Return to the House of Fox

This Friday will see the release of my fourth novel, and to celebrate the occasion I’ve decided to write this, a half way serious blog post about the book, in the vague hope of shifting a few copies.

I’m of the personal opinion that Return to the House of Fox is the best thing I’ve ever written by a country mile, as I feel for the first time I’ve undergone the proper procedure involved in creating a novel. There are zillions of blogs out there that will tell you what you should and shouldn’t do as you go about crafting your magnum opus - I have read them and, for the large part, completely ignored them. The first House of Fox was a largely improvised affair, shoved together from fragments of crazy dreams and stream of consciousness nonsense with no real idea of what the final outcome would be. A few edits and an email to the Publisher in the hope she would work her usual magic and weave the thing into something tangible, and that was pretty well it.

With the second book, however, I found myself taking the more traditional approach, not necessarily out of choice, but rather because of mitigating circumstances. I got two thirds of the way through the first draft and my hard drive died, killing my poor old computer and, as I had rather foolishly neglected to back up my work, flushing my efforts down the drain. My finances weren’t great at the time, meaning I couldn’t afford a new PC, and so HoF2 went back to being a concept, rather than a construct.

The story continued to grow in my head, and several months later, with a shiny new laptop to work on, I began the second draft from scratch. Things went well at first, but as any wannabe writer will know all too well, there comes a point where you hit the wall and all progress stalls. Around the same time I was unexpectedly made redundant and was suddenly up shit creek in my day to day life, and HoF2 went on the back burner for a while.

When I eventually got back into the writing, I found myself sitting staring at the words, knowing something was wrong, but unable to put my finger on what it was. In the end I realised I had made a huge mistake. Originally, the road movie elements of the story were set in the USA, with a traditional coast to coast voyage, delivering the characters ultimately to Las Vegas. Trouble was, I’d never been to the USA, and for all the time spent observing the county through its various media outlets, I simply didn’t have the geographical knowledge required to fill up a novel. The idea then struck me that I could transplant the action to somewhere I knew all too well; Wales. Instead of Las Vegas, the road trip would bring us to Rhyl, the down market, low rent, North Walian equivalent. The notion was so preposterous I laughed my tits off for two days straight, and I saw how much fun I could have depicting a town I hate so much. Trouble is, this would require an entire rewrite, not something I’d ever untaken before. But sod it; it would be worth the effort. I rolled up my sleeves and wrote draft three right from the beginning.

I got finished, performed a few edits and emailed it off to the publisher. Lisa, bless her, is incredibly patient with my output, and eventually responded that while she liked the book, it was unpublishable in its current state. Originally, HoF2 was peppered with additional short stories throughout the narrative. While I’d thought these short stories gave an interesting background to various characters, Lisa explained they actually disrupted the novel and made it unreadable. So, hey ho, back to the drawing board and version four was knocked together.

So, two years’ work has gone into HoF2, and the finished product is something I’m incredibly happy with. Finally, I’ve made the effort to write a proper novel, rather than take short cuts and get the thing done as quickly as possible. This isn’t my usual explosion of lurid colours, flung haphazardly at a canvas, but rather a carefully crafted cupboard, with drawers that pull out smoothly and don’t fall to bits in your hand. Of course, inside the cupboard lurks the usual cornucopia of porno mags and machine guns, but this time around they’re neatly stacked.

Return to the House of Fox will go on sale Friday 16^th November. It is available for pre-order here

The original HoF is available free on Kindle this week, just to whet the appetite for the upcoming release. Click here.

Holiday Blog

This week I decided to take a break from my ongoing publicity drive. I needed to recharge the batteries and blow off the cobwebs. A vacation was in order.

Thus, on Monday morning, my companion and I climbed into the Smithmobile and drove the fifty miles to the ancient and mysterious island of Llanhorny, believed to be the rudest place in Wales. Leaving the mainland behind, we crossed the bridge on the stroke of noon, intent on losing ourselves in the strange landscape and culture of this alien world across the water.

It was only when the first cartographers set foot on Llanhorny and detailed the rugged coastline, that it was discovered the island was shaped like an enormous minge. Copies of maps were sold to navigators and masturbators alike, the saucy topography inspiring lust in lonely gentlemen of the age.

