Home » Ain't life great. » Forward with Boris in glory to the past; and a reminder of how you were warned….

Forward with Boris in glory to the past; and a reminder of how you were warned….

Analysis of the referendum vote shows that the older and worse-educated you are, the whiter your neighbourhood is, with the least number of immigrants and young people, the more likely you were to vote to Leave the European Union. It may not have occurred to you, then, that you were taking part in a General Election to enable Boris Johnson to oust his hated rival, Cameron, and that your vote had nothing to do with the coloured people next door.

BogPo Chief Political Correspondent,  Laura Facebook went looking for someone to blame….

 

@BogPoNewsdesk

Hi from @Laura’sweeplace

Hope this will do? It’s a Mr Bogler, 66. I’ve got his address somewhere in Romford. That in Essex? Quotes follow:

 

“Okay, so. I’m 66. Sixty-seven in two months, my how time flies when your wedding tackle’s packed it in for the duration.

“No, I don’t have a university degree – just a vocational qualification from a technical college. (Excuse the teeth, they don’t fit too well. Polish dentist.) But I do own a flat cap and a pair of brown Dralon slippers, they’re very comfy.

“And I remember the 1970s, the Golden Age that my generation has voted Leave! to get back to, before gay rights and foreigners and that Damon All-Bran person. Silly name.

“When I matriculated in 1970 after two years of studying and training to be a film cameraman, I was good at it. Knew my stuff. So I was offered a job straight away working as a camera assistant on an actual feature film shooting in London. If you’re over forty you’ll probably even have heard of the stars. Of course they were proper stars in them days, not just celebrities like now.

“Then after two weeks I was ‘let go’ – sacked without pay – on the orders of the ACTT, the film technicians’ union. I wasn’t a member. But not having worked in the industry for at least six months, I wasn’t allowed to join either, which I would of if they’d let me. The union was threatening to have the film ‘blacked’ at the processing laboratory unless I went and they could put some bolshy, pre-war old studio hand into my job, someone who hadn’t progressed beyond Assistant grade in forty years, at ten times the wage.

“Career, basically, down the drain. Thank heavens for Maggie is all I can say. And you could just walk into another job, so I did. No foreigners, see. You hardly ever saw a black face, let alone these Muslims. You could talk to your doctor and he’d understand you.

“Ah, the 1970s… You’d proudly buy a British car for four pounds seven shillings and sixpence, then sit out in your front garden with a nice cup of PG Tips, you know, the chimpanzees, they were good, and watch it rusting to pieces. Morris Maestro, Austin Allegro, Vauxhall Victor, Triumph Herald – Hillman Minx. The Bond Equipe! Great names, all gone now. Of course, the windscreen-wipers never worked. Come off in yer ‘and.

“Cars, and most else we made then, before the Common Market got carried away with itself and brought in all these foreign laws, were, basically, crap. Hadn’t always been, but the war, austerity, rationing, foreign competition, antediluvian management, bolshy unions, foreign competition, underinvestment, terrible old infrastructure (did we still have steam trains? I used to go to school on a steam train. Just like Hogwarts!), foreign competition; well, it had all gone a bit downhill under Wilson, hadn’t it, really, truthfully?

“Best not dwell on that.

“Yes, the jolly days before that nasty commercial radio, when there were the three BBC national radio stations to listen to – three TV channels to, basically, go out rather than watch – no ‘time-shifting’ in those days, only time – homely local BBC stations; you stood up for the National Anthem last thing at night, before bed. If you wanted to hear the latest American pop hit tunes and you lived in Essex or bits of Kent you could tune-in to Radio Caroline and Radio London, until the Government forced the ‘pirates’ off the air.

“And the cinema! You could spend a rainy day at the flicks for 1s/9d, watch the main feature in Todd-AO, Doris Day, that Rock Hudson; a B-movie in black and white, two cartoons, a newsreel and a Look at Life. Butterkist popcorn, a leaky cardboard box of Kia-Ora orange juice… You need never go home! Now that was real value for money.

