The Curmudgeon

YOU'LL COME FOR THE CURSES. YOU'LL STAY FOR THE MUDGEONRY.

Wednesday, May 06, 2015

It's Hard to Draw Red Lines With Your Snout Still in the Trough

Having stuck to their principles on so much else, the Deputy Conservatives are now arguing over whether to surrender over Europe. Nick Clegg, ever the middle-aged man in a hurry and still remarkably susceptible to the lure of a red box and a pinky-purple Daveybloke dimple, believes deeply and sincerely that the nation's interests would best be served by throwing his European principles overboard now, while presumably keeping agreement to a snoopers' charter in reserve for those bumpy bits at mid-term. Vince Cable, the left-wing firebrand who did so much for hard-pressed British taxpayers by selling Royal Mail from under them at mates' rates for Conservative donors, believes deeply and sincerely that the nation's interests would best be served by not being quite so uncompromising with the willingness to compromise. Britain's future in Europe remains reasonably important to the Deputy Conservatives, although it falls short of being red-line material because red lines in the wrong places lead to red boxes in the wrong hands; however, it remains to be seen whether Europe will turn out to be as unimportant as free education, parliamentary reform, indefinite dention of refugees, the protection of the poor and vulnerable, or preserving the NHS and the justice system.

Tuesday, May 05, 2015

The Most Important Job Of All

Almost fifty more British jobs have been saved in the Mediterranean. An attempt by meddling Euro-wogs to interfere in the free movement of human resources between North Africa and Davey Jones' locker backfired when an approaching rescue ship caused a sudden deflation in the dinghy market. Fortunately, the motives for the foiled acts of migrancy are thought to have been purely materialistic.

Never a slave to considerations of mere decency, the British Government has been delaying its own grudging part in the rescue operations thanks to a previously latent concern with international law. Westminster may be intensely chillaxed about prisoners' rights and whether or not the urban prole has air to breathe; but in the face of migrant apocalypse even Britain's Head Boy becomes a bit of a stickler. Of course, quite aside from the obvious fact that more drownings are what Winston Churchill, the royal baby and Little Ivan would have wanted, Daveybloke's own career is now thought to be under some threat from an upstart Belgian.

Monday, May 04, 2015

The Choice

Just three days to go - then, quinquennial Night!
All parties, please take one more step to the Right.
The nation is in a most terrible plight!
All parties, precaution - one step to the Right.
We have a new Princess to aid in our fight!
All parties, tug forelock and step to the Right.
We may just be in for a terrible fright!
All parties, act normal: one step to the Right.
The wog is grown strong in the power of his might!
All in it together - one step to the Right.
The immigant horde is aboard the next flight!
Keep feet on the ground, and then step to the Right.
The Scots they are hooting; our doom is in sight!
Be calm in your squealing, and step to the Right.
If troubles are heavy, if troubles are light,
Whatever the problem, our remedy's Right.
If too many voters should rear up and bite,
We'll all join together, and set things to Right.

Davey Cleggiband

Sunday, May 03, 2015

Rugged Individualists

The press regulator Ipso, which was established to protect the minions of Dacre and Murdoch from the ravages of Leveson, has duly rejected all complaints about the belles-lettres of the sub-Wildean scumbag-press wit Katie Hopkins. The piece in question referred to migrants as "cockroaches" and suggested using gunboats to prevent refugees coming over here and taking our Aryan jobs; the number of complaints ran into the hundreds, but Ipso has thrown them all out on the grounds that the column did not refer to a specific individual. This judgement appears to have been copied and pasted from an email by the Sun's own pet ombudsman, which stated that the column, being concerned entirely with mobs, hordes and swarms, "does not relate to any individual at all". The ombudsman is considering a further two complaints about accuracy; it remains to be seen whether the Freedom of the Press will withstand that storm as well.

Saturday, May 02, 2015

Royal Baby Disappoints

Fury at royal slacker horror

The Duchess of Cambridge has given birth to a viable infantine resource with no known telegenic birth defects.

The result is likely to infuriate the Conservative Party, which had been hoping for a dead infant to help push them over the line in next week's election.

"It's a bit disappointing but we will soldier on," said a visibly deflated spokesbeing for Conservative Central Office when the news was announced. "We will just have to find other things for Dave to simper about.