Weaving along tangled country lanes, we make for our first stop, the oldest working dirty dairy farm in the country, where the milk maids are said to wear no knickers and often bend over to attract the attention of passers-by. The place is a bugger to find, as, according to rumour, the island’s council took down all the road signs and sold off the scrap metal to buy drugs. Just as we are on the verge of giving up, we stumble across the farm, but alas, it is closed on Mondays.

A little disheartened, we continue our quest, turning left toward the coast where we hope to visit the National Museum of Tits. After driving straight through an unmarked junction and narrowly avoiding a car accident, we find a parking space and make the short journey on foot along the promenade to the museum gates, but alas, find it to be closed on Mondays.

After a mug of coffee from our flask we consult the guidebook and make for the Institute of Freelance Lesbianism, a cooperative set up by a couple of carpet munchers, back in the seventies, who fled prejudice in search of a simpler island life. We find the institute, and rubbing our hands in anticipation of seeing some hot, girl on girl action, attempt to gain entry via the front door. Unfortunately, according to a note taped above the letterbox, the place is closed on Mondays.

Our holiday is not going well. Frustrated and saddened, we give up on our rude pilgrimage and decide to go to the hotel and get drunk. After another hair-raising drive, we arrive at the quaint inn and carry our luggage inside. Here, at the bar, we find a dairy farmer, a museum curator and a couple of stout ladies in dungarees, drinking lager and arguing about the football results. The landlord scowls at us and barks in guttural language, that the hotel is closed on Mondays.

Pant Rant

Today, I am a worried man. Aside of the usual panics and quibbles that distress me, there is an extra load bearing down upon my shoulders. I am scared we may lose the greatest word in the English language. Pants.

The basis of this fear lies in the creeping Americanisation of our culture. Our traditions are changing. The Senior Prom and Trick or Treat have become an integral part of our youngsters’ development. People sit on couches rather than settees, and wear shades rather than sunglasses. A checkout girl at the supermarket even recently told me to “have a nice day”.

Well I’m sorry missy, but I’m British, and I have absolutely no intention of having a ‘nice’ day. I shall have a rank, fucking miserable day, as is my wont, and no amount of nauseating, sickly sweet rhetoric will change that.

Our overweight cousins from across the Atlantic are causing linguistic confusion by mixing up the meaning of the word pants. When they say pants, they mean trousers. When they say underpants, they mean actual pants. How long before the first British child adopts this misuse and spreads the foul affectation to the rest of our youth?

We must resist at all costs. We must cling on to our love of pants, the same way their sturdy elastic lovingly clings to our waists. Pants are funny. Pants are the heart and soul of our sense of Britishness. And most importantly of all, pants are not, and must never become, trousers.

It is for this exact reason I shall today be writing a stiff letter to the President of the America, insisting he and his nation of obese, gun-wielding lunatics desist from damaging our culture any further, or else run the risk of incurring our wrath. No longer shall we meekly bend over and allow the star-spangled hand of the United States to ram its precocious, fledgling language up our British bottoms.

For we here in these isles know the true meaning of pants. We were wearing pants when the Yankees were still in short trousers. Long before the declaration of independence had even been signed, we here in the old world were adjusting our delicate bits and examining our gussets for skidmarks.

That’s right, Mr Trump. It was we who invented this language which you pervert on a daily basis, and it is we who shall define its parameters. A pant is a pant. A trouser is a trouser, and that’s the way it shall stay.

And before you go off to eat your fourteen-pound steakburger, with your AK-47 and your banjo balanced across your knee, I suggest you take some time to think about how you could change your linguistic usage to best suit our needs.

I am suggesting you take immediate steps to insist all American trousers from now on be referred to as over-pants, thus negating the need to place the unnecessary word ‘under’ in front of the classically elegant word ‘pants’.

Take heed of my warning. Wars have been fought for less.

Yours, in pants,

SJ Smith

More Publicity

With the release date of my fourth novel Return to the House of Fox drawing ever closer, I have been wracking my brain for ideas to raise my profile, in the hope of driving sales up toward double figures. After my attempt to break a world record ended in dismal failure, I have decided to stage a charity event, in the hope of gaining much needed publicity.

Next week I will be participating in a sponsored wank, with all proceeds going to the Gethin Jenkins Foundation for People with Huge Heads but Unusually Skinny Legs. This terrible affliction affects many across Wales, and the foundation does great work by helping suffers buy baggier trousers and grow distracting fringes. I am hoping to raise more than £4 to go towards their sterling efforts.

