Tag Archives: managerial parasites

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’.

All very well

Do please read this, by Daniel Greenfield at Sultan Knish. It is a complete, correct and concise statement of the problem and applies even more in class-ridden England than it does in the USA:

Utopia’s middle class expects to live the way that our middle class does. And yet none of them actually produce anything… Their public service actually inhibits production. Whatever the rhetoric, they spend all their days killing the geese that lay the golden eggs. And then they are insulted when the goose doesn’t recognize their contribution to her golden egg-laying.

I knew a goose once who laid a golden egg, but her friends persuaded her to see someone about it and she’s perfectly all right now.

Seriously, though. What are we going to do with a few million people who passed their exams, went to college, got a job-for-the-girls out of the Guardian and now expect to be paid by the state as though they were senior industrial managers to do whatever imaginary nonsense they profess? Even when this involves inhibiting, defacilitating, demotivating and generally rendering unserviceable what is left of British industry, and turning British society, entirely for their own purposes, into the major contribution to the theatre of the absurd which we see around us every day?

What are we actually going to do? It’s all very well to point fingers.

Don’t Let This Happen To You

I don’t drink alcohol. Not for effect, anyway. A while ago I invented a low-calorie drink (20 drops of Angostura Bitters in 1 litre of soda water; chill & serve), which is very slightly alcoholic (1/40 unit in 333ml by calculation, and thence I gather about 1.4 calories, but the measurements are difficult without chemistry things), and once in a blue moon I take a sip of single malt, but I’m not exactly what you’d call a drinker. Indeed, before I invented the drink and met the single malt I was completely teetotal, and was able to get that cheap car insurance from Sweden (which is probably called something else by now, unlike the insurance firm, which is still with us).

I don’t smoke tobacco either. I did once, but I gave it up, without missing it for very long, having had the following conversation with a cardiologist (name slightly changed) who was ticking boxes on his clipboard as I dutifully tried to outrun one of those conveyor-belt type exercise machines while also avoiding entanglement in a set of ECG wiring:

“You don’t smoke.”

“That’s a pretty confident assertion, Dr. Patel.”

“No, I’m telling you, you don’t smoke.”

“Do go on.”

“Well, you see, you’ve been in my [sic] hospital for three days.”


“The withdrawal period for nicotine is forty-eight hours. Everything else is just psychological habit-breaking.”

[Pause. Conveyor belt thing cranked up]

“You don’t make very much of this in public, do you?”

“Bit of a trade secret, as a matter of fact.”


“You might think it was to do with the multi-billion pound industry around selling people worthless smoking-cures, but I couldn’t possibly comment.”

[Machine cranked up again. Collapse of stout party]


I still cannot stand health-nazis, though. The problem is now much worse because as the otherwise unemployable upper-middle class seeks to pay itself more than the prime minister for something, anything, so it creates endless tax-funded fake-charities or pseudoquangos to employ its nephews and nieces – just as the byzantine BBC created mock-current-affairs programmes in order to employ anyone surnamed Dimbleby, Day or Magnusson – and nearly all of these made-up organisations are to do with telling ordinary people how to run their lives, always with a substantial side order of snobbery, contempt and authoritarian bullying.

Some time ago it reached food. For years there was a campaign against salt, and then one day the junk science behind this was decisively debunked, and overnight the campaign morphed into one against sugar, with the same people ’employed’ at the same ‘competitively necessary’ rates.

On and on it goes. Today I read, in someone’s comments (can’t find it now) a remark to the effect of:

I can’t listen to the BBC any more. That tit Jamie Oliver was on just now. He says that despite the fact that people are eating far less sugar nowadays, much more needs to be done.

Which rather sums it up. The purpose of the operation being not to change the nation into Sparta but to maintain the continued and remunerated ’employment’ of Mr. Oliver. Perish the thought that people should change their ways. There must always be a Problem, in order that the comrades of proven worth can be paid to provide Solutions.

However, the law of unintended consequences applies, and the nation is changing into Sparta, as the recent results in the Olympics make clear. Even I am fitter than I once was.

Eventually those of us who survive the selection process will be as fit as Marines, without a vice to our name, and there’ll be nothing left for ‘Public Health England’ and its handsomely-paid chums to do.

And there’ll suddenly be a new Problem; perhaps with hairstyles, as there is in North Korea. ‘Public Health England’ will utter a series of sententious warnings about something or other that it’s just made up. Earnest patrician voices will assure us often that experts have said, and studies have shown. Many millions of pounds of our money will be spent on setting up ‘Action on Partings and Health’, complete with celebrity CEO, Grade I Listed HQ and fleet of Mercedes. A famously bald member of the Royal Shakespeare Company will appear in a heartrending but costly TV commercial written by three psychologists and an advertiser’s copywriter, with the general subtitle ‘Don’t Let This Happen To You’. This will be followed by a rather obviously scripted interview with a shifty-eyed ‘senior policeman’ in an armoured hat a size too large for him (North Korea again) about ‘Comb Crime’.

You can stop sniggering at the back there because you’re so acclimatised now that when this really happens you probably won’t even notice.

We have evolved two completely counterproductive and very large groups within what is left of our society, neither of which we can really afford.

On the one hand the managers; having along with the unions written off British industry, they took over the public services, with results from which we suffer to this day, and are now deliberately creating problems in order to be paid to ‘solve’ them, or, if they got it wrong, to drag people before the courts for merely mentioning them.

On the other, their clients, whom they identify, create or import in geometrically increasing numbers.

Before long these two groups will together outnumber all others. Neither makes, extracts, creates or contributes anything. Both are very aware of their own value and entitlement and the imperative nature of their needs and preferences. Each supposes that its own definition includes both moral advantage and legal privilege. Both hold the people who pay for their ‘lifestyles’ in utter contempt.

Dealing with these complicated sociological issues is easier for we geese, who have a naturally diplomatic manner.



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.


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…