There’s only one one or two things you need to know about the prison-morals/feminist driven bullshit doing the rounds on Charles Saatchi this week.

The first is that the Sunday People is completely out of touch with the public and losing readers at the speed Princess Diana lost weight in hotel toilets.

Any shitrag that could sink so low as to spend Fathers Day further polluting its readers bigoted minds towards men is clutching at straws fast slipping from its grip.

The second is that Charles Saatchi is an outrageously successful man.

The third is that like the Alpha Male he remains – at an age most of us are dead or wetting our pants – he’s taken on the entire idiot world at his door and intellectually beaten them to death (which is ok, by the way, dick-head hate campaigners, especially when you’re one man fighting an entire third estate).

It’s a good job he has – because at least fifty per-cent of those reading his statement will see the opening words ‘About a week ago, we were sitting outside a restaurant having an intense debate about the children’ , nod in recognition, skim the predictable rest of it and close the case asking, quite naturally, what exactly the saintly perfumed ‘victim’ of this family non-event is proposing to do with said kids.

The fourth, and most important is that Womens Aid is a racket staffed by bigots who coach weak nasty women in how to blackmail their partners with innocent children, and are one of the most dangerous and hateful propaganda machines in Britain today.

And that’s pretty much it.

Now just ignore the papers no-one reads any more and get on with doing something your children will thank you for

All the totally unrepresentative front page power-pissing of the silly little Saatchi story shows is that the massive popular drive to rid the world of man-hating propaganda is being fought by the mainstream tooth and nail.

But if we just ignore this nonsense, and keep on and on and on protesting , then not the most limp-dicked, feminist ordered Monday morning backtrack , nor the sickest or most ignorant attack of plain hate can stop the truth prevailing.

Never forget, when you find yourself encircled by regional headlines about pedophiles in chains, when the truth of such stories is that the police are monsterising men in their twenties who have done no more than conduct romances with girls in their teens, or national headlines about old men raping disabled children, when the truth is the old men are dead and the stories are in all likelihood simply made up because the corpse is a celebrity – in just the same way that when instead of celebrities men had Gods, young women claimed to have seen the Virgin Mary – and especially don’t believe shrewish, fishy old gossip that’s made it on to the splash of flailing nasty tabloids about how millionaire art dealers are ‘throttling’ their wives, on the basis of a waitresses tip, an unconvincing close up, and the say so of some Sunday People reporters ‘imaginary friends’.

It’s all bullshit, and the more you swallow it, the more poisoned becomes your mind.

The sad fact today is that very few of the mainstream papers any ever in fact carry real news.

It’s all, in some form, either distracting entertainment, or plain propaganda.

Until that changes, if you want to read what’s really going on in British society, your best bet is to click here and just make your own judgement call if and when they spill into conspiracy.

Because – terrifyingly – most of this increasingly popular site’s apparently crackpot stories and theories are turning out to be much more firmly rooted in reality than the ‘real news’ of the broadsheets.

And no matter how crackers they sound, it all makes for more informed and intelligent reporting than the tripe being peddled by these prehistoric red-top fuckwits

Enjoy the links.

Ed

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There are lots of things you can say about Cllr Colin Brewer.

But as it’s been open season on him since he was turned over like a well-grilled burger by Disability News Service, it’s pretty much all been said.

As usual, the screaming moral majority – people who would have wailed just as heartily in support of racism or sexism back in the day, but now pin their unthinking colours to the mast of political correctness – will be forever blind to the irony of comments like ‘I hope he gets disabled himself’, or the multiple online threats to deal this outspoken 68 year old out a summary beating.

Such total mindlessness is depressing, and needs redress.

There’s only one valid, decent response to Colin Brewer.

If he’s going to be such an idiot, he roundly deserves to be mercilessly lampooned and derided for his idiocy.

Even better, you can try and beat him fair and square at the ballot box.

But once you’ve tried and failed, openly and honestly – that’s it.

Whatever Cornwall council may believe, whatever our knock-kneed local councillors may say, whatever political pressure groups and official state bodies may try and bully you into believing, Colin Brewer is a democratically elected councillor.

Pushing him out of his job – even pushing him off comittees as our oh-so-brave council have promised to do – is at best a stain on our civil society, and at worst a dangerous step further towards unchecked authority

Ironically, it’s all a little like the Niemoller poem.

Every git with moralistic delusions in the world has posted the ‘First they came..’ poem by Pastor Martin Niemoller – (about whom the most interesting fact is that he was an ardent Nazi before they indeed ‘came for him’) – on Facebook by now, commonly in defence of some popular, cuddly, get-you-laid-even-quicker-than-sports-or-music cause celebre you don’t have to actually dedicate any thought to endorsing.

But it’s not the cuddly causes that count.

Just as slugs and snails are as crucial to the natural world as cuddly lambs and fluffy little kittens, so ageing, illiberal Colin Brewer is just as crucial – more so, in fact – to the democratic body politic as is, say, young, fun community favourite Andrew Wallis.

It’s typical of the established local media’s cowardice, and poor judgement generally, that they have neither the intellectual confidence or the actual balls to do the right thing and stand up for democracy in the face of this thoroughly ropey pseudo-legal threat to deprive the voters of Wadebridge of the man they openly elected into his post.

The press pandering to ill-informed hysteria about the whole ‘put down the disabled’ shenanigans is almost as shameful as their revolting pro-fascist stance on civil rights (an insane editorial position that’s going to haunt them like the Mail’s support of Hitler.)

So while the rest of the supposedly responsible, official world takes a moral and intellectual holiday, let’s voice what the average man and woman in Cornwall really thinks about this shall we?

Let’s momentarily bridge that ever more yawning gulf between the noise weasly politicians, dickhead celebrities, broken-backed hacks and lazy, unthinking cretins in general make when their mouths flap open before their brains enter gear – and what the hard-working, quick-thinking, long put open Cornish public know.

No matter what the law says (and let’s remember we all have an equal obligation not only to obey but to break the law – think of racial laws in the US or the extremely legal murder of six million Jews) about ‘hate speech’ or inflammatory language and all the rest of that Fabian crap, free men and women have a historic inalienable right to freedom of speech.

If some dodgy new or made-up-on-the-spot law denies it to us, we have a responsibility as citizens to break that dodgy law.

You can’t have moderated or censored free speech – it’s all or nothing.

So freedom of speech certainly does mean Colin Brewer can advocate both euthanasia and abortion. And as an elected councillor, he’s particularly free to say anything he likes about either.

Principles of free speech aside, there’s also a massive practical Achilles Heel in the already weak arguments of the liberal anti-Brewer lynchmob.

Abortion – or euthanasia, in the Brewer context – is commonplace in the UK, and commonplace in cases of disablement.

Doctors regularly offer pregnant mothers the opportunity to abort disabled foetuses.

So – if the holier than thou Facebook brigade feel so strongly about it, why don’t they campaign to stop that?

Try taking on the NHS instead of one gobshite councillor.

Of course few if any mothers who have ever aborted a disabled foetus have ever gone public. It’s a matter of record only because of cases in which the mothers have refused the advice to abort.

Abortion is a remarkably lax and callous area of medical practice, in which elements of the historic pro-abortion crusade hold overwhelming political sway.

Journalists have only recently caught abortion practitioners in the UK talking women into having abortions, regardless of any disability.

But this is never addressed, becuase to debate the ethics of abortion has become tabu.

What passes today for ‘feminism’ and secular liberalism has replaced the contrary bigotry of a vague pro-life Catholicism in schools and hospitals, and it is seen as somehow fascistic to oppose any form of abortion at all.

You don’t have to look outside Cornwall for evidence of this.

Hasty advice to abort from Treliske resulted in the suicide of a Emma Beck, from Helston only a few years ago in a case that was widely publicised.

Were those involved in Emma’s case ever questioned over their zeal to kill of a couple of unborn twins?

Of course not.

We just got the usual pathetic, inadequate conformist-feminist whingeing from the latest and most (inversely) sexist Coroner of the unelected Carlyon dynasty, jolly old ‘Dr’ Emma, about how it’s “clear that a termination can have a profound effect on a woman’s life” (really? we’d never have guessed), and more predictable jobs-for-the-girls balls about ‘counselling’.

Heaven forbid that anyone should challenge an NHS Culture in which a womans choice to abort is seen not as a potentially avoidable personal tragedy, but as a brave and fine blow for womens rights.

Faced with the kind of unthinking pap that passes for debate and decision from the people in the Duchy who actually hold significant power – Colin Brewer’s attempts to blunder into the ongoing medical debate about abortion and disablement seem positively profound.

And if you actually stop for one second to think about it – in their desperate panic to appear saintly by vilifying others, the ‘Get Colin Brewer to resign again again’ brigade are taking an ethical position which is both stupid, and dismissed as such by almost all doctors and medical authorities.

Firstly, they’re supporting a gross intolerance of the basic democratic principle of free speech.

Secondly, they’re denying a free citizen the right to express his view on either abortion or disablement, and stifling healthy open debate.

But thirdly, the ideas they’re promoting to counter Brewer are borne of a totally unthinking, selfish emotionalism, which actually has more in common with extreme pro-life principles than the secular liberal leftist moral majority they claim to represent.

Most have been bleating that no child or foetus no matter how disabled should ever be aborted.

Which boils down to either not telling expectant mothers about disablement in foetuses, or telling them and forcing them to carry the child against their will.

Some liberal ethics.

Abortion and womens rights ethics aside, there’s then the incredible illiberalism involved in an attempt to remove a politician from their popular post.