I will be wanking from Castell Spinbreath, in the heart of rural North Wales, to the Pen y Bryn public tavern, Llanrhos, also in the heart of rural North Wales, but a bit to the left. This epic journey of some seventeen miles will take six days to complete, and see me wanking through some of the most spectacular scenery in the country. I will be joined by local celebrities along the way, who will wank alongside me.

So please, show your support; dig deep in your pockets and send cash, in none sequential, used bills, to SJ Smith, Castell Spinbreath, Wales. And don’t forget to honk your horn and wave if you see me wanking in a street near you.

Publicity

With the launch date of my new novel Return to the House of Fox fast approaching, thoughts this week turned to publicity, and how best to pimp my magnum opus to the masses. I’m not allowed on TV after my infamous wardrobe malfunction on the Des O’Connor Show, and they’ve refused to have me back on the radio since I inadvertently used the C word during Children’s Hour.

How then, with the mainstream media shunning me, should I go about ensuring SJ Smith is the name on everyone’s lips?

The answer came to me during a heavy drinking session in a skip behind Tesco. I should make an  attempt to break a world record. What better way to draw attention and boost my reputation? I immediately got on with researching the subject, scouring the web for heroic feats to undertake. The world record for swimming the Channel? Too much like hard work. The world record for eating cheese? No thanks, might give me heartburn.

Then I found it, the perfect challenge for a bone idle fellow like me; the world record for running over old ladies, while driving a double decker bus dressed as Philip Schofield.

A few phone calls and several cans of lager, and I was soon ready for my attempt. A shining red double decker was dispatched from the depot, and my good friend Dodgy Dave managed to procure a dozen old dears from a local Alzheimer’s ward. I donned a grey wig and clutched a cute kitten, and passers-by swore I was a dead ringer for Schofield himself. With everything in place, I gunned the engine and lurched forward to make my mark on history.

But, is as often the case, the day was beset by difficulties. Either my wig would fall off or the kitten would escape, or else the old ladies would wander off to make racial slurs or play bingo. And then a tramp failed to notice the ‘Sorry, not in service’ sign on the front of the double decker, climbed aboard and shat himself on the back seat. The bus company insisted on recalling the vehicle for a hosing down, and I had to wait ages for a replacement.

Eventually, with the sun sinking in the west, I made one last ditch effort. Accelerating along the High Street, I swerved this way and that and mowed down the collective of pensioners. Zimmer frames, false teeth and fur lined boots flew in all directions, and as the screams finally quieted I lit a cigarette and waited for my attempt to be verified.

Norris McSquirter, a wrinkly old bastard in an ill-fitting suit, wandered up and down, hands behind his back, counting the corpses. The current record stood at ten. Had I done enough?

Alas, no. McSquirter conducted an autopsy on one of the old biddies and found she had died not from wounds inflicted by my aggressive driving, but rather from an attack of mange. He ruled the attempt a failure, and sped off chuckling in his Aston Martin.

So, no world record for me, and with only two and a half months to go until the release of Return to the House of Fox, I must come up with a different way to spam the public.

The Sensual and Seductive Dance of the Willy

Malcolm Muggles was a sad and lonely fellow, approaching middle age and yet to know the touch of a woman. He’d never even kissed a girl, let alone had a go on her naughty bits. As his forty-fifth birthday came and went without so much as a sniff of action, he resolved to have one last try at ending the losing streak, or else give up on the idea of hanky-panky forever.

He searched the internet for the ways and means to score with a female, and made several awkward attempts to seduce Miranda Bumgardner, a shy but pretty girl he'd seen around the dole office. He wandered past, drenched with a pheromone spray which had cost him an entire week’s giro, but Miranda only turned up her nose. He tried to break the ice with a slightly risqué joke, but fucked up the punchline and ended up on the sex offender’s register. For all his efforts, Miranda didn’t even seem to know he existed. Crestfallen, he realised his only option was to gracefully accept that he would die alone.

But one day, on his way home from an appointment with his probation officer, Malcolm stopped dead in his tracks as he spotted a book in a charity shop window. ‘Dance Your Way into a Woman’s Knickers’, was the title, emblazoned across the cover above a photograph of a scantily clad maiden. Hairs standing up on the back of his penis, Malcolm dashed inside and handed over the princely sum of one pound fifty to an elderly lady in a brown cardigan, who almost broke her neck trying to retrieve the book from the window display.

