mesnip30716Sometimes, a blogger’s task is a varietal one. Tonight I shall be mainly taking the piss out of politically correct strangulation of English, global economic growth bollocks, the Labour leadership election (take 2) and the continuing saga of how Theresa Mayormaynot honour the referendum result by doing what we asked the Silly Old Bag to do nearly two months ago: get us TF out of the European Union.

One of the true measures of whether a culture or ciivilisation is proceeding in 4th gear forwards or 7th gear reverse is to examine the meter and syntax of popular song. In the later 1950s, there was a thing called Skiffle – a folk/rock precursor to Punk – whose hero was a former jazz musician called Lonnie Donegan.

In March 1960, Donegan and his group released My Old Man’s A Dustman – recorded in front of a live audience on the Pye label. It became against all expectations his biggest ever hit.

Below, I have translated the song’s lyrics into Progressive English, in a bid to avoid tragic situations where young middle class people might read the original ones, and thus need counselling for the next 35 years. You have to be nearly or actually in the Seventh decade to truly understand this first item tonight, but as those brave Waspi ladies – and let’s be fair here, most pensioners – need cheering up, here it is anyway.


My father is a refuse disposal officer

he wears the regulation headgear

he wears exclamatory cockney trousers

and inhabits a bijou apartment he bought from the local council thirty years ago, but which Boris Johnson tried to force him to sell in order to help some developer cronies.

His footwear is appropriate and affixed with suitable nails –

he finds it a trial to get said footwear on, but for health & safety reasons he does so – even though he compares the process to dealing with truculent weeds of the genus Bellis perennis.


One day while working diligently

he forgot to empty a customer-facing receptacle.

A few metres further along the thoroughfare

he noticed the female client pursuing him.

“I think perhaps you have inadvertantly missed my standard Council-issue container,” she observed emotionally, “am I too late to take part in the disposal process?”

“I’m sorry madam,” he replied, “but you are not approved refuse and it’s more than my job’s worth to fling you into the infill-mulcher, much as I would be delighted so to do”.

Ambrose Evans-Pritchard – the Daily Telegraph’s leading business correspondent – has today pointed out that JP Morgan has upped global growth for 2016 to 2.7%.

This is very important news: it means that, by 2136, we’ll be the same size as Saturn. Whether we shall have rings or not remains unconfirmed.

Mainstream Labour MPs were rendered ecstatic this afternoon at the news that 84% of constituency Labour Parties had endorsed the Great Satan Jeremy Corbyn.

“This is wonderful news,”said Corbyn’s opponent Owen Smith, “as it represents conclusive proof that with Corbyn’s popularity so obvious (and with me unikely to be at the helm) Labour is now unelectable.”

Owen aides contacted for comment were unavailable due to prior commitments involving crawling up Newscorp’s capaciously accommodating bumhole.

And finally, Mother Theresa has ordered Full Steam to power HMS Mayflower in the race to get Britain out of the EU at top speed, by delaying the triggering of Article 50 until such time as Article 50 has been repealed in favour of Article 101, under which all escape is futile and or you Tommy ze var iss ovah.

Earlier at The Slog: The inhumanity reality of SPA ‘reform’