Asked to explain how it can possibly be politically ‘correct’ for a loud incensed group of people most of whom do not live in Wadebridge, have never met Colin Brewer and will not be affected by his election to depose him from office, Facebookers simply wallow in a euphoric thrill of self-justification, saying the weight of opinion from ‘newspapers, community groups, people on the phone, people in the street, everywhere’ vindicates their dangerous crusade.

But what these sometimes well meaning, sometimes just plain daft people are describing is not a public debate.

Instead it’s the all too common experience of a large community of easily led consumers being drawn into an extremely profitable fit of moral outrage at the behest of cynical and profit-driven media.

Look at this way.

CCN could simply keep baying for Brewers blood and our articles would go astro.

That’s what the local paper will do – because that’s where the money is. But it’s massively socially irresponsible.

Journalism is meant to get at the truth – not stoke hysteria and pander to comments about killing off Brewer.

And once you get the truth about the Brewer story – something which, thanks to the hard work and sound ethics of journalist and writer John Pring of Disability News – everyone can now do, you realise, as do most people in the Duchy, that this second scandal is not a cut and dried case.

John very kindly shared his shorthand transcript of the fateful interview he conducted with Colin Brewer with us, and the truth of the story seems to be this.

Colin Brewer rang Disability News – and it’s hardly presumptious to assume he must have done so in an attempt to clear his name.

In the interview he attempted to again excuse his horrible goad to Theresa – which he’s apologised for already, and resigned over first time around.

Perhaps he naively thought it would be a good bit of PR after his re-election to lay it all to rest by phoning not a pro cynical hack from a national paper but a harmless journalist from ‘Disability News Service’.

If so he underestimated both the anger and hostility of the disabled lobby, and John Pring’s professionalism.

John clearly spoke to Colin Brewer at great length, and like all journalists would have done, with overwhelming charm and politeness, before veering the conversation or letting it lapse into the area the news was – in an ethical debate about abortion and disablement.

This clearly is a debate which Brewer has as childish a grasp of as he does press relations.

So once he was there – back in the place that if properly advised he would never have strayed into again – he was well and truly cornered.

What’s interesting is that he could have lied about his unpopular views, but he didn’t.

So in fact if the interview proves anything, it’s that Brewer retains that key quality which we all like to bemoan is so lacking in our politicians – plain honesty.

The other key point that’s clear from John’s note is this – at no point does Colin Brewer in fact ever say that one life is less valuable than another because of a persons ‘physical form’.

As John acknowledges (although naturally the appalling ‘Huffington Post’ chose not to), Colin Brewer phoned initially to say he believed life was precious, that he supported community treatment of the mentally ill, and harboured his own serious humanist, ethical and religous beliefs.

This makes it all the more ludicrous that since his outspoken interview, the moral majority have started using the word ‘eugenicist’ to describe Brewer, no doubt because this sounds clever and academic.

It’s also particularly irritating to contributors to this forum – as the eugenics angle was one only CCN latched on to – and at no point did we ever claim that Brewer was in fact a Nazi-style eugenicist.

What we explained – accurately, after the first report of the Disability News interview – was that he ‘apparently’ held Nazi-style views and was ‘portrayed’ as a both a eugenicist, and an eco-fascist.

Not – the same thing – at all.

What most people understand, but what they’re not saying, for fear of being branded ‘eugenicists’ by a lynchmob led by dangerous cretins, (who could be challenged and reasoned with by a mature and reflective media, but are instead being goaded by a childish and greedy one) – is this.

That the idea promoted by the media and celebrity cretins that Colin Brewer is a ‘Nazi eugenicist’ is contrived and wrong.

The truth, instead, is this.

This man has been a bloody fool.

He was terribly rude to a political activist, and deliberately said something outrageous and horrible in a reprehensible fit of anger.

He stood down when that political opponent used the media to attack him in response.

He stood up to be counted in a subsequent democratic election.

Partly thanks to his hard work as councillor for decades, and partly through fluke and the silliness of his opposition, he won.

Then he gave an ill-advised interview and displayed reprehensible stupidity.

But at the end of the day – all he did at first was offer a sick insult, and all he did later was get out of his depth in trying to honestly speak his mind.

Our democracy is fragile. We have a crap voting system, innumerable oppressive laws, a press that’s either self-censored or straight propaganda, and a legal establishment the greatest part of which is secret, undemocratic and unashamedly corrupt.

About the only real freedom we have left is that, as small independent communities, we can go out and vote whatever village idiot we so choose into office every four years.

Colin Brewer is that idiot.

And if you say nothing when the powers that be come for your local village idiot – one day there really may be no-one to speak up if they come for you.

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I mean – was Disraeli pretty? Was Dr Johnson much of a ladies man? Time was, William Gladstone could set out charitably visiting London’s prostitutes without even so much as a whiff of scandal, so sophisticated, in such a supposedly backward time, were the general public. Nobody wagged their fat head or clicked their thick tongue in the obvious assumption the leader of the nation was getting his noble end away.

But that’s all gone. And today we’re so wildly liberated that a man is judged, by women, and shamefully by many slavish men, purely on the basis of whether he’s eligible for partnership with a woman. As for politics – well, that’s just ‘boring’ Er..right.

It’s probably boring because it’s so fucking orthodox and out of touch and reduced to the general level of an interesting ongoing social event for – what was it? – ‘ugly people’?

The idea of an unmarried man going into British politics, at least over the age of 30, is anathema to our small-minded, shopkeeper-soiled feminazi culture of mindless hysteria and indiscriminate sexual repression (sexual repression for men, that is – not women. Not many blokes can face the notorious ‘Vagina Monologues, but take my word for it, they’re pretty much an endorsement of female paedophilia – and no-one blinks an eye, naturally.)

But it’s now obligatory to accept that old women can toss themselves off over pictures of Justin Bieber – which I can’t say I’d be too happy about if he was my son (Christ what a nightmare – ‘I was Justin Bieber’s Dad’ – yyyyyyyuuuuuuurghhhh), but if a bloke over 30 just tells the truth and says he fancies women – adult women – of most or all ages up until they’re just too totally decrepit to be sexually attractive, he’s a filthy horrible old pervert and – thanks to all the mighty convenient and wildly dangerous boundary blurring of public witch-hunts like the laughable Operation Yewtree, (a nauseatingly cynical police PR stunt designed solely to tear public attention away from the genuine scandal of ingrained police corruption set to be exposed this September) – that not only that, but that said harmless isolated bloke probably wants to monsterise everyone’s kids into the bargain. And this officially sanctioned insanity is excused and rationalised by which ludicrously flawed orthodoxy again? Oh yes. Feminism.

It is impossible to get anywhere in mainstream society today without saying that you are a feminist. Not being a feminist will be as damaging to your career – unless you’re completely self made, and even then it’ll hold you way back – as not being a member of the National Socialists in pre-War Germany. Disagree with feminism on any level and you will be not only not listened to, but automatically branded a reactionary bigot. And it doesn’t matter if you’re a man or a woman – look at what happened to Erin Pizzey.

Conservatives like to complain of the Nanny State, and never was there a more apt word for our pathetic single issue society.

Take the most hypocritical, tyrannical, fucked up Victorian Nanny you could find and set her loose on setting our school curriculums and dictating the conduct of our socialist ‘third sector’ state and it couldn’t get any worse.

Nanny is censor. And anyone who offends her gossipy, ignorant, suspicious little pig eyes simply isn’t admitted to the house of social acceptance.

I mean – get this: I’m an old man. Not elderly perhaps – but old enough for kids to go ‘there goes that old guy’. I mean I think twice before putting on a T-shirt these days – you know what I mean? I don’t do much mirror shopping. End of the day – The Edinburgh Woollen Mill beckons.

So it’s getting to the point that society forces me to be in official denial about certain things – particularly when it comes to sex.

This is partly of course on grounds of taste. As the prospect of an emergency Edinburgh Woollen Mill model – possibly wearing those comfortable laceless shoes you still occasionally see advertised in the Daily Telegraph – having sex becomes more absurd and repugnant – I just have to deny I have a libido.

But it shouldn’t mean that if I’m honest, and don’t deny I have a libido, that – and this is no exaggeration – I’m viewed at worst as a potential rapist, and at best a ‘dirty old man’.

Seriously – these days if I meet an attractive women in her twenties, or even her early thirties, I have to click a switch in my head, pretend I’m her grandfather, and damn well act accordingly, no matter how hot to trot she is.

Draped across the dead centre of mainstream society, drenching a once healthy body politic, is this great sick veil of self-denial and censure that says unless you’re Marlon Brando, or officially approved through marriage, or loaded enough to buy some gold-digging chick whose morality boils down infinitely lower than that of a working prostitute, you have to pretend you fancy knackered old trouts. In fact it’s worse than that – you have to pretend you ‘respect knackered old trouts’ for who they are. Which is generally – well, bigoted, selfish, embittered, knackered old trouts. Great.

Then there’s ‘polite society’ – in which ideas are dead, and the well to do sit numbly hypnotised by formerly informative and now ludicrously dumbed down and feminised radio channels like ‘Radio 4′ – (a badge of supposed intellect that, if you actually listen to any of their wretched broadcasts, is in fact just a barrage of outrageously innacurate and poisonous Fabian and radical feminist propaganda). Knock-kneed mangina presenters vie with insecure young harridans in boots to bray about the ‘terrible isolation’ that childless women, or single men – (a social group who once isolated get further maligned by the crackpots-that-be managing this supposedly liberated and challenging strand of debate as being, if not practising, then closet homosexuals) – in general, socially – (‘socially’ being, for the listeners of Radio 4, the shorthand for ‘at dinner parties.’)