Back in the safety of his bedroom, Malcolm examined his purchase with trembling hands. According to the blurb on the back of the dust jacket, the book was a comprehensive guide to mastering the sultry and seductive Dance of the Willy, an ancient traditional folk dance performed throughout the ages by men who literally had to beat them away with a shitty stick. The author personally claimed to be a practitioner of the fabled art, which had led to him bedding more than eight women and answering to the title of the greatest lover in the West Midlands Metropolitan area.

Malcolm turned to page one and began his studies.

A fortnight later, Malcolm spotted Miranda down at the dole office and put his plan into action. He ran to the toilets and changed into his dance outfit; white socks and open toed sandals, and nothing else. One last check in the mirror for reassurance, and he went prowling out to conquer the feisty vixen.

When he emerged from the toilets, bollock-naked, Miranda’s mouth fell open and she reached for the telephone. But before she had time to call the police, Malcolm commenced the ancient dance. One foot up on the coffee table, he wiggled his hips, setting his willy jiving and jumping. Miranda’s eyes grew wide with desire as she fell under the hypnotic spell of the rhythmic exhibition.

She went home with him that evening, cooked lasagne and chips and did an underpant wash. After tea she performed upon his person a series of sexual acts so lurid and foul they would be considered illegal in most civilised countries.

“Would you like another can of Special Brew?” she beamed, cheeks aglow.

“Cheers, love.” Malcolm grinned and turned on Match of the Day.

GDPR Statement

I have no idea what the fuck a GDPR is, but as everyone else is doing them I figured I’d jump on the bandwagon and issue a statement.

Giant Dildo Punishes Rapist?

I think it’s something to do with online security. So, I’ll assure each and every one of the six people reading this nonsense that I do not collect any personal information about you. I mean, I would if I could, as I’m a nosy bastard, but I’m not clever enough.

Gay Dave Pumps Roger?

I do like to look at the statistics and see how many people are viewing my site (six), but that’s as far as it goes. As far as I’m concerned, cookies are something you eat.

Girl’s Dandruff Problem Remedied?

Does this bring me in line with the new European whatchamacallit? What happened to Brexit? I didn’t think we had to do what those damned Frenchies told us anymore. I shall be writing a stiff letter to Nigel Farage and calling him a cunt.

Greta’s Dyed Pubes Revealed?

That’s about it. If you have any questions then don’t hesitate to get in touch, but don’t be expecting a reply as I can’t be arsed.

Cocky the Cocky Cock

Never, in the history of the farmyard, had there been such an arrogant rooster as Cocky. A hefty Rhode Island Red, he ran the coop as his own personal harem, foisting his rampant prowess upon the long-suffering lady chickens as if it were his God given right.

One sunny morning, Cocky preened his glossy feathers and shook out his magnificent comb so it stood proud and erect. “A lot of people ask if I’m a leg man or a breast man,” he said into the mirror, pretending he was being interviewed by Michael Parkinson. “But face facts; when a motherfucker looks this good, he ain’t got to choose. He going to get the whole portion served up on a plate, every damn time.”

He went strutting out across his territory, casting his beady eyes about for a likely filly to bestow upon his fifty shades of gravy. Down by the corn trough he came across a gathering of girlies and puffed himself up to his full size. He whipped out his enormous dong, so huge and bulbous his wingtips could barely contain it. “Say, which one of you birds wants a good stuffing?”

The timid hens shrank back from his appendage, huddling in the corner, refusing to even look at him.

“Hey, don’t go all frigid on me. Come on, show us your giblets.”

“Actually,” one of the females took a deep breath and faced up to the hulking bantam. “We’ve had our fill of your foul behaviour. We’ve all decided to become lesbi-hens.”

“Bullshit,” Cocky stepped forward, trying to intimidate. “You’re just playing hard to get.”

“It’s true.” She defiantly held her ground. “From now on we’ll only be giving the beak. You’ll have to pleasure your own drumstick.”

Cocky shook his head, incredulous. “Bitch, I’m going to give you five seconds to quit sassing me.”

“Oh, cluck off Cocky. We’re not scared of you.”

