleasure’; I’m not sure I like it, so I’ve only hired it) will invoke a sort of culinary Streisand effect; by trying to put them out of business, the parasites will ensure that they hardly ever have a free table.

I look forward to the simplicity of calling visitors’ attention to the official recommendations rather than letting them waste time with ‘Trip Advisor’.


The engine-stopping ray

For years and years coppers have fantasised about being able to switch off motor vehicles’ engines remotely. This idea first appeared during WWII in the form of a (non-existent) ‘engine-stopping ray’, and has been going ever since.

Now it is possible owing to engine management systems. All the fuzz have to do is persuade car manufacturers to incorporate radio hardware and backdoored software and it’s easy. Point the aerial from the police helicopter, transmit the no-longer-secret code, and watch the target coast to a standstill.

So why is Sir Bernard Hogan-Howe, archplod of the Smoke, wittering on about ‘slowing down the vehicle in front‘ [my italics] of the target?

Could it be that he supposes that ‘criminals’ will already have disabled the engine-stopping-ray receivers on their own cars?

Does he intend to ‘slow down’ one unsuspecting member of the public after another, thus to act as expendable barricades, as the ‘criminals’ ram their coasting (and possibly now also brakeless) cars out of their way?

How many of us does he propose to sacrifice thus in order to avoid being sued by his own increasingly Bolshie staff?

Will he simply demand more tax to pay off all the inevitable compensation claims, or will he blackmail a politician into giving his goons total immunity from the law?

Will police helicopter crews use surveillance equipment to check whether the target car’s occupants are wearing burkas – and therefore obviously more likely to be ‘victims’ of ‘Islamophobia’ than terrorists – before letting fly?

How will this method address the old IRA tactic of packing a bicycle frame with PHE?

Will Sir Bernard Hogan-Howe please try to get on with his job as defined by Sir Robert Peel, rather than by Darth Vader?


It’s a question of whether I can write anything about Facebook today without feeling it necessary to mention that I think Mark Zuckerberg looks like a sheep.



No, I’ve decided that on this occasion I can’t.

I think Mark Zuckerberg looks like a sheep.

Right, that’s that over with. Now then. Breitbart cites the Guardian, which in turn cites Aftenposten. Most readers will, I imagine, by now be aware of this case, but it is possible that not everyone has read all the way though Espen Egil Hansen’s lengthy ‘open letter’ to the sheeplike one, protesting at said unworthy’s media corporation first having censored the famous ‘napalm girl’ photo from the Vietnam War, and then having censored everyone who objected to their censorship, including the Prime Minister of Norway.

My sympathy for those who have wilfully handed over their lives to the computers of a creepy foreign sheep squillionaire is rather limited. I never ‘signed up’ to this or any other such nonsense, and always respond to the programmed salestalk of his (and others’) mind-slaves in much the same way.

If asked by the blank-eyed owners of thinking-brain phones why I am not ‘on Facebook’ I reply that I do not need to be, because I have real friends. Usually they then become self-righteously offensive, demanding to know ‘what I’m trying to hide’, to which there is only one logical response: “Well, I’m not telling you.”

So my sympathy for what seems, in this instance, to be much of the Norwegian establishment is also limited. I will not join the chorus of people demanding ‘freedom of speech’ from this or any other private entrepreneur. Or sheep.

One hears this sort of prolix, lachrymose and ultimately futile whingeing all the time, usually with added NLP, e.g.

“Google needs to…”

Like hell it does.

Oligarchs don’t need very much, and they certainly don’t need to listen to an endless, dribbling litany of complaint from the pathologically entitled.

There is only one thing that sheep oligarchs understand and it is Border Collies profit.

If you don’t like the way Zuckerberg runs his company, don’t do business with it. I don’t like him, or his company, or any company like it, and I’ve never done business with any of ’em.

As to Facebook’s being ‘free’, nobody should by now need reminding that if you’re not paying, you’re the product.

I may not like the fellow, but I’d be the first to grant that he only looks like a sheep.




A secret army

Another day, another Civil Service ‘cock-up’ that just happens to benefit the enemy within.

Some chair-polisher at the MoD put up on their website a list of about 20,000 military personnel in reserve, cadet administration and similar rôles.

Breitbart reports:

The Army List has always been available… However… the MoD changed its policy in November 2015 to limit the publication of officers’ names to those at the one-star/brigadier level and above… Members of the armed services, reservists, and university trainees have been previously advised by the MoD to keep their military credentials off of social media. Soldiers were warned not to wear their uniforms in public following the murder of Drummer Lee Rigby…in May 2013. The warning was reiterated after the attempted kidnap of a soldier outside an RAF base in Marham in Norfolk, East Anglia, by two Middle Eastern-appearing men. The suspects are yet to be apprehended.

This is not about this particular ‘cock-up’, but about the general response to enemy action.

Members of British armed forces are ordered to sneak around their own country, unarmed and in mufti. It must be that uniform and individual defensive weapons are seen as likely to offend someone, or even provoke them.

Someone like this, perhaps.

When the Scots were defeated by the English in the 18th century, they too were forbidden to wear their traditional clothing, and to carry arms. It is customary for conquerors thus to humiliate the conquered.