Well I’m not invited to many dinner parties. Alright I’m not invited to any dinner parties. But when I can force my presence on any kind of social forum that involves any women I even vaguely like or respect, (generally ones who’ve made a go of marriage against the vicious odds society puts in their way), I have to spend about six hours in a fucking flotation tank beforehand, meditating on the blind azure and generally getting at one with infinity, to clear my mind in readiness for what boils down to an open season volley of the most insulting and depraved abuse about my sexuality they can muster – and that’s generally pretty depraved.

If I were unmarried in medieval Italy, and had been resultantly tied backwards to a donkey and forced to parade the streets for the jolly local townsfolk to throw tomatoes at me – it would be frankly a relief; I mean, you don’t have to condascend to answer a tomato.

It’s unbelievable. Generally it kicks of with some typical bollocks about ‘life goals’ (although one of my friends not-a-little-feisty wife generally just downs a bottle of wine and then cuts to the chase by asking me if I’ve ever had sex with a man – which obviouly makes her very happy but does tend to put her kids off their dessert.)

From ‘life goals’ it’ll whinge inevitable towards, not any longer ‘settling down’, of course, as the prospect of any woman ‘settling down’ with their destitute grandfather becomes less and less appealing, but ‘where are you heading’ – ‘what are your hopes and dreams’ and so on and so on ad nauseam.

Couples, I can never fail to notice, do not get asked these questions. And that’s because all this guff about hopes and passions and vague self-improvement jargon in general actually means this;

‘WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING WITH YOUR LIFE? HOW LONG CAN YOU CARRY ON JUST WANKING? AREN’T YOU TIRED? WHY ARE YOU SO WEIRD? FUCK OFF! OK JUST TELL ME YOU’RE SECRETLY GAY. THAT WOULD SOMEHOW MAGICALLY EXPLAIN EVERYTHING.’

Yep. Thats what they mean. As surely as if they hired loudhailers for the evening, let off an air raid siren as you entered the porch, and publicly disinfected your cutlery before donning rubber gloves to stow it in a draw marked ‘common diseases of prostitution’.

The reduction to total idiocy of modern society by an out of control state capitalism hell bent on raping us into all becoming concussed and traumatised consumers rather than human beings, the erosion of any respect for intellect, the usurping of moral religion by ridiculous pseudo-tribal quackery whose early doctors would laugh out loud to see still duping such a technologically advanced society, the unquestioned rise of outrageous bigotry and prejudice posing as harmless ‘feminism’, and most insidious of all, the hilarious Dawkins crusade, in which a heavily coiffed TV Don ludicrously over-simplifies outdated and increasingly irrelevant Darwinism for the sole purpose of baiting otherwise relatively harmless rednecks for the entertainment of nasty middle class wankers in Europe and on the East Coast, has led us to a popular culture in which we esteem ourselves according to the lowest possible common denominator. As a bunch of fucking apes.

The awesome Bill Burr is fond of proclaiming to his audience ‘Why the fuck am I here?’, on the basis that he’s 40, doesn’t have any kids, and doesn’t do anything materially useful. He’s a comedian. He’s kidding. Unfortunately – no-one else is.

They’ve been convinced we are all in fact not descended from apes – but not progressed beyond being apes. And a 40 year old single male ape is a waste of space. Whereas a 40 year old single man – is not. Only this now counts for nothing. It’s open season on the solitary monkey, across the board.

If you’re single, and a man, and over 30, or worse, over 40 or 50 – and if you’re not drop dead gorgeous, rich, famous, polyamorous, gay, and last but not least if you won’t bow broken-backed to a load of loathsome feminist bullshit whether you can see straight through it like a fat cheerleaders negligee or not, you’re on your own. But laydees – this isn’t a fucking rainforest village – ok? It is possible for a man to have worth and be ugly, single, eccentric – whatever. You may be weak enough in the head for the Metropolitan Police and a big Plasma TV screen to beat into your frail psyche the insane belief that the single man who doesn’t give up on life and traipse around womens petticoat tails like a lost dog is a – (what was the last unprovable, utterly ridiculous, nutty as a fruitcake claim they made about that dead entertainer no-one much cared about in the first place – oh yeah – a necro-fucking-philiac!) – so a necrophiliac, or a – I don’t know – a bird abuser, or a towel rapist, or a dogsodomiser by royal appointment or whatever – but the rest of us aren’t that thick. Particularly the ever swelling ranks of dispossesed and disadvantaged bright, strong and talented men who have to put up with a society of complete fuckwits shitting on them daily. Men who are increasingly joining Britain’s flood of
political and social exiles, and just leaving you miserable myopic bastards to drown in your own shit. Which is wrong – but hey – what other choice do we have?

None – unless – ah fuck it. I suppose we could all get into politics

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Our Ed – not one to mince his words

It’s difficult to know which bunch of losers making thorough dicks of themselves in the wake of the peaceful, unavenged passing of a democratically elected Prime Minister this week to despise more than the other.

The fascist uber-bureaucratic cretins who forced a presumably otherwise perfectly capable Met Police Officer to resign for expressing a perfectly valid opinion he was more than entitled to on the internet – which is no-one’s god-damned business except his anyway.

Or the sniggering, ever-adolescent forty-something single mothers and Grauniad reading girlyboys borrowing their state-school brainwashed kids iPads to rack up a 99cents bill for a shit song wallowing in the totally irrelevant death of Britain’s most divisive post War leader.

I mean – seriously – who cares?

If it’s possible to sympathise with anyone in the post-Thatcher death debacle, it has to be the teenage Twitterheads posting ‘Who is Market Thatcher?’, and revelling in total, blessed ignorance of the 19bloody80s.

Anyone who bothers to read these columns will know that for me to interject here that ‘I’m no feminist but..’, is somewhat akin to Cliff Richard announcing ‘I’m no ladies man, but…’

(For those of you new to these little rants, suffice it to say that – like many feminists -, I’m confident feminism is not feminism any more, but a bigoted, anti-intellectual dogma preaching hatred of men and responsible for death, misery, and oppression on a grand and unreported scale).

So you may be surprised to hear that I’m no feminist – but I’ve always thought there was something deeply sexist about much of the loathing expressed for Thatcher.

You shouldn’t be surprised – if you actually listen to and absorb the anti-radical feminist arguments not just I but a whole raft of credible and often entertaining commentators subscribe to.

But let’s face it – very few people, or at least very few ‘feminists’ – bother reading or thinking at all.

They see, they react, they go bonkers.

If they did bother to read the anti-radical feminist – or more accurately equity feminist – credo of those who rather than reserving their personal hatred for an individual choose to express loathing for evil ideologies, they’d realise that liberalism, genuine tolerance (as opposed to non-judgemental condascension), and true meritocratic social equality are central beliefs of the anti-radical feminist camp.

And speaking from that viewpoint – well I reckon a lot of Thatcher bashing just boils down to woman-hating.

And I’ll tell you why.

It’s probably true that Thatcher needlessly wrecked much of Britain’s already failing industrial base – although, tellingly, even socialist icon Ken Loach said in his uncompromising statement after her death that the miners leaders of the time – Scargill et al – were equally to blame.

It’s also doubtless true that here was a hellish character; incredibly vain, terribly simple minded for someone who claimed to grasp Hayek and Friedman, and most of all, I suspect, spiteful, and incapable of decent, humane compromise.

It’s probably true that these characteristics, seen as qualities in the domestic, economic war-time scenario she was voted in to sort out in 1979, became grave, terrible failings in later terms of office.

In fact if there’s one big surprise in the Thatcher death media distraction, it’s that no veterans have come forward to blame her for blowing them apart to win a third term – because there can be little doubt that’s chiefly what the Falklands boiled down to.

But the point is this – the people who voted Thatcher in – with the exception of the loadsamoney working classes and yuppies she created, who fawned on her just like single mothers fawn selfishly on Blair and Brown, didn’t so much vote for her as for Liberalism and against Socialism.

Now it turns out, as it so often the case, that they didn’t get Liberalism. They got the Tories – who as we know, tend towards being money-grubbing, self-seeking, snooty, poverty and suffering despising sociopaths in power.

But there can be no doubt that the majority of the country didn’t mind at the time – otherwise Thatcher would never have got in.

People were, sadly, prepared to stand by and watch Thatcher declare an unjustified economic war on her political opponents supporters, (an insanely damaging policy which lost the Conservatives Scotland probably for ever).

They stood by because they’d vote for anything that didn’t mean James bloody Callaghan, the selfish, bullying, spoiled and completely out of control not to mention inherently undemocratic unions, and that twat Ken Livingstone, who was not then and has not since been either clever, funny, or humane. He was a vainglorious neo-fascist and he became a vainglorious drunkard who kissed the Queens arse.

And all this meant people voted for the Conservatives. Not necessarily for Thatcher (popular as she occassionally was) – but for her party.

Would the reaction to ‘Thatcherism’ – which wasn’t Thatcherism at all, it was Josephism if anything – have been quite so personal and rabid if Enoch Powell, once set to inheret the mantle of leadership from the One Nation brigade and an unswerving free marketeer, hadn’t taken his big and horrible gamble on the race card and torpedoed his electoral chances for ever?

It’s not as if Powell would have been the sole racist in the Tory Party. It’s not even decided today whether Powell – a man who joined Tony Benn in the division chamber and was feted as the great intellectual liberal of his age – really did feel hate towards other races – surely the definition of racism.

So what if he’d just dropped it? Come to the conclusion that the teething problems of multiculturalism in his constituency were an inevitable consequence of a liberal immigration policy which by rights he should have supported?