Forming a mob, the chickens rushed him. Cocky tried to fight them off, but quickly found himself overpowered by their winged fury. They bore down on him, pecking and scratching with viscous intent. “Please, stop,” he begged, but his pathetic pleas went unheard.

Later that day, the farmer happened by the coop, and was filled with great sadness as he saw the dishevelled figure of Cocky, plucked practically bald and cowering in terror. “Deary me,” he muttered. “Looks like the lead’s gone out your pencil, old son. And you know what that means.” He quickly wrung Cocky’s neck, and that evening the family had him for tea, with some nice roast potatoes and a side helping of pickled red cabbage.

The Tragic Tale of Alfie Ballcock

Life should have been a bowl of cherries for Alfie Ballcock, but alas, fate had other ideas in store. Alfie wasn’t the brightest, indeed he was generally considered to be entirely without talent or ability, until the day he dived head first into the chlorine blue of his local municipal swimming pool.

With a natural grace he glided shark-like through the water, amazing all who had the good fortune to witness. Finally, Alfie had found his calling. Word quickly spread of the incredible fellow who could complete an entire length without taking a breath, in less time than it took to start the stopwatch. Alfie soon came to the attention of a prominent swimming coach, who earmarked him as a future Olympic star in the making.

A time trial was organised and, as expected, he aced the minimum requirements for entry to the British team. But while the coach and his family cheered and exchanged high fives, no one reminded poor Alfie to get out of the pool, and too tired to tread water any longer, he sank like a stone.

Eventually, someone noticed the forlorn figure lying on the bottom. An ambulance was summoned, and they dragged Alfie out and performed mouth to mouth in the hopes of keeping him alive. When he coughed up a lungful of water they thought perhaps there was a chance he may live. Rushed to hospital, he was placed in an intensive care ward.

The nurse on duty that fateful day decided to give Alfie a bath, as he smelled overpoweringly of chlorine. But while she got distracted, chatting on Facebook to a fellow who’d sent photos of his cock, Alfie slid beneath the surface for the second time that day.

By the time she pulled him unconscious from the tub, exposure to so much warm water had caused Alfie to shrink, and he was now roughly the same size as a Star Wars figure. This made things easier for the hospital, as instead of taking up a whole bed, Alfie was so small his comatose body could be laid out on a slice of thick, white bread on the nurse’s desk.

But one last tragedy lay in wait. A consultant gynaecologist, in a rush to look at a woman’s minge, mistook Alfie for a sausage sandwich, and after dowsing him with ketchup, ate poor Alfie whole.

Thus ended yet another story of what might have been, if only people weren’t such fucking idiots.

On hearing of Alfie’s misfortune, God saw that a chance to unleash a shining star of joy upon a miserable, grey world had been missed, and he decided to set things straight. He dispatched his heavenly entourage to visit Alfie’s brother Stan, to bestow upon him the great gifts so sadly wasted on his sibling.

“Do you want to become a world champion swimmer?” The Archangel Gabriel asked Stan.

“No,” Stan replied. “Do I fuck.”

April Gardening Notes

The old oak tree at the bottom of the South facing hill had come under attack from an invasion of crawling ivy, which was strangling the life out of the poor thing, so I made it my mission to grab my secateurs and head down there to see if I could rectify the situation. As I chopped and hacked my way through the scrambling stems, I discovered a thin, red, electrical cable, hidden in the foliage, disappearing upward toward the higher branches. Mystified, I took hold of the cable and gave it a damn good yank.

Much to my horror, as I looked up I realised an instant too late that the cable had been installed running straight through the centre of a squirrel’s nest, or a ‘drey’ as I have since found out they are called. The effect of my yanking was a like a whip crack, and as the cable straightened taut, the drey exploded into tiny pieces. Rudely disturbed from slumber, the mother squirrel was strong enough to keep her grip, but alas her brood of six youngsters were catapulted straight over the wall onto the adjoining railway line.

I ran over to see what I could do, but I regret to announce that the ten forty-seven to Crewe came blasting down the tracks at that very moment. The baby squirrels, or kittens, never stood a chance.

Now I don’t speak squirrel language, but I can’t imagine the chattering and squeaking being levelled at me by Mama squirrel was entirely complimentary. I apologised profusely and swore an oath I would find the identity of the miscreant who put that damned cable there and caused this unfortunate infanticide.

