The Tempest

The Tempest

Big thanks to BLISS (who didn't get to go). I knew nothing about The Tempest before yesterday. It's full of magic, humour and wonder, and The Globe production had actors popping up all over the place. Particularly an athletic Aeriel.

Ding Dong Bitch-Witch is Dead

Charles Moore. Tory journalist. The authorised biography. Part one. Quite why we need any more dewy-eyed nonsensical and absolutely wrong outpourings of adoration is beyond me. There's almost an industry sprung up telling people like me that I can't think what I think: among other thoughts, that you can't call the unions Luddite dinosaurs and then worship an evil, spiteful, acid-tongued woman who was in bed with Pol Pot, Pinochet, and supported apartheid and was against Nelson Mandela. That's proper progressive, isn't it, you buffoons.

Even the Guardian published this:

With the tag: a glamorous looking...

If I might take issue with that. What do you call bingo wings when they start hanging down between wrist and elbow? Secateur wings? Natural part of the female ageing process. Unless you're an evil, spiteful bitch ready to send anyone slipping below 100% to the lame duck knacker's yard. Whereupon you become fair game.

Oy! Missus. Is your arm up the arse of the last chicken in Sainsburys, or are you growing the old man a spare scrotum by your wristwatch there?

Glamorous? As attractive as a just-shat-himself tramps piles.

Thatcher was notorious for not getting culture. Not seeing the need for sport. Work, work, work, die. My family in her eyes? Cannon fodder for the capitalist ideal. Well, frankly, I don't get the need for spiteful-gobbed old grannies. Put us out of the misery, kill 'em, chop 'em up and feed them to hungry animals. Apart from those lower-arm bingo wings. Even a starving dingo 'aint gonna want those.