“Great days, when it was legal and right to discriminate against anyone you liked. You could sack a pouffe or, better still, not hire him in the first place. You may not have been anywhere but you knew where you were. You could decide on their age, nationality, whether they was a real man or perhaps a woman, the colour of their skin, if you wanted them in the office. And wonderful comedians on TV! Bernard Manning, that Jim Davidson, brilliant jokes about the colour coming off in the wash!

“Now there was proper entertainers, not your politically right-on ‘standups’ nowadays, all that swearing and sex stuff.

“Oh, we had high old times, when the most foreign food you could buy on the High Street was a Wimpey burger made from Belgian horse lips and anus and suchlike, and a thick strawberry milkshake with real chemical strawberry, some Fairy for the froth and a spoonful of Polyfilla. None of yer E-numbers then, we’d never heard of ’em. Before all them computers and unleaded petrol came in, that was. And what was wrong with a bit of lead? I could do with some in me pencil now! (Doris, ‘ow do you put in one of them smiley face things?)

“Of course, we wasn’t all ‘consumers’ then, was we? Proper customers, that’s what we was. We had rights! We hadn’t given ’em away to Brussels.

“Happy Sunday afternoons, when professional sport was banned except if it had rained at Wimbledon and the only shop was the Pakistani on the corner, and even he closed at lunchtime. When pubs chucked you out at 10 pm and opened again at noon…. and closed again at three, and opened again at half-past five… but it were real beer, Watneys Red Barrel, none of your continental lagers, and only 1s/9d a pint. A man could smoke wherever he liked, not outside in a pram shelter in the rain. You ‘ad a bit of dignity then. Men were men, not these transvestments. It’s all gone wrong.

“Oh, but how we laughed together as the lights went out, and our working hours was cut to three days a week!

“Mind you, you could still get a well-paid job down the pit, or falling into a blast furnace. And then that de Gaulle died, didn’t he, and they let us in the Common Market, and it all changed for the worse. And the price of everything.

“Eee, but Britain were great in them days, and you never needed an education, not like now.

“Glad to have ’em back, if you ask me.

“Which you did.

“Ah, that’s my mobile. Excuse me, it might be my estate agent…

“Up yours, Delors! Eh? Smiley face?”

 

I make no apology for re-Posting the following, from three years ago. But if you’re looking to employ someone who can tell you what’s going to happen in three years time, you can send me an email  via m’friends at WordPress. My fee is negotiable, sort-of.

Home » End of the world » Hating the British

Hating the British

………..
I often wonder what the European Union would look like, better probably, if the British hadn’t spent the last forty years being easily convinced by the endless barrage of propaganda paid for by the global corporatist conglomerate, that Europe is some sort of evil conspiracy of inefficient garlic growers, best kept at arm’s length; when, in fact, the English Channel is but a shallow, water-filled depression formed only a few thousand years ago as a result of melting Norwegian ice, and you can walk across at low tide.
A few minutes in the air over France, gazing down at the obsessively neat rectilinearity of the farms, gives the lie to the belief that French farmers still need our taxes to feed their stumbling plough oxen. How efficient would British farmers be, if they had to cope with the same volume of unexploded ordnance and well rotted corpses on their land? Time Team is hardly the same thing.
No sooner had they voted themselves in, than the British put on their High & Mighty Gannex coats and began jumping up and down in the rain on the touchline of Europe, yelling like demented dads at a schools soccer tournament: ‘Up yours, Delors!’, and similar technical terms unrelated to the peaceful transition from perpetual warfare to universal cooperation between nations that everyone else was expecting.

It never seemed to occur to the British that the point of a Union is to join in; only they don’t like it whatever it is, and demand to change the rules with every game to suit themselves. As a result, we shall never know if British membership of the club might have made a difference. We’re still too busy taking a preliminary piss in the foyer.