Powell will probably remain an enigma for ever; terrifying to those he wittingly or unwittingly threatened, and something of a gross embarrassment to those who shared his free market, politically liberal views.

I personally suspect that as a classicist, he lived in a bit of a dreamworld, and as a man ‘d’un certain age’ – a war veteran, notably – he did have archaic, and what are now considered obnoxious views about immigrants to the UK.

If I had to put money on it, I’d say this rather tragic combination led him, when considering a run at the Tory leadership, to fall foul of his own understandable intellectual arrogance, and consider any ticket that would put him at the top was worth riding.

But back to the question of what if he hadn’t? What if he’d never embarked on his self-destructive crusade? Or – if you take the popular view he was just a dyed in the wool racist; and it’s a thorny question – what if he hadn’t been?

Well, there can be little doubt that in that alternate universe Powell could well have been the choice of the free marketeers for leader in 1979.

Would Powell have been quite so demonised as Thatcher?

I doubt it. Because he was a bloke. He’d have set out, in the main, on many of the exact same policies as Thatcher, and people wouldn’t have minded taking a bit of stick from a bloke – but a woman – that was another matter..

True, later in her controversial and increasingly dictatorial reign, she did go way over the top (or arguably off the rails, after Keith Joseph died), in a way that the most dedicated free marketeers in her party considered counter-productive, greedy, and ultimately just anti-social.

Maybe that was something to do with her gender. Or maybe not. Reagan certainly wasn’t a girl.

But the bottom line has to be, that much of the hysterical hatred coming to the fore for Margaret Thatcher – and of course much of the pathetic, OTT ‘state funeral’ brigade fawning too – boils down to the fact that she was a girl.

Women on the left hated her all the more for it. Bigoted as they were and are, they couldn’t deal with the fact that people of their own gender could so violently disagree with their increasingly, trite, unthinking, and Marxist brand of ‘radical feminism’.

In fact – if there’s anything truly pathetic and laughable about the response to Thatcher’s death, it’s the response – you guessed it – of Britain’s mainstream ‘feminist’ sheeple.

If I have to hear some daft tit say one more time that ‘Thatcher was a bitch, but I ‘salute her’ as a successful woman’ (spare us), I think I’ll be sick.

I mean – that’s just indefensible. It would be like me saying ‘Augusto Pinochet was a murderer, but I salute him as a successful man.” Could there be a stupider statement? Probably, if you can hack reading any of the crap passing for modern feminist ‘opinion’ or even worse their pseudo-academic ‘texts’.

But mainstream feminazi dullards aside, men on the left certainly never respected Thatcher as a woman – they simply made her their mother in law. I mean – just consider the primeval imagery of this childish song.

Meanwhile thinking men like Geoffrey Howe and Nigel Lawson were widely patronised, in an equally sexist way, as being the new Boadicea’s quivering male underlings.

Time showed nothing could have been farther from the truth. But the left, which so prides itself on its equality awareness, simply couldn’t deal with the fact that men and women might inter-relate equably and disagree with their flawed bullshit, even if one of those women was in charge, (not to mention pretty damn bossy.)

Fifty percent of the whole Thatcher hate parade boils down to her being female.

At the end of the day, as a Tory grandee once famously quipped; ‘The trouble with Margaret is – she’s not a gentleman….’

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Julian Assange spoke – and I was even more for it. So much so that – not able to afford the time or money involved in the ticket to town – I did what we all do when we want the truth these days – I You Tube’d it.

Up until then I’d been seeing media-approved packages. One striking image showed a man holding a banner reading ‘NO MORE COMMON PURPOSE’. Right on, I thought – Common Purpose being of course the deeply dodgy extreme politically correct institution that lobbies against press freedom and blacklists its opponents nationally , and even here in Cornwall, inducts its transparent, nonsense PC propaganda into Follett Stock lawyers, St Austell Brewery executives, and any number of over-ambitious, dimly misunderstanding tossers who’d like to see us all crushed under the weight of the state with only addictive, brain-rotting officially sanctioned drugs like alcohol to turn to with the strain of it all.

Revolting, I thought. Bring it on, I added. No More Common Purpose. And if a few bankers bite the dust along the way, fine.

Then came ‘UK Uncut’ . Exit normal people. Enter Sadman.

Have you seen the footage from London ? Have you ever heard such a bunch of gits in your life? Just their pretty voices are enough to make you want to lamp them. I imagine the Met are stockpiling it all for promotional videos. Europeans must be lining up in front of their PC’s wishing they had such mild-mannered cops.

And what do these pseudo-protestors want? Is it freedom? Is it less state intrusion into our natural lives! No way man! It’s Money! That’s what we want! When do we want it? Now! How will we get it? Well we’ll NICK it off bankers who are cleverer than we are and work harder than we ever will in punitive TAXES that’ll have not only the banks but anyone else who’s worked hard and had a stroke of luck running for Panama before you can say I’d like to speak to the man that manages Mr Bowie’s account please.

Just check out the ‘UK Uncut’ site if you don’t believe me. They’re basically saying – confiscate the £90 odd billion deficit off the people who created the high living standards we all today enjoy to fund public sector jobs. Oh – great idea. And that’ll promote the cause of freedom and democracy no end won’t it?

Tits. These people do not want freedom or human rights or any of the things that the modern Western citizen should fight for if they want to live and love like human beings instead of being herded and invidulated like cattle, as we increasingly are in our over-developed and near-sighted corporate-driven society. They’ve got about as much in common with the revolutionaries against more brutal tyranny in Egypt and Libya as a man with nothing in common with another man who they have nothing in common with. Aldous Huxley wrote once that the dictatorship of the future would be based on mass entertainment and drugs rather than armies because ‘you can do everything with bayonets except sit on them’ – and the tyrant in it for the long haul would take the Roman approach, and buy his people’s obeisance. So what are they doing camping out asking for their comfy jobs as counsellors to counsellors suffering the post-traumatic stress of counselling back for? We should be out on the streets asking for LESS comfort and MORE freedom and struggle, not more state support.

No: make no bones about it: all these fuckers want is MORE OF THE SAME – BUT WORSE.

They’re not protesting against anything conformist: they’re out there chanting ‘No More Cuts’ and what they mean is – ‘More Taxes’: ‘We-want-state control!’

So why is there anyone there, except for the handful of morons and deep-cover cops in the ever-ludicrous ‘Socialist Worker’ movement?

Well, Somerset Maugham, the cosmopolitan, bisexual Jazz-age British author who was sort of like Jeffrey Archer but with brains through the twenties and forties, had such a knack for aphorisms there are books consisting solely of his pop-wit and wisdom. And one of the many amusing remarks he put down in print that I can’t remember exactly reads along the lines of: “It’s easy to be unorthodox if all your friends agree with you’.

To me, that sums up the occupy movements, and perfectly explains why they are there. I mean look at them. It’s just a bunch of spoiled girls who’ve showed up for the same reason very rich women go to Buddhist Temples – character substitute treatment. ‘Never think for yourself again! Be the envy of the IT crowd with L’Oreals new ‘Occupy LSX’ (Free mindless slogan with first sleepover). And your average comfortably-off beard pontificating before the cameras – if you could stop time, side-step international law and shoot the fucker up with sodium pentathol – I’m confident you’d find is on the streets PURELY to stay in bed with his missus: some high-cheekboned bimbo he’ll get to bone in return for giving up independent thought – before, if he’s lucky – they both abandon all their principles in favour of a joint PHd and small mortgage (from one of those generous, populist, financial institutions they hate so much). ‘Selina and Tom held hands happily in the Student canteen as they nodded how it was simply awful about those gweedy gweedy bankers, like Uncle Freddie, who, actually, it’s tewwible, because he has to pay our £9k tuition fees, and we have to be nice to him, and he’s totally uneducated and he says the most dweadful things.’ Later that day, on the steps of the occupied Cathedral…’ Well I don’t have to do the full Mills and Boon, you get the idea..

It all puts me in mind of classic Viz – one of whose finest efforts in their hey-day was a two-page pull-out on politically correct comedians. ‘Feminist Ben Elton – we take a look at his gorgeous bird’ read the straps, and when you laughed out loud, it was partly with relief, that finally somebody was brave enough to cut through the layers of hypocritical bullshit people like Elton and the likes of Billy Bragg et al (firebrand socialists with trophy wives and fk-off great houses) swaddled themselves in. Because let’s face it – being left wing is for women and children. If you don’t hope communism could solve all the pain and grief of the human race when you’re aged 10 – 15 you’re not human, and if you still choose to delude yourself of it when you’re 40, it’s because you’re a woman and a feminist Labour Government gave you a job and a house and credit rating and it suits you down to the ground thank you very much.

The Occupy movements are there out of vanity, and self-interest. They don’t care about the world poor. They don’t care about our civil liberties. They care about having lots of friends and shared experiences and luxuriating in social acceptance. Social historians will over-rate them because social historians are useless tossers all drawn from the pseudo-academic ranks of the spoiled protestors. But in reality it’s a joke. I mean, you know that as soon as that uber-naive over-fed conformist dick Michael Moore starts sharing his crap liberal American education with you. The comments from intelligent people whose celebrity and mortgage payments don’t depend on dinner-party political conformity can be seen posted below BBC articles and You Tube and they’re panning out firmly against the protestors, who freedom-loving Brits long surpressed under the yoke of discrimination disguised as non-judgmentalism and the raw bureaucratic opression of New Labour’s Fabian Hell can tell for what they are – jokers. Jokers any of us who know life can see straight through.

