• Get in the ring!

    So I’m in our latest bijou east London flat staring at the poster of Amir Khan as Che (the one to the right of the sofa, not the one to the left, or above, or any of the other ones in Bob's bedroom).

    Bob is on the stepping machine that arrived from Argos this morning, perspiration soaking through his shorts.

    “So who’s the top banana boxing pundit once again, sis! What did I say about those mental midgets labelling my man Amir as being chinny! Muggy cunts had no idea what they were talking about, unlike me!"

    Bob had been like a new brother since Amir Khan’s victory over Marco Antonio Barrera. Now this wasn’t totally unheard of at this time of the year as the spring always brought on a change in Bob. I’m not sure whether it was because he could shed his winter shellsuit bottoms and start wearing his homoerotically tight white shorts for his PE lessons, but a side to Bob emerged that unnerved me, and it wasn’t the occasional sighting of his boys leaving the barracks when he got too comfortable on the sofa.

    “Face facts, sis. It takes a hardened PE teacher with years of experience to call it like it is and, er, box clever!” When you’ve been surrounded by as many hard and dominant men as I have in the gyms, changing rooms and saunas of east London, you soon learn how to take it on the chin!”

    The more excitable Bob became, the more floridly homoerotic his speech content.

    “Sis, I’ve lost count of the number of guys I’ve had in the ring! Make no mistake. I’ve always been most comfortable in the centre of the ring! I love it in the ring! Why, the fisting in the ring I gave this guy one time...”

    Bob’s unconscious homoerotic innuendo had gone too far. Hearing my brother boasting about how he loved it in the ring was once again inducing those gastrointestinal feelings I dreaded so much. Bob had worn his tight white shorts especially for the fight and hadn’t taken them off since. The next morning I awoke to find Amir Khan pictures all over the house, and my brother ordering a new stepper from Argos, talking about wanting "buns of steel".

    “Bob, I’m thinking it’s time we had a little chat about some of your... behaviour.”

    “Sis, if it’s about the time I came back late one December night from Hampstead Heath covered in scratches, there’s a perfectly innocent explanation...”

    “It’s not about that, Bob. But I am concerned that your pursuit of all things anarchic is not what it once was.”

    “Sis! How can you possibly say that? I’m anarchic as hell and not going to take it!”

    Bob’s stepping rate increased, to the point a strange clanking noise could be heard from the machine.

    “Bob, get down off the stepper and, er, for god’s sake will you fine tune your aerial!”

    “Oops! It seems there’s an invader on the pitch! Nothing to see here, ladies and gentlemen, nothing at all! I could really do with a policeman's helmet right now!”

    “Bob! What you've just said is yet another example that makes me think there’s something about you that needs some form of... intervention.”

    I couldn’t take it anymore. I just had to ask outright.

    “Bob. Have you made a lifestyle choice dad wouldn’t approve of?”

    “Sis! How could you! I’m a PE teacher! I might resemble an extra from the Blue Oyster Bar at times, but my profession is the ultimate defence against it! We’re the exception that proves the rule.”

    I drew on my years of experience as an oh-so-hot-proven-lawyer to present Bob with the case against him.

    Bob, have you noticed that we always seem to have pictures of men up in the house and in your bedroom? Jesus as Che, Amir Khan as Che, George Galloway as Che, Ahmadinejad as Che, Che as Che...”

    “Nothing wrong with having role models, sis! You know there’s a shortage of role models for wanna-be anarchists as well. I just like to have pictures of men with moustaches around for... inspiration!”

    “Ok, but you also spend most of your time watching dvds of men in shorts... performing.”

    “Can’t beat the ‘Ammers, sis. I love a good, hard tackle!”

    "And that t-shirt you’re wearing. Read out what it says to me."

    “I love Jon Spencer’s head.”


    "Trust you to get the wrong meaning about all things Dicks-related! My man JD got his tackle in on Spencer's head!"

    "Bob! There you go again!"

    "He stamped on him with his boot during a game. What on earth did you think I meant???"

    It was time to go for the jugular.

    “Bob, what do you call women?”


    “So you even refer to women by a man’s name!”

    "Sis, c’mon. We’re eastenders! Mockney rhyming slang? Dickie Bird. Birds? Richards!”