Thanks to the corporatist proxies, the media owners Murdoch, Northcliffe and the sinister Barclay twins, Lords of Sark (where?), the British have finally spawned UKIP, a party of pub bores, taxi drivers and in some cases seriously swivel-eyed power-seekers, led by a perpetually grinning salesman (but with an underlying air of tragedy), a spaniel-eyed Pagliacci who is seldom seen without a pint of beer in his hand and a fag in his mouth, although he is not really Andy Capp. He is merely posing, as Harold Wilson did, as a Man o’ the People.

The People, by whom I mean the British, fall for this schtick in droves, so desperate are they to be led into the wilderness by a real British man and not some traitor called Cameron, who will let foreigners in. At such times we lose the capacity to recognise that the cheery chappy on the doorstep is busy nicking granny’s wallet.

This party miraculously secured the same percentage of the vote in recent local elections as the party of the rancorous TV comedian, Pepe Grillo, did at the last Italian general election: 25%. Not that spaghetti-chewing Italians can hold proper elections, like the British. Foreigners don’t get democracy, a British invention.

The result extrapolates to an awful lot of people who think, on the basis of the complete ignorance of the issues in which they have been kept by the dreadful British press for 40 years, that we should ‘get out’ of the EU, before British culture is ‘swamped’ by Eastern and possibly even Southern European migrants intent on straightening our bananas.

I am imagining the reaction of Tory MPs’ wives, when they wake up on the morning after the referendum, only to find they are no longer automatically entitled to own their agreeable third home (converted from a shepherd’s hut, how killing!) in Tuscany, having swept royally through the Green channel at Pisa airport; where instead, they will be forced henceforth to queue for five hours at the Aliens desk behind several boatloads of tired and hungry Somali asylum seekers before being put on a plane back to Luton.

How, I wonder, will Kentish publicans, or the less well-off fathers of brides-to-be, react when they can no longer hop on a cross-channel ferry to Boulogne and haul back crateloads of duty-free Cava and several thousand counterfeit fags, and find instead some officious bastard from HM Revenue and Customs poking suspiciously through their people-carriers demanding payment of 150 quid duty?

And will it be Auf Wiedersehen, Pet for the thousands of British workers entitled to travel freely and seek employment elsewhere in the Union, whose frontiers will clang shut behind them as they are promptly expelled, enabling the same Bulgarians and Romanians whom the British don’t want to fill British jobs in Britain to sweep instead into Germany and France, Spain and Italy, Belgium and Luxembourg, taking the British jobs British workers will have been compelled to leave behind?

Well, maybe. But at least loyal British employers will be at liberty once again to kill and maim hardworking British workers; corporation tax will be cut to 10%, we’ll all be allowed to inhale other people’s cigarette smoke and let’s have no more of that dangerous foreign nonsense about human rights, gay marriage and gender equality. We can subsidise our own, highly efficient farmers, thank you… oh, sorry, they’ve all gone bust. Never mind, thanks to HS2 we can create a land fit for stockbrokers, bankers and global commodity traders – plus, of course, those lovely corporations, that have all our interests at heart.

Envious, curtain-twitching, dog-in-the-manger, dismally ignorant, insular, xenophobic, gullible British, with their grotesquely inflated view of themselves, their overweening sense of entitlement, their baseless air of superiority, their bombastic yearning for the return of a vanished global empire that never really existed (that our American ‘allies’ have taken away from them), crawling about in the gutter having fumbling sex in puddles of puke, constantly complaining about everything, hating anyone marginally more successful or less privileged than themselves, hating everyone who isn’t themselves, are welcome to live in their own little bubble in their tiny corner of the globe, on the rest of which seven billion inferior foreigners are happily getting on with ignoring their existence and learning Chinese.

As you drift rudderless out into the Atlantic towards the growling icebergs, Hardworking British Families, goodbye and thanks for all the Difficult Decisions. I’m off to live in civilization while there still is one.

Posted 11th May, 2013.

 

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