Ever heard the phrase ‘Student Rag?’ . Because that’s what it’s all starting to look like to me .

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Today on the ‘This is Awful’ website half the stories look like they’ve been pulled straight out of ‘Take A Break’ Magazine.

It’s a straight choice between ‘Karen urges beaten women to speak out’,'Child sex offenders release shocks mum’ and ‘Con artist victim’s tale of heartbreak’.

Wow. What a devastatingly accurate picture of daily Cornish life. And aren’t there a lot of violent/perverted/dishonest men out there in Cornwall!

Thank God we have the local paper to name them all and bring us news of their innocent, saintly female victims.

Well done girls: your keen grasp of the demand for misandrist crap across the Duchy will ensure the future of your newspaper group.

Buoyed on your stories of wife-beating, child-abusing, savings-stealing men, the populace will shower you with the contents of their purses.

And you’ll all live happily ever after, in a world of brave beaten women, pervy sadistic men, and trebles all round for the muppet PC zealots who peddle their undying myth.

Well – No.

Once again, the unthinking, out-of-touch, white-collar post feminist drones at Northcliffe newspapers don’t have a clue what they’re doing.

If they did – and if they were in touch with any ordinary people who weren’t also boring, bigoted, jaded reporters – they’d know both the following things.

1. These stories about evil men and saintly women are yesterdays sexist news.

2. Local newspaper readers generally know the people featured in the local rag, and if you sell one of them as a saintly victim, but it’s not that simple – you’ll get found out.

Let’s look at point one first, shall we class?

Now – ‘Evil men and saintly women’. This is an old, old prejudice. It was never, ever true. The ‘all men are wife-beaters’ tabloid myth peaked about five years ago, under Murdoch editor Rebekah Wade, who, after convincing monkeys on housing estates in Portsmouth that all men were paedophiles, and getting her sticky hair tousled by the old tycoon as his failing ratings gave a last desperate gasp, decided convincing the Sun’s poor abused readers all men were wife-beaters would be a good idea too, and plastered the mugs of a bunch of arrested wretches who’d attacked their wives over the front page. But this campaign ended – rather abruptly – when Rebekah punched her husband and got arrested herself. And funnily enough, it is now the national papers who consistently told their readers the more complex, and more shocking truth – in defiance of the opressive white heat of the last Labour government’s wildly misinformed, deeply sexist, and thoroughly offensive ‘domestic violence’ drive – that have retained popular support. Their readership – and online readership – just keeps going up and up, while over at Wapping, Murdoch is seriously considering closing not just one but all the papers he’s so horribly spoiled. As we speak, his witchfinder general, despite having changed her name, (presumably so no-one will recognise her), is sweating even more than she did generally in the past, as she faces jail – for bugging a bereaved mums phone while posing as her best mate – while Paul Dacre still happily potters in his garden weekends, with nothing much more to worry him than getting a newspaper out, thanks to having occasionally told Lord Rothermere to F off.

All of which leads on nicely to point two:

No matter which side of this business you’re in: nasty, hysterical, hate-stoking mass-market propaganda, (Boring Guardian) good old fashioned yellow journalism, (Cornwall Community News! Hooray!) or even snotty-nosed broadsheet pontificating (take your pick), the Editor who keeps the faith of their readership is the editor who at least – especially if they’re on a local paper – does a few checks before going to print. After all – you don’t want to publish a story and then have everyone writing in that’s it’s all a load of old crap do you? No.

So: let’s take the case of Karen Bunney, 41, from Bodmin, star of this week’s Boring Guardians’ ‘Karen urges beaten women to speak out’.

In March last year Karen’s ex, Shaun Bunney admitted hitting her. He got a suspended sentence, and probation, for assault, the lowest ranking violent crime save affray.

Ok. So far, so Bad. But – wait – maybe Karen wants to talk – providing a golden opportunity for any nasty feminist who wants to persuade credulous newspaper readers all men are wife-beaters.

Cue chat with Karen, talking of her six years ‘ordeal’ with Shaun, during which she was ‘terrified’. Sugar and Spice vs Puppy Dogs Tails. Fine.

Now let’s just do some quick checks in the Boring Guardian office. Hmmm – let’s think: what’s the easiest? I know – Google. After all, your readers can do that at home.

‘Karen Bunney Bodmin’ – press – search:

Ah.

‘BODMIN woman Karen Bunney has been issued with an 18-month restraining order by Bodmin magistrates.
Bunney, 40, of Athelstan Road, is prohibited from contacting Sarah and Jonathan Clemes, or Diane Williams, directly or indirectly, for the next 18 months.
Charges of assaulting Sarah and Jonathan Clemes by beating were dismissed by the magistrates on March 24.

Now – it was at this point, surely, that someone with their pampered rear despoiling an editorial chair in Bodmin fell down on the job.

I mean – if a reporter can Google it – so can everyone else? And presumably Sarah and Jonathan Clemes also live in the local community and have feelings to be respected?

Maybe – just maybe – somebody even knows them. And knows what the Boring Guardian three-line short above fails to tell anyone – which is what Karen got up to to convince magistrates to issue a restraining order on her?

Did not alarm bells ring a little louder in the Boring Guardian office than they had when the star of their domestic violence propaganda campaign confessed: ‘I felt lonely and started drinking; I even had my driving licence taken off me.’

What can this mean? Confiscated by a friend? Put to one side by a considerate pub landlady? Pickpocketed by schoolchildren in Castle Street?

Or banned in court for drink driving that have killed one of your neighbour’s children?

We’ll never know. And the Boring Guardian isn’t going to tell us. Ours not to know or reason why. All that matters to you, gullible Boring Guardian reader, is that Karen is a ‘victim of domestic violence’. Domestic Violence stories will never get the Guardian into trouble because they are politically correct, QED: Karen is a saint. And come Wednesday, well, Never Mind the fact that it could all be Bollocks – here’s your local, yocal, church fete loving Cornish Guardian, full of political propaganda again.

Except of course, everybody in Bodmin knows everything that goes on in Bodmin – save apparently the staff of its local, corporate, Daily Mail owned paper.

Now, newspaper readers can take a certain amount of winding up and being told there are big sharks about to eat them when they know there aren’t. But day in day out, local paper readers especially, do generally like to read the truth, not least because they can probably find it out in the local pub anyway. So writing a one-sided story about an apparently notorious local woman and putting only her side of the story can only end in tears. You can write ‘Trusted Source’ above it (What is this ‘Trusted Source’ thing? It sounds like a ketchup. ‘Trusted’ by who – the editor who wrote the words ‘Trusted Source?’ Do me a favour) as much as you like, but people aren’t stupid, and even the most credulous reader, the most willing to believe any orthodox propaganda you have on sale that particular day, is going to add up Karen’s restraining order with her unquestioned confession that she lost her driving license while drinking heavily, and wonder – wonder even if everything she says is completely true, whether her complaint against the generally hard working and put-upon local police – taken as gospel by the Guardian and even put as a challenge to the force – her extraordinary claim that all ‘male’ officers were ‘dismissive’ while all ‘female’ ones were ‘understanding’ might not only be explicitly sexist but possibly a touch unfair, given the background of Karen’s own criminal convictions and the mysterious circumstances in which, whilst a drunk, her driving license was ‘lost’.

No – there’s no two ways about it – if I were local copper Ian-Drummond Smith, I would not have responded to the Boring Guardians’ question (presumably something like ‘Are all your male officers nasty?’) by thanking Karen for her kind offer of giving them training (again, presumably in her authoratitive role as a former drunk still subject to the terms of a restraining order). No. I would have said something else entirely, derived from Anglo Saxon, and fairly unequivocal.

But Ian Drummond-Smith is a police officer, and part of the establishment. And if he wants to survive, he has to go along with the various prejudices of the establishment prevalent in his time, as much as anyone who needs a mortgage. He also may simply have made such a guarded comment because he’s a nice man, and it’s difficult for anyone to be too harsh with anyone who says they’ve been violently bullied in their home for years on end.

The local paper do not have to follow the official line the political establishment of their day sets down.

Their role is to represent the public. Independently. Only this lot don’t. They represent a politically correct – strike that – politically reactionary – establishment. And politically reactionary movements and establishments are not only obnoxious, but dangerous.

Reactionary political movements thrive on the portrayal of themselves as mistreated, abused and violated. Without fail, they will base their poisonous stereotypes on a kernel of fact. Hitler (yes I know, but he does provide rather handy and apposite parallels in his early career and they’re the only ones we all recognise) did it: he said Germany had been ‘stabbed in the back’ over Versailles by the politicians – and they kind of had – except that it wasn’t that simple – it was his beloved army too. He said that Berlin society was depraved and corrupt and that brave soldiers had a raw deal – and it was, as any Otto Dix painting will tell you. Tragically, it wasn’t that simple, and his Nazis were a damn sight more corrupt. Even – even when he berated and vilified Jewish people – there would have been troubled, honest, perhaps not too bright souls in his audience who would have been able to say to themselves: ‘Yes. I am poor. I did borrow off a loan shark. They are Jewish, and it is ruining me’ – who were hungry, and had not the time, or perhaps the inclination, to draw lines in their minds, and who confused the actions of one independent individual, with the character of a race, when it was just not that simple.

It was so, at the clever behest of an evil demagogue, that many ordinarily good German people became murderously racist in the twenty or so years before 1945, and it is in just this way today that many ordinarily fine and good British people have become horribly sexist. Only they’ve not needed a maniac orator to convince them men are all monsters. Because they’ve had idiots like the Boring Guardian doing that job for them instead.