    It was time to hit my brother where it hurt, metaphorically, although his bollocks were drooping out of his shorts once again.

    “The mother of your child left you, her reason being that she’d couldn’t take any more of you and the beard thing!”

    Bob looked nervous and was clearly distracted. He knew my beard reference was a coded one. Even though he’d stopped stepping ten minutes ago, he was still perspiring heavily.

    Then the thought occurred to me.

    Would this display of oh-so-hot proven lawyerness prove to be a dead pyrrhic victory? Would the cost of proving outright my first ever case come at the cost of outing my brother?

    I just couldn’t do it, and took my finger off the trigger.

    But I could always give him enough rope and let him finish off the job.

    "So, Bob. Tell me more about the first time you entered the ring.”

    “Glad you asked me, sis! Well I lifted my shirt, stripped down to my shorts and pounded away, having a breather every three minutes...”

  • Viva La Priory Cuba!

    Revolution! often involves long periods of clandestine activity, subterfuge and furtive behaviour.

    So I must totally give the background to my dead necessary blogging break from!!!

    Back in the summer, Bob and I had been chilling out at our latest bijou east London (Stephnbob country!!!) pad, staring at our newly affixed posters of the Iranian and Cuban 2008 Olympic teams (the one to the left of the sofa, not the one to the right, or above, or any of the others in the lounge).

    Bob had been busy over the summer confounding the stereotype of PE teachers by reading voraciously, and was giving a going over to his latest whipping boy, Paul Kennedy.

    “Paul bleedin’ Kennedy! What a muggy mental midget, sis! ‘Ow he couldn’t have seen the imminent fall of the Soviet Union in The Rise of Fall of the Great Powers, I don’t know! It’d be like someone who reckoned he was a top banana boxing pundit not being able to see that Amir Khan was a bit on the chinny side!”

    Bob was like an Olympian of good points at that time. A fleeting thought crossed my mind that maybe I wasn’t the brains of the family and it was time to pass the torch on. But I quickly squelched this minor internal revolt.

    “ Very good Bob! I’d take your historiographical contentions more seriously if you wouldn’t insist on wearing your “I love Dicks!” t-shirt in public!”

    “Sis! Why do you have to see homoerotic connotations everywhere! I’m a bleedin’ PE teacher – what more heterosexual a profession is there, apart from wrestlers! The t-shirt’s a reference to Julian Dicks. West Ham. Oh, I’m an ‘appy ‘ammer, forever blowing bubbles!”.

    There he went again with the unconscious homoerotic references.

    “Maybe so, Bob”, I replied”, but you wouldn’t want to run into Brian Paddick on a dark night in the jungle while wearing that particular t-shirt, would you?”

    This shut my brother up for a few seconds, which gave me enough time to ponder the true predicators to a great power’s decline.

    It occurred to me that Kennedy’s greatest omission had been not considering the performance of the great nations during the Olympic games. Imperial overstretch is one thing, but when your performance in the medals table is dependent on totally Islamophobic sports such as swimming (how is a devout Islamic woman ever going to compete in the pool!) then surely this is the true sign of the fall of a Great Power!

    The 2008 Beijing Olympics could only mean one thing.

    The impending ultimate downfall of the US of A!

    This insight overwhelmed me, and my oh so hot body felt like it did in the pre-chronic fatigue days. I shuffled to my room and changed into my Iranian Olympic tracksuit, grabbed a slipper rest to use as a soapbox, booked a minicab to take me to Speaker’s Corner at Hyde Park, and was fully determined to rouse the masses for Revolution! and the overthrow of Capitalism!

    Speaker’s Corner was not what I expected it to be. Rather than a series of devilishly good looking moustachioed men boldly proclaiming Revolution!, I saw a serious of dishevelled oddities in white t-shirts making too much eye, ear and odour contact.

    And carrying megaphones.

    But being a totally hot bona fida lawyer wearing an Ahmedinijad-designed tracksuit meant I was sure to win in the charisma, if not volume, stakes. And in addition to this, I had one of the greatest insights ever to reveal to the masses.

    I started speaking, but had barely got a couple of paragraphs into my inspired linking of Islamophobic sports, Olympic medal tables and impending US collapse when someone interrupted me.