Of course it’s all right really, because

Officials at the MoD are understood to be considering deleting the current lists of service personnel from the government website.

Does anyone outside the Foreign Office know the Arabic for ‘Wayback Machine’?

With a name like that, maybe he should have ordered coffee

‘Twas but a few days ago that I remarked upon the case of the unsatisfactory fellow who called the police in the course of his tantrum over a teabag.

I was clearly not alone in remarking; here it is in Russia Today, since taken up by some freedom-loving Americans.

The damnable cheek of the Russians extends to calling this incident ‘the most British story ever’, while our American cousins, trying to be supportive, explain that

This guy is the reason people use the term “douchebag” in a derogatory manner.

All we need now is for this guy to be noticed by the French and the Chinese and we’ve got the whole damn Security Council.

I have never used Twitter because it seems to be for Twits. However, since the tea justice warrior is clearly one himself, any reader fluent in Twit and having access to Twitter might want to Tweet him with an appreciation of his service to his country’s international reputation: @RobLattarulo.


The female of the species is more deadly than the male

Until six or seven years ago I ran a British political blog which generally opposed the appalling pseudosocialist tyrannies of Blair and Brown. It did reasonably well, ran for a few years, and racked up a reasonable score. I never much cared for stat porn, feeling that if one person in the whole world were to read, mark, learn and inwardly digest what I had written, it would matter much more than twenty thousand people clicking, gawping, masticating apathetically and immediately clicking away, but I was told that the numbers were good ones.

I note that Julia M and Cats still have links to my old blog, which I closed down owing to medical difficulties; bless you both. My old character, the sort of tweedy, Middle England sort of a chap who might have been played by Arthur Lowe, succumbed to these medical difficulties and is no more. Having in that rôle been only an average human, I have now been reincarnated as the kind of water-bird that some might walk all the way around the other side of the lake to avoid.

The reason for all this historical flannel is a troll.

On my old blog I never managed to attract the attention of anything more than the usual amateur-hour keyboard terrorist anxious to exhibit his (it’s usually a ‘his’) repertoire of invective. However, I followed, and still do, the blogs of those who, while hardly promoting the smoking of tobacco, vigorously oppose those who seek to restrict its use and sale. The grand masters of this order are still Snowdon, Puddlecote, Davis and Leg-iron, though others often provide backing vocals.

It was this sort of blog which first attracted what seemed to me to be a professional troll; one whose dedication, targeting and resources immediately suggested to me that he was being paid by the health-nazis to stir it with their critics.

Things moved on, as did I. But now I’m back, and it looks as though this individual never went away. Instead, he seems to have broadened his target group, from anti-anti-smoking blogs to those of anyone who opposes the sort of nanny-state of which I still believe he may be a paid employee, or even those of anyone who knows anyone who does.

The plot appears to be thickening in that on 3 September national treasure Anna Raccoon (who is so hard she makes nails look like spaghetti) posted a piece describing a personal encounter with a couple of people who, by a series of technical investigations, had been put, as we say in Peckham, ‘in the frame’.

The result of her ‘bold, unexpected, positive and effective direct action’ seems to have been a piece posted on 5 September on the uncompromisingly named …Is A Cunt blog (abbreviated ISAC), which now confidently names the individual confronted by the fearless Raccoon.

My points are these:

First that I still maintain that 2000 or more access attempts using 700-odd servers is not the mark of the amateur, and that I believe that the individual responsible is being paid or otherwise supported in what they do;

Second that had ISAC named an innocent, that party would by now have gone to law to have the allegation taken down, which does not seem to have happened;

Third that perhaps owing to my lifelong enthusiasm for Conan Doyle I would, on the basis of  La Raccoon’s account of the incident, suspect strongly that it is the wife, and not the husband, who is the troll.



Proper tea is theft

A less than satisfactory fellow with a sinister-sounding foreign name, what looks like the early stages of a really serious hairstyle problem, and a clearly highly developed sense of entitlement has been stirring it in a tea-shop (more here, if you can bear the sloth, or even sloth the bear).

For those who are linkophobic, there was a minor cock-up about teabags. It was instantly resolved by the proprietor, but the self-righteous crybully then filed a defamatory report on TripAdvisor using the café’s own Wi-Fi service, and, when challenged about this wholly unjust behaviour and asked to leave, called the police – who told him his fortune.

What interests me about this fine example of something or other (apart from the brat’s superbly definitive “purposely…“, and the refreshingly robust rebuttal from his clearly undemoralised victim) is the picture.

The peculiarly disagreeable likeness has clearly been Photoshopped over a picture of the irrepressibly cheerful Ms. Sevjan Melissa’s highly-regarded, if perhaps occasionally stressed, café,  Birdie Num Nums in New Cross (of course now it’s famous there’ll be a queue all down the street, so get in quick).

Exactly the same creepy picture has later been Photoshopped over a stock-shot of a garden, just below the bit where the babyish waster of police time admits quite shamelessly to being

…a recruitment manager for a healthcare regulator

What I want to know is: out of what original photo was this less than edifying collection of pixels excised? What did it depict? In front of what background did Roberto once smirk?

Answers on a postcard, please…