With Mama squirrel hot on my heels, I followed the cable down through the dell, where it lay hidden in a shallow gully, and up and over the fence onto the neighbouring estate. From there it wound its way around several sharp corners, in the direction of the main house. When I realised its ultimate destination, my mouth fell open in shock. The cable ran up a steel post to a video camera, aimed straight through the back window of the lady next door.

It didn’t take a genius to put two and two together. On one side, my land is bordered by that of Marvin Scrote, a somewhat nefarious character, who earns his fortune from internet pornography. On the other lives Lady Mugrunch, a highly esteemed champion of gay rights, and host to the International Naked Lesbian of the Year show.

Goddamnit. That son of a bitch Scrote was surreptitiously videoing the unsuspecting nudists for his website, using a hidden wire tap running straight across my garden. I wasn’t about to stand for this sort of nonsense.

Mama squirrel and I went and banged furiously on Scrote’s door. A small man with slicked back hair and a pencil moustache, he answered and regarded me with cold, reptilian eyes. “What do you want, Smith?”

“I found your cable and video camera,” I snarled. “You should be bloody ashamed of yourself. This poor squirrel’s entire family is dead because of you.”

“Oh yes? And what are you going to do about it?” He flicked ash from a menthol cigarette straight into my face.

“You cunt.” I rolled up my sleeves and went for him. After that, it’s all a bit of a blur.

I was able to piece the story together later from the police report. Apparently, Scrote’s bodyguard, an eight-foot tall gorilla, grabbed me by the neck and administered something of a pasting. But then, as Scrote stood laughing, Mama squirrel leapt up and bit his nuts clean off. She carried them away and buried them somewhere in the garden. They still haven’t been found to this day.

That’s it for my April gardening advice. Check back in May when I’ll be explaining how to prune your evergreens and stumble into a Russian blackmail plot.

Doctor SJ and Mr Smith

Doctor SJ is a quiet and somewhat reclusive fellow. Shunning society, he lives in his castle on the hill, and spends his days writing ridiculous, smutty novels, which no one buys.

But as darkness falls each night, Doctor SJ grows lonely and bored, and stares out of the window at a world from which he is dislocated. This is when he succumbs to temptation and quaffs the magic potion which will transform him.

The potion, known colloquially as ‘Seven pints of lager’, changes the shy Doctor SJ into the overtly gregarious loudmouth, Mr Smith. He immediately takes to the internet, writing complete shite on various social media platforms, making unwanted sexual advances to females, and generally acting like an arse.

By the time morning comes around, the potion's effects have worn off, and upon waking, the fearful Doctor SJ checks his phone to see what havoc his alter ego has unleashed during the night. “Oh no,” he whispers, as he sees the half dozen photographs of his genitals he has emailed to that nice lady who works in Tescos. He has unwittingly given his bank details to a Nigerian general, in the mistaken belief he was talking to a lonely glamour model, and gotten himself banned from a rugby forum by calling the head moderator a cunt.

Sheepishly, the introverted Doctor begins his day afresh, guilt and remorse hammering his befuddled brain, all the time knowing that come sunset, the whole sorry cycle will be put into motion once again.

Proud to be a Snowflake

The world is pretty fucked up at the best of times, but right now things seem to be becoming unhinged at an increasing rate. A quick skim through social media and it becomes apparent America is busy tearing itself in half; those still blinded by patriotism are furiously clinging on to the notion that Trump is a competent leader, while everyone else screams he should be in prison. In Britain, the entirely unnecessary Brexit referendum has given a voice to those we’d hoped had gone the way of the dinosaurs and proved that stupidity is still the dominant factor.

I think it’s fair to say the right wing has had a grip over the western world for at least the past forty years. Ever since Thatcher and Reagan cuddled up and introduced a new extreme brand of conservatism, there has been little trickling down to the masses as the top one percent insist on keeping it all. The working class, as a political entity, has been smashed, stripped of unions and rights, and doesn’t really exist anymore. In it’s place lies a breed of consumers, who live their lives drip fed by advertisements and encouraged throughout their education and beyond toward apathy.

But in 2018 there has been something of an awakening. A group of schoolchildren, survivors of the latest American mass murder, have had the audacity to open their mouths and challenge the status quo. And you’d better believe, the status quo don’t like it one little bit.