    This was an experience I was unprepared for. Normally, whenever I post something on my blog everyone agrees with me, so it was unusual to hear someone offer a dissenting opinion.

    My anxiety levels skyrocketed. All the doubts and gastrointestinal sensations that led to me taking a career break from my legal practice returned.

    It dawned on me that...

    Maybe my ideas have no support outside my family and blog friends.

    Maybe the masses just want to watch Strictly Come Dancing on their flat screen TVs.

    Maybe I’ll no longer get 100+ comments on any of my blog posts again.

    Could the Bloscar have been worthless?

    And was Bob actually a homosexual?

    I felt nauseous.

    If all this was true, maybe the cause of Revolution! was lost!

    I instantly felt dizzy, lost my balance and slipped off my soapbox.

    Before I passed out I managed to shout “Booooooooob”, hoping to activate the voice tag for my brother on my cell phone.

    However, this didn’t appear to work, and when I came around I found myself in bed in a psychiatric ward.

    The official police section 136 report (the totally fascist section of the Mental Health Act which enables the police to remove someone from a public place and take them to a "place of safety" if a person in a public place appears to have a mental disorder and to be in "immediate need of care or control", and it is in the interests of the person or for the protection of others) recorded the following information on my admission to the psychiatric ward:

    “Woman looking like Pat Sharp in turgid coloured tracksuit seen getting wooden step out of backpack. Aforementioned woman climbed onto step and overheard ranting incoherently about Islam, Islamophobic sports, devout Muslim women and wet t-shirts. Then shouted ‘boob!’ and fell over.”

    This is exactly the kind of smearing and illegal detention of dissidents that took place in the dark decades of the Soviet Union!!!

    Bob got me released straight away (well 72 hours later after the section lapsed and they said my bed was needed), and due to his membership of the Fourth International of Physical Educators (socialist PE teachers union!) had me treated in Cuba for the past few months.

    Part of my recovery plan meant avoiding stress-arousing material, so world affairs and blogging were strictly off limits.

    Until now!!!

    Luckily, the Priory Cuba staff discharged me in time for the Impending Collapse of Global Capitalism. I felt energised on hearing this, and told Dr Castro that I felt strong enough to blog at least once or twice a month during this transitional phase to Anarchy!.

    So I’m at home, staring at the picture of the Cuban doctors who treated me at the Priory Cuba (the one to the left of the sofa, not the one to the right, or above, or any of the other ones in the lounge).

    Bob is on the sofa next to me wearing his “Real men do it in lycra” t-shirt. He’s sulking after I confiscated the Cuban cigars Dr Castro gave me to bring back. I’m sorry, but he looked far too content having something that phallic in his mouth to suck on.

    Anomie is on a shoplifting mission to Woolies, after hearing a rumour that the security guards were the first people to get laid off by the bourgeoisie’s financial firing squads.

    And me?

    I’m wearing my “Chronic fatigue: it’s all about ME!” t-shirt!!!

    Capitalism may be falling, but is still standing!!!

    Accept no imitations!

    Viva la Priory Cuba!

    Viva la Impending Collapse of Global Capitalism!

    Viva Revolution!

    Viva Steph's blog!!!

  • Vote Revolution!

    So, I’m still on my career break, lounging in my tracksuit at my bijou east London residence and staring at my poster of Jesus as Che – the one to the left of the fridge, not the one to the right, or above, or any of the other ones in the kitchen - and I’m thinking how I can further the cause of Revolution! without aggravating my chronic fatigue and triggering my agoraphobia.

    Then it hit me.

    I could vote in the Londonistan mayoral election!

    “Bob!” I shouted, almost reaching jogging pace as I shuffled into the living room to find my brother staring at a poster of Che as Jesus – the one above the stereo, not the one round the back or on the roof above it or any of the other ones in the living room – “we need to vote in the election for mayor of Londonistan!”

    “But, sis, since the passport burning thing, ain’t we ineligible as Iranian nationals?”

    Bob didn’t often make a dead good point but he totally did then. Since we’d renounced our British citizenship and joined the glorious Islamic Republic of Iran (although we hadn’t technically set foot on Iranian soil just yet. The embassy had said my law practice was ‘contra bonos mores’ – whatever that means - and there was no work for Bob, as if there’s one thing Iran has in plentiful supply it’s PE teachers) we were now ineligible to vote in the fascist-xenophobic-Islamophobic United Kingdom.

