me1511172 Suffused as I am with seasonal spirit, it is important not to give exemption to Anti-Christs. The best Christmas present civilised Britain could give to its citizens is a prison cell with one occupant: Boris Johnson


Most of you will, by now, be heading for railway stations, airports and families in readiness for the Great Christmas Carvery. Some of you may already have grasped that this winter, I have opted for meteorological rather than family warmth.

All the eateries here in Goa will be open on Christmas Day, and quite a few of them are offering fowl with all the traditional trimmings. I shall not be partaking of that option; I like goose, but most of it turns to fat…and properly cooked turkey with gravy and sausages is terrific, but the helpings of turkey sandwiches and curries that tend to follow The Big Day have never appealed to me. Nor have all the washing up, the mothers-in-law, and endless hours spent seeking out presents for adult persons who need presents like they need a sixth head orifice. As the celebration of a Saviour’s birth – a bloke who grew up to preach the rejection of all things material – it merits a special place in the halls of religious hypocrisy.

However, kids are kids, and I am not a bah humbug sort of chap. When my two were little, I loved Christmas – even the 3 am bursting into our bedroom of little people yelling “He’s been, he’s been”. Now my elder daughter has small children, I still ensure they have things to unwrap….even if half the time the wrapping paper is let down by the contents. I remember very well, in the mid 1950s, my elder brother tearing open a particularly large parcel, reading the title of the book inside, and asking out loud “What’s the point of a book from Guinness about gramophone records?” (All those under forty not laughing, in the olden days music tracks were called records. If you still don’t get it, Google it)

All my children and Godchildren having long ago left the age of eighteen far behind, only my grandchildren now get presents from Opah – which is the German for Grandad that separates me from the other grandparents involved in nuclear families these days. Every year, I calculate what Christmas presents used to cost me, divide it by three (deflation, my dears) and decide on a worthy charity. Such things are increasingly hard to find, but this year the problem has been solved by an extended stay in the Third World. Here, you can hand over the money in cash to a teacher, and be double-dog certain that every penny will be invested in combating ignorance.

In previous years, I contributed labour and funds to farming infrastructure charities in Mali, a former French colony in Africa. However, thanks to the religious peacenik sons of Allah, that route has now been blocked by genocidal Jihadists devoting Christmas Day to herding followers of the Nazarene into wooden churches and then burning them alive.
I sort of apologise if all this sounds like virtue signalling alongside Islamophobia; but then, if you believe that’s what it is, the chances are you’re a committed Momentum-to-Cooperite-via-Antifa idiot, and so you shouldn’t take my token contrition too seriously.


Anyway, ’tis the season of goodwill to all men – and all that – and so, as we enter the final run-in to Joseph and Mary’s unscheduled stable-based Nativity space experience, I present some contemporary evidence of just how much we’ve learned from the example of their only son. Sadly, I must open with an exception.

Seasonal effusiveness or not, Boris Johnson is exempt in my eyes from so much as an iota of goodwill. I see that Boris Johnson has steamed in to defend Damian ‘Perv’ Green, calling him the victim of “a vendetta by retired Met police officers”. As I have more inside track on this case than most, it seems important to set the record straight.

Some years back, Met cops in the course of their duty took possession of Green’s pc, and found that quite a bit of the memory was taken up with dating sites specialising in dirty old men fond of committing marital infidelity with young nubiles. Other parts of the hard drive also showed serial visits to, um, hard porn sites of a particularly unpleasant nature.

Being eccentric by nature, they suggested to senior officers that Green have his collar felt, and being corrrupt by nature, senior Plod decided not to take any further action.
The Mayor of London at the time was none other than Boris Johnson. This was the same Boris Johnson who called the Newscorp hacking enquiry, “a lot of left wing codswallop and a waste of police time”. Oddly, he was also the same Boris Johnson in charge of Met Police activities. And spookier still, the same Mayor who the day before attended a Met management meeting and strongly expressed the view that the hacking enquiry be dropped. Furthermore – you’ll never guess – two days before that he had a meeting with Rupert Murdoch and Rebekah “Not Guilty” Brooks in his private mayoral office suite….and the session (uniquely) was not recorded.

Coincidence is an accusatory mistress: but with BoJo, the happy coincidences just go on and on and on. For he was the same Mayor who conspired with Tim ‘Cabbie’ Yeo to force London taxi drivers to buy Yeo’s crappy vehicles that proved to be, well I never, more pollutant than the ones they already had. And – I’ve checked this one out, and blow me down it too is the same Boris Johnson – he was the Mayor who waded into the Elm House paedophile enquiry, and placed his capacious Turkish bottom on any and all output….almost all of which accused Tory councillors and MPs of raping young boys in the care of Richmond Council.