They’ve come to believe all this non-sensical domestic violence propaganda, spewed out at every turn by every media outlet in the country. The lie stoked for years by the BBC that one in four women are victims of violence, a lie cooked up by a discredited academic at Royal Holloway College as a result of a ludicrously skewed consumer style yes or no survey. The constant argument – or at least the inference – that because one man out of sixty million is an insane rapist in some juicy story, that all men of those sixty million should be suspect. And they’ve come to expect that because one man in Bodmin hit his ex (And Shaun Bunney’s conviction for assault on Karen is about as low a rap as you can get on domestic violence these days), that when his ex attacks the integrity of male police officers on account of their gender, this is a serious question to be raised with the local police force by their local newspaper.

The only trouble today for the peddlers of this propoganda is that you can’t fool all of the people all of the time, and that time is pretty much nigh.

People have had a belly-full of man-hating. Not only men, but women, who see hatred and discrimination levelled and fired full blast at their sons and brothers every day. Of course the soul-less, bogus female nasties whose sterile ambitions poison the atmosphere of local newspaper offices – they’ll never come round – they’ll have to be sacked or told what to write. And there will always be shrews, just as there will a few unpleasant men.
But most people – normal people – I mean the people that read newspapers, not weirdos like me that write them – have had enough. And pretty soon, even a bastion of misandrist evil like Northcliffe is going to have to change its ways – because, especially now we’re all online and can get at them – people won’t stand for its politics.

How would you feel, if you were a Bodmin police officer, and you saw your boss obliged to thank Karen Bunney, in the print of your local paper, for offering you training? You certainly wouldn’t run out and blow 85 bleeding pence on the paper that week. You might post a comment online on Karen’s previous though (and so someone did).

How would you feel if you were Sarah or Jonathan Clemes, no doubt reaching for their copy of that restraining order against Mrs Bunney at the bottom of the kitchen draws, as you see your tormentor eulogised full page with the full backing of the offices of a group of ‘Independent Domestic Violence Advocates’.

Likely to be tempted by a plastic picture of a smiling blonde model into buying the local paper this week? Didn’t think so.

Of course, papers are free now anyway, and people don’t buy them. But even that wouldn’t explain why the free, local, establishment, feminist-leaning local paper’s website This is Awful is LOSING its free readers.

Website viewing generally just goes up. You could put a picture of potato on the internet and it would probably go viral.

But not in the wonderful white collar world of Northcliffe newspapers.

From an advertising boast of 240,000 uniques last year, This is Awful’s last openly admitted viewing figures were just 207,000.

Now – that’s a story.

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Good PRs do exist. Their natural habitat is a small office of at least half-competent ex-journalists who understand the obligations of a client to the public, in the form of the press. Let me give you an example of good PR. The other day, the man who organises Party in the Park sent us a message which said: “Hello. Would you like ten free tickets for your readers? We said: “Yes”. We ran a competition. The Party in the Park got ‘PR’. We got a competition. End of story. We expect to go: if it’s good we’ll say, and if it’s shit, we’ll say that too. That is PR – and it’s nothing. We can all do it. As with all industries, good PR can achieve things, and really good PRs like Rob on Facebook still can be found at the top of their industry – people like Max Clifford, for example.

Corporate PR, and particularly entertainment PR, is different. Corporate PR consists of a bunch of coke-snorting, menopausal idiots just fucking up everything they touch.

Bad PR really is one of the biggest headaches a reporter has to deal with today. Big PR firms are like lawyers – we actually, if we worked it out, don’t need them at all, any more than a Hollywood celebrity actually needs the now de facto personal publicist (neither Angelina Jolie nor Bill Murray have one). They’re just people who are paid to get in the way, and stop things taking place, under the auspices that they’re doing the opposite.

Which brings us to Relentless Boardmasters.

Going to a Festival never originally involved any PR and none of the metrosexual tits who currently populate the city PR industry would have been seen dead at such an event. Going to a Festival originally meant going to a FREE festival. It meant risking your life on new mind expanding narcotics, risking your health with ill-advised casual sex, dimly seeing some of a great band you felt you could tell your grandchildren about, then winding your way home praying those grandchildren wouldn’t be the result of that ill-advised casual sex you had.

Going to a Festival in the 21st Century means saving up money all year, camping like your grandparents did on holiday but cleaner, queing to pay more for showers, queing to pay £5 for a beefburger, and dutifully forming a large crowd for a headline act, while discussing the merits of a supporting band that has got everyone’s attention. And then behaving if it was all great fun.

In the 90s big corporations like Virgin started sponsoring Festivals and as the festival ethos died out and big organised ticketed events took over, so did brand names.

Boardmasters – which thirty years ago was a surf and skate festival and up until about three years ago was still quite fun – is now sponsored by Coca-Cola, which speaks for itself. They make the Relentless Energy Drink – (that revolting shit coloured thing that ‘s basically a big fizzy cup of coffee for kids and can be recognised by social commentators as the large can permanently attached to the right hand of every lost chav in Camborne and which when it grows up wants to be a tin of Special Brew) – and a truly corporate clusterfuck Relentless Boardmasters has become as a result.

Now, one of the jobs of a PR is to treat journalists equally. Because Maisie the old lady from the Nowehereshire Times has just as much right to tell her readers about the big event in her back yard as does Taki from the Spectator – in fact – the sole job of a PR running an event should be to ask ‘Do you have a press card?’, and then say ‘Please come in.’

Sadly it’s not like that. In the great Michael Mann film, The Insider, Al Pacino as Lowell Bergman remarks to his girlfriend after CBS hang him out to dry:” – ‘Hi – I’m Lowell Bergman from Sixty Minutes’ : you know, you take the Sixty Minutes out of that line, no-one returns your call’.”

Well let me tell you what happens when you say ‘Hi, I’m calling from Cornwall Community News’. One of three things happen:

1: Normal people, who haven’t seen the site, want to see it, and are nice.
2. Normal people, who have seen the site, go ‘Hey! Great!’: which is brilliant, and just makes it doubly frustrating when
3. Entertainment PRs from ‘Relentless’ say ‘Who? Sorry? What do you want? We’re really busy here’ – for eight months, before telling you the list they never told you about is closed.

Which is maddening, and unfair to both your favourite online news site, and to you as readers, who’ve been getting excited about Boardmasters and reading all our news of the upcoming acts for – well, about eight months.

But we all know how to deal with maddening people don’t we? That’s right. Don’t get mad: get emailing. And here it is – in all its beauty – our genuine, rambling, completely unapologetic email to the useless gits doing PR at Relentless Boardmasters this year, who after we did them the favour of translating their illiterate and thoroughly dafty press releases about new acts into articles a reader could actually understand for the greater part of the last year, treated us like goofy teenage blaggers with nothing but a laminated card from Thailand and a big grin when we asked for a single ticket to bring you the review you would expect any local news site to write up for you.

Enjoy, and we hope it’s more entertaining than a lot of guff saying what actually happened at yet another predictable 21st Century corporate-business-sponsored ‘Festival’…..

To: Kaos communications/cc Sportsvision
From: Ed Hunter

Dear all;

You Tits.

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Way back in the day, I remember primary school. And what I mostly remember, apart from childish fights, concrete, playground monitors, ‘sockball’, crap design, thick teachers, card-swaps, floury pink gum, tepid bottled milk and Emlyn Hughes, is that the only day duller than a weekday was a Sunday. Everything was shut, you had to go to church, and there was nowhere to get any sweets. Then faster than you could say hormonal explosion it was the 80s. Everything was shit, you had to wear a quiff, and there was nowhere to get any sex. But at least you could get stuff you wanted on Sunday. Chocolate, booze, porn – a whole world of cynically manufactured Warholesque goodies were constantly paraded in multi-million pound television adverts before a positively Eastern Bloc consumer and, due to the many years it took to mass-produce the security tag, subsequently stolen in vast quantities by young people with bleached hair, single earings, and bulging illegal bags of branded fondant sportswear.

The 80s was the consumer Big Bang, to which you can trace the birth or galactic expansion of most of the tremendous corporations of the 21st Century; Tesco, Asda, Coca-Cola, MacDonalds, you name it. I remember when the first MacDonalds came to town: the grown-ups all moaned, as usual, but for most young teenagers – it was the best day of our lives to date. Food that tasted good when you were sober, and like some alien neo-Biblical manna when you were wrecked. An endless supply of little straws to use as peashooters on what we assumed to be an unwitting but what in fact was more probably an uncaring adult public, and, best of all, one nice simple impossible to mistake place to meet girls and upset them.

I was busy in the 90s, so have absolutely no idea what went on, but now that science has empowered me, you, everybody with the cheap and affordable means to pontificate uncensored before a potentially infinitely small or large audience, let me as pompously as I possibly can – and I can pomp with the best of them – say this of the never-bleedin’-ending globalisation debate that seems to be raging in the Noughties and which I suspect few of us really understand while those that claim to, do so only in line with some quite terrifyingly dogmatic and often ludicrous political beliefs. Yes, let me proclaim loudly that I don’t think there is anything wrong with Tescos. Or Asda. Or especially that all-time favourite bete noir of your average pseudo-Spartan hummus throwing Trustafarian git, Coke. It’s just a really nice fizzy drink; it’s cheap, it’s tasty, and anyone who objects to it conquering the globe is a daft tart.

But just in case you were tempted to agree with me – let me say this too.

Asda, Tesco, Sainsburys, Coca-Cola, MacDonalds, Costa Coffee, Starbucks, Microsoft Windows, and all the rest of them are sucking out our brains and spitting the pureed remains into a massive constantly circulating trough of human detritus which they colletively stir, season, taste and finally swallow for their evil fuel like the killer robots of the Matrix trilogy.