    “Plus we’re anarchists, sis! Remember? Anarchic as hell and not going to take this anymore?”

    Two good points from Bob in one day. Maybe he really did get a first in his sports science degree.

    “If only there was a way we could influence the democratic process without voting”, I mused.

    Bob ripped off his matching tracksuit top and smacked a fist into his palm.

    “We could tell other people how to vote, sis!”

    Bob knew he had something and looked for my approval. I would have given it too, had I not realised that the main forum for this was my blog.

    But whom could we tell how to vote? Being from such a totally close-knit family meant not having room in my life for things such as friends. Apart from blood, the only significant others in my life were the people leaving comments on my blog, and they were no good on this occasion due to their either being American or one of our cunning multiple aliases.

    Suddenly, the genius that comes from being a totally hot bona fide lawyer washed over me like a wave.

    “Bob, where are you teaching on Thursday?”

    “Sixth Form College – why?” Bob’s earlier sparks of genius had deserted him (he never did tell me what classification his masters in sports science was).

    “We could get the kids that are 18, or the underage ones prepared to steal their parents’ voting card and, after some of my patented radical firebrand oratory, tell them which way to vote during your PE lesson. Let’s be honest: a political lecture from me is far more important than you telling them to run round a field six times and do 100 jumping jacks, or whatever.”

    “That’s the chronic fatigue talkin’! I help combat obesity!” retorted Bob.

    I panicked for a moment that Bob may have found the ‘I HELP COMBAT OBESITY’ T-Shirt I had bought him for his birthday, but then realised he wasn’t tall enough to reach the top shelf in my closet (if only the same could be said for the top shelf at our local newsagent).

    I knew that Bob’s obsession with calisthenics and wearing spandex in public meant my revolutionary demagoguery would have to wait for another day, but his love of giving orders meant we were set for Thursday. Just one thing remained:

    Which candidate should we tell them to vote for?

    So-called Red Ken had proven to be a shadow of the former GLC firebrand he once was after he failed to leave a comment on my blog agreeing with my ideas to project the number of London’s jobless onto the Houses of Parliament and fly the Red Flag over the Gherkin. And when Man of Men Hugo Chavez totally couldn’t be arsed to meet him, I knew he was unworthy of my vote.

    If I still had one.

    So he was out.

    Then there was Boris Johnson. He was a Tory MP and former Spectator editor but, as I informed Bob, he did write that deeply fascinating treatise on how the European Union had failed where the Roman Empire had succeeded in creating a European cultural and political identity, dooming it to inevitable redundancy.

    Bob looked at me with a glazed look, so I framed Johnson’s profile in terms a PE teacher could easily understand.

    “The blond fat bloke who shagged Petronella Wyatt.”

    “Bonkin’ Boris! Can’t beat a bit of posh nosh! Good one, sis!”

    Just as I thought I’d found a perfect way to stick one on reactionary Red Ken and further Revolution! Bob’s frontal lobes flickered into life again.

    “Hang on. Wasn’t he the guy who called Black Africans piccannies? Ain’t we suppos’d to be radical anarchists? Wouldn’t this go against our anti-racism stance?”

    He was dead right. Again.

    “You’re dead right, Bob. Again! We can’t in any way condone anything that might be construed as racism. We must defend our black sisters and brothers!”

    “Exactly, sis. But if you or Anomie ever try bringing a mulignan home you know what the family’s reaction is gonna be!”

    Ruling out the main contenders meant considering the Lib Dems. As much as I admired Vince Cable’s ballroom moves with Strictly’s Alesha, Brian Pad-Dick was totally out of the question. As he was a gay copper I knew he’d be out to fit up anaracho-revolutionaries like Bob and I, would instantly start relaxing cottaging laws once in office and doubtless set up tolerance zones in certain south London boroughs in his first 100 days. Plus, as anarchists of Sicilian descent, and bound by the code of Omerta, there was no way Bob and I could contemplate voting, or getting others to vote, pig!