It is symptomatic of Boris ‘Singapore Sling’ Johnson that he regards cops doing their jobs in the spirit of equality before the law as “a vendetta”.

I’m not one for mealy-mouthed innuendo, so – in an echo of the late unlamented Prime Sinister David Cameron – let me clear about this.

In 2011, I voted Harriet Harman and Boris Johnson “the two greatest threats to democratic liberty in the UK”. Mercifully, the former opted for life in an intellectual hermitage, but the latter public enemy is still at large.

He is a piece of filth, a depraved corporate fascist, a serial user of rentathug, and a man with a long history of abusing power in the most criminally uncaring manner. Like the equally ghastly Jeremy Punt, his penis is ever-ready to be up the dark back passages of the most black-hearted turds in business, politics and the media. He is a national disgrace, a stain on the culture Britain once had, and lower than a cockroach who attended limbo-dancing lessons in a bid to become the most belly-slithering vermin in history.

He was and remains the only distasteful aspect of my decision to vote Leave.


On a lighter note, Daily Telegraph reports that The White House has “dramatically” stepped up preparations for a military solution to North Korea’s addiction to taking the piss. It seems there are fears diplomacy is not working, and thus the time has come to bomb some sense into Kim Jong-un.

It is fashionable right now to blame everything on Trump. I’m not going there. The blame here lies with militarily perverted north Korean political ideology on the one hand, and an uncontrolled US military-industrial complex on the other.

So not much Peace on Earth is prospect, then.

Meanwhile, figuratively speaking The European Commission announced on Wednesday that it would take the unprecedented step of triggering Article 7 — the so-called nuclear option — against Poland, following countless warnings, requests for dialogue and demands for clarifications about changes to the country’s judicial system. Diplomats in Brussels and Warsaw said contacts between the two sides had grown ever more scarce over the last year, describing relations between the Commission and the Polish government as “heading down a dead-end street”.

One could argue that ignoring the cul-de-sac sign and continuing at full tilt towards the brick wall is a little irresponsible; but then that kind of incorrectly off-message observation has never cut any ice with the Fourth Reichists in Brussels, Berlin and Bankfurt. The same is true of their attitude to Austria and Hungary: an unwillingness to accept mass African immigration is obviously evidence of mental illness….and, as a reaction per se, nothing whatsoever to do with the anthropological ignorance that is driving EU federalism over the nearest cliff. (That’s the one immediately after the brick wall).

Which is a neat segue into Brexit. I’m quite enjoying Brexit now – first of all because I’m 7,000 miles away, secondly because the process opens up all kinds of possibilities for total and utter chaos, and above all because it gets funnier every week.

For Mother Theresa herself, it’s taken on the guise of a political Groundhog Day. She goes to Chequers at the weekend, and does a few rows of knitting in her spare time. Then she holds a presser the following Monday, and shows off how well her husband’s new pullover is coming along. On Monday afternoon, the knitting expert in Dublin points out she’s dropped a couple of stitches, and then on Tuesday morning, Philip Hammond says we can’t afford the wool. Tuesday afternoon, Brussels rejects the pattern as insufficient, Wednesday lunchtime Jeremy Corbyn says she’s knitting while the NHS burns, Thursday afternoon Boris Johnson says Juncker should knit his own f**king sweater, and Friday morning Barnier leaks a secret letter sent to May showing that they wanted socks not a pullover, because for heaven’s sake what good is a pullover?

At some point over the next weekend, the PM says we are “still on target” for a 2019 exit, and a smiling David Davis takes another Imodium in the background. This is where the chaos probability comes in: clearly, we are not on target for anything except another elegantly formed circle, and equally clearly the two major British Parties are now so cut to ribbons on the issue, you couldn’t make a dishcloth out of the material, let alone knit a sweater.

As I’ve opined previously, however, the same is true of the EU. Its show of unity is jolly commendable but a complete fiction. Sadly, most Remainers know almost nothing about eurozone politics and banking, so they simply go with the United Front drivel. They rarely if ever keep up with the situation in Eastern Europe, haven’t yet spotted that the anti-migrant backlash has spread to Austria (beyond making feeble jokes about the Austro-Hungarian Empire), Italian political economics are on a knife-edge, and the Greeks have been raped and left for dead. Next March, France will be seen yet again to have missed its deficit targets, and the ECB will continue its onward march to creeping bailin.

By early summer 2018 at the very latest, it is going to be clear even to the US State Department that what they’re looking at is a half-hearted rebellion negotiating with a half-baked rabble. NATO will get nervous, and Federica Mussolini will stress the danger of having a truculent Poland moving back into the Russian sphere of influence. What fun we shall have once the Hungarian election gets under way. What anarchy will ensue if the May government falls.

So God rest ye merry gentlemen: make the most of a few days under the duvet. The times we live in are about to get even more interesting.