Confused? Don’t be. Any competent GCSE Physicist in 2011 will tell you it’s not only perfectly possible but a general if inexplicable rule that two different states can be true at the same time. And what’s true of Quarks, is true of supermarkets.

Without Tesco, no-one poor would be able to get tons of nice stuff to eat (every evening between seven and eight pm). There would be no big shop in which you didn’t have to worry about dropping that big old bag or bottle of vanity goods because the store would always replace it and there would definitely be nowhere you could buy something, half-eat it, bring it back and say you didn’t like it and get the full cash price returned and another donut. Tesco is a kind of Homer Simpson dreamworld, in which the most idiotic savant can swan around concentrating exclusively on clever wordplay and cosmopolitan tomfoolery without ever having to worry that their endemic inability not to drop things or remember anything dull will stand in the way of having fun. So Hooray for Tesco.

But – at the exact same time – without Tesco, well-off people wouldn’t blow quite so much money they can’t afford on crap they didn’t really want (every time they go into any large superstore and walk down more than one aisle). And there would be lots of small shops from which you wouldn’t want to walk out without paying for goods you stupidly dropped, because the owner would most probably be an in-law, work in the local, and throw you out early all next week as revenge. And more importantly, we would be forced to rely more on our own, not so totally inadequate resources for food (just stop any passing farmer anywhere in the Duchy for more on that one).

Now, in a science fiction utopia of global government and long-term plans, Tesco would never get anywhere. Neither would cars run on fossil fuel, stretch limos, drug dealers, soap operas, pop music or Donald Trump. Because nothing that banked on human selfishness and stupidity, was damaging to individuals, unjust to society as a whole, or possibly just in poor taste, would make it past the international drawing board. An enlightened elite would draw up thousand year social and economic projections and, confident in their global power over you me and the next impotent blogger relegated to a dicreetly censored corner of hyperspace, jet us all into space to politely colonise it. The only problem is the time-honoured and obvious one: ironically, we can’t trust ourselves to produce an enlightened elite to look after us or decide our ‘best interests’. Governments and legal institutions – whether they belong to the historical departments of the Third Reich and the Communist Bloc, or the present-day offices of ‘family courts’ and ‘Social Services’ – once given dictatorial power to decide what is in the best interest of other people will always and unfailingly simply decide what is in their own best interest at the usually terrible expense of those who are placed in their power. It’s a concete fact of human life. We like to cast the wartime Germans as barbarians because they carried out a genocide and gave the excuse as a nation that they were ‘only obeying orders’, but the Milgram Experiments showed how many of us would have done exactly the same thing, and of course the Elephant in the Milgram room is an even more suggestive one: the notorious experiments, in which many of the subjects unquestioningly tortured unseen victims to apparent death, were carried out in a democracy: had a German refused to push Milgrams buttons in 1940, there’s every chance he or she would have been summarily shot. Human beings are as bad as they are good, or as weak as they are strong, true to the tantalising quantum world in which scientists would now have us believe we live, and they can only exist happily in a free world of organised chaos, in which the only rules set in stone are to not hurt anyone physically, and even those rules are subject to some pretty random and chaotic scrutiny, in the form of randomly picked juries. Which is why democratic politics and big ideas, be it space travel, eco-crusading, supersonic passenger planes or undersea tunnels, just don’t get along.

So what do we do? The answer is we put a democratic spanner in the works of the political machine, and just put up with it not working all that well because it’s better than letting it crush us all to death. But that doesn’t stop those few lucky individuals handed what little power they can be trusted with as mortals using their heads every now and then – like maybe shaking those heads vigorously, when one of the monolithic all-conquering corporations we have to live with asks to sink its loss-leading teeth into a tiny town like Camelford?

What are Cornwall’s Councillors thinking? Aren’t they supposed to be looking out for us – the people that voted them in and can damn well vote them out – when the big bad world comes knocking on our door waving sparkly things and asking to take off with our bread plants? What do they think Tesco is? Our rich uncle? Can’t they look at money without going weak at the knees? I think we all want a chaste and virtuous political body scrutinising applications by great fat grinning supermarkets to buy up our old schools don’t we? Instead of some cider-addled country tart that just can’t say No? What is going on?

Camelford, at last count, has about 2,256 residents. There is already – for reasons best known to our wanton local authority – a monstrous plan to build the set of 1990s sitcom Brookside all over one end of it with a simply vast Asda or Morrisons or who cares what providing it’s rotten, overfed, sugar-soaked endlessly palpitating ‘heart’. Come 2015, by the time you’ve circumnavigated that eyesore on your way into town there’ll just be a parade of empty shops To Let before you’re confronted with ugly little signs pointing you to the big old Tesco. As local girl Clare Hodgson pointed out to the News this week Tesco do tend to sell the same things a local shops, and there are TWO of the Corporate stores within easy reach of Camelford. Who needs another?

Sometimes, things that appear complicated are simple. And in this case, a simple ‘No’ should have been the answer to all the academic questions councillors probably asked themselves when looking at Tesco’s big fat cheque. Sometimes, a bit of traditional home-spun wisdom can make a lot more long term sense than all the graphs and budget deficits and balance sheets and general BS in the world. And sometimes, we should perhaps be more vocal in reminding our democratically elected politicians and their apolitical servants in the executive that they serve us – the people of Cornwall and the residents of Camelford – not themselves.

Perhaps we should take our childish council by the hand, as they wander agog through dazzling arrays of promises and pledges at their local supermarket lobbyists, pull them to one side and talk to them in a language their mothers and fathers no doubt wisely employed years ago.

Because, my loves, a Tesco can be a good thing – but you can always have too much of a good thing…..

Ed Hunter



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Have you visited Truro in the last ten years? It’s one of the most hideous, typical, oppressive British towns you could have the misfortune to shop at Tescos in.

First there’s the people. The entire population apparently consists of stout, smug, malicious looking middle aged women in ill-fitting trousers clutching files of official-looking nonsense and for reasons best known to themselves sporting enormous name tags hung round their necks proclaiming their tremendous importance and by inference their £30,000 per annum plus benefits wage.

And this flood of horrid bureaucrats – which our hospitals and schools and made-up local pseudo-charities for political interest groups never seemed to need in the past – are the only people in the town with any money. They stomp in knee-high historically unfortunate boots down Lemon Street as if they built the place, dashing aside OAPs and teenagers with their bulging folders and making way only for the products of the society they’ve been so busy creating, the emboldened, shameless Chavs who habitually visit the town centre from their family estate of Malpas to engage in the traditional midweek shoplift.

The Cathedral is notable mainly for its greedy little tourist shop and recently massively overpriced and staffed Café, the cobbled streets and War Memorial go unnoticed amidst the clamour of High-Street Franchise crap-peddlers in every shop space, and the general impression is that you’re in some compact Communist meld of Reading Swindon and Cardiff without the Castle or Docks.

Exeter is of course worse. The only jobs are handed out by the Government to single mothers at the Met Office and any charm the City once had was long ago levelled by the gargantuan roundabouts that feed its Centre and you have to hide out on the nearby industrial estate just to breathe.

But this is what happens when Governments, instead of people, build societies. When Cornish people ran their own lives, Launceston was the capital, Smuggling was the only major regeneration initiative, and towns like Falmouth, since given over to the London rich and the Birmingham poor, were owned and run by Pirates.

I mean you’d have to be a pervert to put Truro as Cornwall’s capital. Why do you think Launceston’s got a Castle? Why do you think it’s on a hill? Now imagine trying to defend Truro – it’d be the funniest bloodbath in History. All those NHS Managers and Environmental Consultants and counselling advisory advisors to underprivileged substance-abuse special needs monkeys tearing through the town centre as their attackers descend from the general God-given encirclement, name-tags clattering in the wind as they pelt in the only direction they can go – through the scumbag solicitors Palaces and the increasingly sub-let offices of their brown-nosing toadies at the unthinkably undemocratic Yesterdays Boring News in Malpas Wharf – and finally leaping to freedom….into five foot deep killer mud.

No. Nobody given a public sector job in Truro or Exeter in the last decade deserved it, and none of the jobs given were any use to anyone. Maybe if some of the much-mooted regeneration money that is always, without fail, spent on itself, had actually been handed out to local enterprise there might have been something to save in Truro and Exeter, but there isn’t, and right now childish cartoon film fans will know what I mean when I suggest the sole solution for these fake Fabian monstrosities of incompetence and corruption is the League of Shadows method.

Just sack the lot of them, all of them, and let’s start again. The toadies looked after themselves at your expense for as long as they could get away with it – now it’s time to let Cornish people, whether it’s workers or small businesses or whoever, do things for themselves and build an economic model from the bottom up instead of imposing ephemeral affluence on political prostitutes from the top down. That way next time there’s a global economic crisis – pretty much the modern equivalent of a neighbouring invasion – we might have a Castle to shoot back and down from – instead of having to run away into bloody mud.

Lots of Love

Ed

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Metal Icon Ed Hunter thinks social workers are so useful..

So an Ofsted report about a series of censored local council reports into secret reports by social workers into the personal affairs of Cornish families who have fallen into the Social Services net either because they were living below the breadline, got grassed on by their neighbours, or just weren’t conformist enough to escape the attention of the authorities has concluded that Cornwall Council is not protecting the county’s poor little children enough. Everybody say ‘Aaaahhhhh’ and in doing so, blindly accept that it is somehow the state’s job to interfere in a British citizens’ family life – because you saw the words ‘children’ and ‘protect’ in the same sentence.