"Dave and Kate are sort of blood relations, so you'd expect a bit of support between family members at a time like this, but of course it's the Royal Family's prerogative to use their own property as they see fit."

Treasury sources say the Chancellor had set aside up to £12bn for "the mother of all state funerals" in the event of the Duchess delivering the necessary pretext.

The Prime Minister, David Cameron, famously made use of his own dead and disabled son Ivan to win the trust of voters over the NHS in 2010.

He was promptly emulated by Gordon Brown, who tried to raise the bidding with a dead daughter and a disabled son, but the market had bottomed out.

Friday, May 01, 2015

Team Freer Touches Base

Finchley and Golders Green's sitting expenses claimant, Mike Freer, has at last favoured me with his attentions. His leaflet proclaims that my vote will deliver competent leadership (in the form of continued Osbornomics, more tax cuts, more kicking of poor people, and cheaper petrol) or a coalition of chaos (in the form of a legally constituted British political party such as the SNP pursuing its legitimate interests at Westminster). Having voted in favour of equal marriage rights, Mike Freer somehow comes over all reticent about the possibility of his own party having to shack up with the gay-bashing Democratic Unionists.

"Britain can't afford it and you'll have to pay for it," says Mike Freer, who represents the party that inherited a tentative economic recovery and turned it into a three-year depression for the profit of the one per cent. Curiously enough, Mike Freer neglects to make much political capital out of the Osbornomic miracle, especially now that the pledge to eliminate the deficit and achieve healthy growth within a single parliament has been so spectacularly fulfilled. Mike Freer professes himself keen on a local breast screening unit (he doesn't say whether he favours Serco, G4S or the Sun newspaper for the contract), but he rather inexplicably omits mention of that other little pledge about not imposing chaotic top-down reorganisations on the NHS, which was so spectacularly fulfilled by the grace and brilliance of Andrew Lansley and his consultants in the Turkey Twizzler business.

Mike Freer is also proud to boast of his part in abolishing "squatters' rights" (scare quotes in original), thereby charitably protecting those who can afford to leave a property empty against those who can't afford a place to live. Mike Freer is happy to echo his party's cant about "affordable homes", and also to avoid any mention of "rights" for tenants. Mike Freer is much concerned with the local community, but as so often before he displays remarkable reticence about the flagship of the Big Society thingy which has appeared on his watch, namely the local food bank. This means, of course, that Mike Freer denies himself the opportunity to inform his constituents why he imagines they use such a facility. Is it because they're lazy, feckless, and need money for booze or fags or tattoos? Is it because they don't manage their excessive social security payments well enough? Or is it just because it's there? I think we should be told.

Thursday, April 30, 2015

Mug and the Dream

A Tale

Waking suddenly in the dark of her room, Mug saw a dream preparing itself to enter her mind. She caught it in mid-step between the wardrobe and the bed, where it had halted the instant she opened her eyes. The dream tried to remain absolutely still, but its posture was all wrong and after a few moments it collapsed to the floor looking most embarrassed.

Mug and the dream stared at one another. The dream squatted like a glowing transparent toad, mumbling liplessly about the games it wanted to play when it got inside Mug's mind. From its fingers and toes and horns came threadlike tubes through which lights flashed feebly in time with the mumbling, but now the lights couldn't go anywhere because the dream had failed to reach Mug's brain in time.

"Caught you," Mug whispered from the bed. The dream's huge eyes were closed, moving rapidly behind their lashless lids. When Mug spoke, the lids twitched but did not open.

"Caught you, you bad dream," Mug whispered. She sat up in bed, holding the quilt up as far as her eyes. "Don't you move, you bad dream, or I'll bottle you." Without taking her eyes from the dream, she put out one hand for the lamp on the table. "Bottle and drown you and give you to the fishes. How would you like that? Fish dream is all you'll be. A shoal of little nightmares, all about worms with metal in their guts."

The dream squeezed its eyelids shut, so tightly that they sank into its head and left only dimples behind them. At the same time its mouth became wider and its mumbling louder, and Mug could make out fragments of what it mumbled: "knifecaps whistling soft metal daisy toilet bearding carpfunnel," and so forth.

"Don't you move, you bad dream," Mug whispered. "Or I'll drown and dissolve you to yawning and morning. I'll put you in a glass with my Aunt Weevil's teeth."