It’s easy to tell the right wing are rattled, because the propaganda has gone into overdrive. The usual drool has progressed to outright lies as they desperately try to pull back the tiny slippage of complete domination they have suffered. Some of the crap coming out right now would be hilarious, if it weren’t for the fact there are plenty of people willing to believe it.

For instance, did you know that if only the NRA had been around in nineteen thirties Germany, the Jews could have armed themselves and fought off the Nazis? Or that in the sixties, the NRA armed black folk to help them battle the KKK, a ‘Democrat sponsored terrorist organisation’? I don’t know about you, but when I think of the Third Reich and the Ku Klux Klan, I tend to associate them with being on the right. But apparently not; the GOP and its fanatics are rewriting history to suit their own particular brand of bullshit.

So, from hence forth, a democrat is the same thing as a liberal, which is the same thing as a socialist, which is the same thing as a communist. You hate America and you want to steal freedom. Go back to Russia. Yes, Russia; the same country that Trump is alleged to be in the pocket of, but don’t let the facts get in the way of your stupidity.

And if you think people deserve healthcare, or if you think we shouldn’t destroy the planet we live on, then you’re a ‘Snowflake’. I have no idea where this word suddenly came from, but it’s apparently a generic insult to be thrown at anyone who disagrees with Hitler.

I think we should take the word back. Come on, my snowflakes, let’s stand up and be counted. Let’s stop swallowing the bullshit of brain dead, redneck, Nazi warmongers everywhere, who insist on blindly doing the work of the handful of aging, white billionaires who actually cause all the damage. Jesus was a socialist. If it was good enough for him, it’s good enough for me.

Jewish Socialist Accused of Stealing Freedom

Prominent members of the National Gun Association have today launched a withering attack on a prominent Jewish Liberal.

In his best-selling book ‘The Bible’, Jesus Christ, 32 of Nazareth, made the controversial claim ‘it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven’.

“This is typical of the liberalists’ agenda, trying to undermine the fabric of our society,” said NGA spokesman Marvin Madbastard. “They are trying to steal our freedom to make millions in untaxed dollars and use it to buy the favours of politicians. The constitution defends the right of every American to unduly influence democracy while feathering their own bank account.”

Madbastard, who earlier this year stated that any American who does not own a bazooka is a Commie faggot, went on to label Jesus Christ a Freedom Hating Snowflake, adding “If he doesn’t love our country, then he should damn well go back to Russia.”

The Winter Olympics is Bollocks

So, Britain has a record haul of medals from the Winter Olympics in South Korea, and I can honestly say, with hand on heart, I give not one jot. I mean, the WO is great if you’re Canadian, Scandinavian or happen to live in the Alps, but what possible interest could a nation like ours, which gets reduced to a swarm of quivering morons by half an inch of snow, have in such an event?

Let’s be honest. A true representation of a Brit at the Winter Olympics would be a bloke from Birmingham, gazing forlornly down the toboggan run, moaning that the council hadn’t been out to grit it.

My only personal experience of Alpine Sports is tumbling arse over tit down the dry slope at Llandudno, with a pair of skis briefly attached to my feet, and I can count on one hand the number of people I’ve ever met who would choose Switzerland over Spain as a holiday resort. So, the question I have to ask is, where do all these British Winter Olympians come from?

If you’ve seen the biopic movie of the British ski jumper Eddie ‘The Eagle’ Edwards, you’ll know exactly where they come from. Edwards was a man whose greatest challenge lay not in summoning the courage to launch himself down a ninety-metre ramp and out into oblivion toward possible death, but rather in getting the British Olympic committee to allow him into their hallowed fold. See, Edwards made the huge mistake of not hailing from a rich family, and the stuffy, stuck up, old boys’ club that ran things didn’t like the cut of his jib one little bit.

British Winter Olympic athletes are the kind of people who can afford to spend half their life on holiday in the Alps from a very early age. Winter sports are extremely elitist if you happen to hail from a country where it only snows once every five years. The protagonists are not required to be any good, only wealthy enough to compete. And once they’ve had their jolly and come last in the giant slalom, they’re made for life as a member of the BBC’s small army of ‘experts’ who get to travel half way around the world to make dumb comments about a minority sport no one is interested in, being broadcast at three o’clock in the morning.

The Winter Olympics is bollocks for any British person who isn’t a TV presenter or a middle-class yahoo. Come the revolution, professional snowboarders from Middlesex should be first against the wall.