Well let’s look at it again: because it’s a dangerous word ‘protection’. Where I cut my teeth in this increasingly pointless racket of reporting what the establishment choose to let journalists know of the dodgy goings-on in their increasingly secret courts, sorry little tribunals and overpopulated back-rooms, ‘protection’ meant a fat bloke wearing a naff leather jacket and a neck-chain demanding money from the Fish and Chip Shop. In 1935 in Germany it was in order to place you in ‘protective custody’ that the newly formed SS would have dragged you off into one of the country’s ramshackle concentration camps, the forerunners of such auspicious institutions as Belsen, Dachau and Ravensbrueck.

So isn’t it a coincidence how in the 21st Century, despite the apparently overwhelming need for the authorities to ‘protect’ our children, somehow the children of rich lawyers, comfortably off counsellors, and highly paid social workers never need to be protected? You’d think they’d all be offering them up in lorry-loads to be carted off into the ‘protective’ hands of the oh-so-caring Government. No? Hmmm. Maybe that’s because, as the privileged officials of the irresponsible oligarchy that daily rides roughshod over our democracy, they actually know what’s in all those secret social service reports that no-one – least of all the media – is ever allowed to see. And maybe – unlike the thick angry Chavs, the gullible new age Muppets and all the other unfortunates who make up their victims and pay for their daily bread – they know full well that the sinister muscles of the welfare state are pumped up by weird, sterile, soul-less, or just wildly atavistic Government officials who pose possibly the only genuine risk there is to our ‘poor little children’, and that as a result the best thing any of us could do to protect our kids from harm is sack the lot of them.

Because what do they do? Nobody knows, because they won’t tell us. Which is wrong: and the sick thing is, for half a century we’ve been finding out just how wrong, far too late, year after year, and still not done anything about it.

Who do you think really mistreats and abuses children and their families in our post War society. Do you? Does your neighbour? Of course not. None of us do. Do officials then? Er…well they might, but we can’t tell you about it, because the officials themselves are keeping it all censored and secret, for our own good and the good of the ‘little children’.

Or at least they keep it secret for as long as they can: which is lifetimes, often – lifetimes until those children they said they were protecting grow up and can finally tell us what really happened. Lifetimes sometimes only at the very end of which the truth of how officials of extremely limited intelligence treat children that are not their own when they are given complete, secret, unaccountable power over them comes out.

Think about it: who, in the 1960s, deported Cornish children en masse away from their families and to Australia – secretly – to be beaten and abused throughout their childhoods? It wasn’t their mothers and fathers. No – it was Cornwall Council, (Original story HERE ) and the sorry tale of what happened took a full half century to be made public. No-one know at the time it was happening for the same reason no-one knows what’s happening in social services now – they kept it all secret, making their pathetic excuses about sparing the blushes of the ‘poor little children’ and their disadvantaged mothers and fathers. It took fifty years, and for all the guilty parties to be dead, for the ‘poor little children’ who so deserved to be deported in secret to reveal they weren’t embarrassed about being carted out of their houses and transported to a living Hell at all – they were just what you’d expect them to be – bloody furious.

Who surrendered argumentative teenagers into the hands of psychotic London lobotomists in the 1970s, to be experimented on like laboratory animals because they’d had a ding-dong with mum and dad over a late night-out or a dicey boyfriend? Right again: it wasn’t their parents. It was the all-knowing, caring-sharing local London councils. And why did no-one know about it until the following century? You guessed it. It was all kept secret for our own good.

And don’t be fooled for a minute that it’s all history: lobotomy was only banned in 1983, and it still happens despite the law. As for splitting innocent children up from their families – well even the old media have got wise to that one: (see HERE ) The fact is it’s more common now than ever it was in the 1960s. Another great leap forward we all have to thank the secret, unaccountable, fascistic child abusers who staff the ‘family’ courts for – courts made up of yet more highly paid officials who you pay for and who are all part and parcel of the ‘children’s services’, social service scam: So – when you read of censored no-news reports revealing the existence but not the contents of more secret reports into childrens services in Cornwall – remember we’re talking about a secret investigation into pretty much every official evil in the county. Because since the Masons packed up and became a country club in the mid 90s – it’s here, within social services, ‘family’ courts, and ‘multi-agency’ bureaucracy that as Bentham put it, “In the darkness of secrecy, sinister interest and evil in every shape, have full swing”. You’re talking about a massive self-interest group whose existence is justified solely by the illegal violation of a democratic citizen’s right to family life. (Not illegal in undemocratic Britain of course, but our so-called social ‘service’ and ‘family’ laws are most definitely illegal under the EU Convention of Human Rights which you can find HERE )

The whole horrible ‘child protection’ racket is still very much with us. It’s a scam the most hardened criminal racketeer would balk at, and it works like this:

First, you need a victim – ideally a kid, who will be incapable of fighting back. Any child from any of the legion of dysfunctional double-barrelled offspring in council housing will do – let’s call this one ‘John Council-House Jr’. All you need to start things off is for little Johnny to have a row with Mum. Now, you’ve already set things up nicely for this because little Johnny’s Dad – a role which survey after survey has shown is almost without exception the most positive influence in any child’s life (see HERE ) and poses the greatest threat to you getting your hands on him and making a packet – lives a hundred miles away in an Exeter bedsit. This is because when little Johnny was born you cleverly fined little Johnny’s mum for living as a couple and made it well known the only way for her to get a council house was by becoming a vulnerable single mother: so she dumped Dad to make herself homeless after which your housing department re-homed her but not him. Bravo. So – now – when little Johnny kicks off, Mum kicks off unchecked and even better, Mums new boyfriend, who is thoroughly bored of both her and little Johnny and feels no familial bond with either, shouts at the pair of them so loudly that nosey neighbour complains. Round come the police who hand it down to the welfare and support troops who check in back with you in social services and you’re off. After months of pointless meetings expressing an apparently flattering interest in the Council-House family and praising everything they do so kindly they forget it was none of your business in the first place, whilst making copious, secret, notes for your growing file, you can kindly suggest Mummy and little Johnny go to ‘Surestart’, where little Johnny, the next time there’s a row, tells his new friend there, Big Bertha, that Mummy’s boyfriend screamed abuse at him. Big Bertha, a timid single mother with the IQ of a vegetable who took an NVQ in counselling after her favourite uncle hanged himself last year and an old lady from the Government’s bereavement services (yes – they exist and you pay for them – amazing but true) suggested it as a publicly-subsidised career path, celebrates her new-found importance by filling in a report, just to be on the safe side, which comes back to you in social services. By now you’ve got a really quite big and imposing official file and you’re away. You spend the next year investigating a household that finally collapses under the stress, with Mums boyfriend deciding he’d really rather not look after someone else’s kid at all and Mum foolishly letting slip to her comforting assigned social worker that she could now do with more ‘support’. And in it comes, in tanks, and heavily armed. Next time there’s a row, your social workers decide they need more support too, and thanks to the 21st Century’s apparently unchallenged but deeply dodgy ‘multi-agency approach’ in policing, in charge the cops with a battering ram. Little Johnny, who if he hasn’t gone completely mental by now will have done by the time the council have finished with him, gets dragged off to live with the Munsters, and Mum finally goes to the local press – but don’t worry – here’s the best bit. When the press phone you and ask what’s going on, you can act all outraged at their disgusting skulduggery and promptly bind, gag and sneer at them for even dreaming of breaking the law by printing information censored under the incredibly wrong Children and Young Persons Act, a really useful law which protects you from any public scrutiny in any of your abuses of children.

Hooray! Now it’s home to your tribe at SS HQ – with fresh child meat.

Congratulations. A care order has been passed removing all of your quarry’s natural rights to a family life, your tasty morsel is helpless to resist you, and returning to your tribe with a fresh child kill will make you the hero of the hour. But don’t be selfish with your food! Remember, now you’ve sunk your teeth into your prey and wrested him from his family to assume total, unaccountable power over him, it’s not just you that can slowly eat him alive. Blood has been spilt in the waters of the local authority’s welfare department, and the various sociopathic sharks who swim in it will all get a piece of our little Johnny, from ‘family’ lawyers through probation officers back down to you counsellors and social workers who started the whole cycle off, as innumerable and well renumerated secret court hearings requiring ever more reports will be needed in order to monitor his progress into teenage drug addiction, at the nadir of which his latest counsellor will suggest that he kick his habit – come to terms with the demons the local authority put there for him – and became a drug addiction counsellor. Haha! Trebles all round! Now let’s retire in our forties because we’re so stressed and we deserve a public pension with benefits.

Sound silly? A bit far-fetched? I don’t think so. After all, I’m no longer any kind of voice in the wilderness: just click on some of the links in the piece if you’re still unconvinced. Fascism by sleight of hand is here, and undemocratic oppression of the individual is a nationwide epidemic. It’s been spawned by almost two decades of a Government that reckoned buying thick people livelihoods to be a legitimate path to staying in power and handed out countless falsely created jobs to dangerous cretins. Think about THAT every time some counsellor/advisor/auxiliary support person/unit manager whinges about cuts.

The only question the mandarins wielding the axe over this ugly mess should be asking themselves next month is – why stop at cuts? How long before we blow open the secret files of what has effectively become a secret police force in our own country – a country which – the shame of it – gave the world the Magna Carta? I say let it stop – now. Because I don’t hold with secret reports, secret courts, or secret anything. Call me an extremist, but I always thought in a democracy, the workings of Government should be public And that means all of it – and especially, not except, all those reports into what Government officials have been getting up to with the county’s ‘poor little children’.

Ed