Her fingers fumbled up and down the stem of the lamp, and the dream's mouth opened wider still, revealing its seven tangled tongues all writhing and flopping over each other, while behind them in the dream's throat a feeble light glowed and faded. The light was grey, stolen from the moon's face in which, millions of years ago, the dream's giant ancestors had eaten hundreds of dark holes.

"Crystal fangbeam rivenglass living-room tuffets," mumbled the mouth. Behind the mouth, the rest of the dream was changing shape. Its limbs flexed and floundered, and those at the rear stretched fearfully towards the wardrobe and melted together in a fish-tail that slapped the floor. On the dream's back Mug saw patches and stripes appear and disappear, as though the dream were fleeing through a night forest. "Clotting moonblot plankwallow," it wailed.

At last Mug's fingers stumbled across the switch. Keeping her eyes open wide and fixed upon the dream, she turned the lamp on. The walls, the wardrobe and the bookshelves all leapt from their shadows, and their corners stabbed the dream and their colours scalded it. Mug's eyes were stinging, but she didn't blink and the dream let out a hoarse shriek that boiled in its throat as the stolen moonlight dissolved in electric yellow. The dream went dull and folded in on itself, and the threadlike tubes in its horns and fingers and toes let out delicate threads of vapour, which rose to the ceiling and made Plotty-the-cob stir in her web.

When nothing was left of the dream but a small black pile like a collapsed tar-toad, Mug jumped out of bed and prodded it with her foot, taking care to put her slippers on first. The tar-toad made no response, but after a moment the door opened and Aunt Weevil stood there, yawning in nightmare-pink flannel and rubbing the small of her back. "What's going on in here?" she demanded.

"Nothing, auntie," Mug said. "Just a bad dream, that's all."

Aunt Weevil squinted at Mug, then at the floor in front of Mug's blue furry slippers, where shreds and cinders of steam were still breaking and fading. "That's my girl," Aunt Weevil said, and she and Mug grinned at each other, showing all their teeth.

Wednesday, April 29, 2015

Will They Never Learn?

Barely more than a week before the seventieth anniversary of Winston Churchill's victory over the forces of darkness, Germany has disgraced itself by implicitly denying the holocaust threatening Britain's way of life. Germany and Sweden between them handle nearly half of all asylum claims in the EU, and apparently lack the vision and statesmanship to imprison the perpetrators in concentration camps run by those nice people at Serco and G4S. Now that the let-'em-drown policy in the Mediterranean has failed to stem the flow, Italy, Greece and Malta are also complaining. The Germans have suggested a quota system; so Britain's Head Boy, whose wog-bombing of Libya was badly misinterpreted by many Africans as an invitation not to stay in their place, has been forced to give the lesser nations a bit of a ticking-off.

Tuesday, April 28, 2015

Vote For Us In Case We Vote Against Ourselves

Labour's wog-bombing spokesman, the Dickensian-monickered Vernon Coaker, has accused the Conservatives of playing politics because some of them still refuse to admit to the two parties' basic lack of difference. Michael Fallon - the same decent honest chap who put his name to a Crosbyite smear about Labour's leader having fought an election against his brother and therefore being presumably willing to sell the country out to Vladimir Putin - was unable to say whether the Conservatives would join Labour to vanquish the fiend Sturgeon and protect Britain's weapons of mass destruction. Asked why the Conservatives couldn't support a minority government on the issue, Fallon blathered that the country needed to follow his own shining example and avoid the question. "We can't have this confusion or uncertainty," he said, having made everything as clear as Grant Shapps' second-best set of excuses. As of this writing, it remains unclear whether the Real Conservatives would vote with the Wannabe Conservatives on the numerous other policy areas where they remain more or less indistinguishable.

Monday, April 27, 2015

Fear and Trembling

The foreign fanatic, who hates as he prays,
Kills people at random in horrible ways,
And chokes us with grief at the barbarous sight
Of History lost to the terrorist fight.

His holy Creator, the Ancient of Days,
Kills people at random in horrible ways
And shocks us with awe at His heavenly might
By levelling many a world-renowned site.

The madman and vandal, all sane men must curse;
But God must be thanked that He didn't do worse.
Though the evil of men may be hard to refute,
When God does the same - well, it's really quite cute.

Rev. Sorbus Malbarb