    ‘What about the Respect guy?” suggested Bob. “Gorging George and all that. ‘Would you like me, to… be the mayor’! Hahaha. That Chantelle was fit eh? And she’s had her tits done now! And you’ve gotta, er, respect a man who’s played pussy with Rula Lenska!”

    I knew that once Bob’s mind was on pussy his revolutionary ardour became somewhat flaccid. I had to get his attention back on my mayoral masterplan.

    "Listen, Galloway totally isn’t going to be our chosen candidate! And while Respect may be dead good to go on a march with they tolerate gays and might give Pad-Dick a policing brief! Do you want him administering a summary stop and strip-search on you and checking for any concealed weapons about your person?”

    “Bloody hell! Course not, sis. I’m a PE teacher, ain’t it! But who on earth are we going to bully the fat kids into voting for? I’m anarchic as hell and not going to take this any more!”

    As suggesting Green to Bob would be tantamount to suggesting pink, this left one remaining choice.


    “BNP!” "But ain’t we against racism, except when it comes to your and Anomie’s dates?”

    As consistent as his anti-racism stance was, something else totally occurred to me.

    It wasn’t the BNP’s fascism or racism that I most found abhorrent, but the consequences of their policy for us on forcibly repatriating non-UK citizens if they were elected.

    “Bob!” I spluttered. “If the BNP get in they’ll make us pack up all our Che posters, evict us from east London and send us to Tehran!”

    Bob looked almost as terrified as when I mentioned Brian Pad-Dick personally giving him a cavity search.

    “Wos the point in voting anyhow, sis? The mayor’ll only end up getting in again! And I’ve got a much better idea...”

    Bob resumed smacking his fist into his palm.

    “I’m going to bully the fat kids into not voting!”

    “Brilliant, Bob! Absolutely brilliant! Direct inaction! What a totally revolutionary concept!

    And with that we resumed staring at our pictures of Che as Jesus. Or was it Jesus as Che? Some totally leftist revolutionary with a beard, anyhow.

  • Anarchy in the E17!

    Last Saturday evening Bob and I were at home in our matching tracksuits watching the History Channel. Anomie was out doing her regular Saturday teenage capitalist ritual of hanging out at New Look and Clare’s Accessories (we’ll brainwash the anarchist lifestyle into her one day), saving us from having to apply factually correct leftist interpretations of historical events for her benefit.

    In the middle of a documentary on Cuba’s jailing and executing of its undesirables, Bob leapt off the sofa and turned the TV off. Normally this is the cue for us to hold an informal symposium on the MSM’s propagandist output, and test Anomie on her recall of famous bearded anarchists. But with our cousin out at the shopping centre, clearly he was in the mood for something different.

    “I just can’t lounge about like a mental midget, watching TV and wearing a tracksuit! I'm anarchic as hell, and I'm not going to take this anymore!"

    My chronic fatigue was playing up, so this funny turn of Bob’s concerned me slightly. Normally he’s able to take out his antisocial impulses and societal frustrations in his role as PE teacher by kicking the fat kids into the showers after games. Clearly, this wasn’t going to be an option at the weekend.

    “We’re anarchists, sis! We gotta do somefing to bring on Revolution!”

    “But what, Bob? You know I had to wind down my law studio because of the CFS.”

    “I danno. You’re supposed to be the brain! That’s why you’re a proven lawyer and I’m a PE teacher!”

    “We could have a sit-in, I suppose”.

    “That’s the bleedin’ chronic fatigue talkin’! What’s anarchic about that? Would any true Iranian get a CFS diagnosis! We need action! Direct action! I'm anarchic as hell, and I'm not going to take this anymore!"

    “Ok, bruv. How about we...”

    “Cancel the TV license direct debit!”

    “Cancel the TV licence direct debit?”

    “Yeah, stick it to those muggy propagandist cunts at the BBC! How anarchic is that, eh!”

    “But, Bob. Nonpayment of the TV licence is an offence which could lead to prosecution and a fine of up to £1,000 (plus legal costs), not to mention the embarrassment and hassle of a court appearance And you know it was the hassle of all those court appearances that led to me having to take a career break from the law.”

    “C’mon, sis! You’re supposed to be a proven lawyer! You’d be able to get me off. And what’s bunce compared to anarchy and revolution!”

    “But... we need the MSM! I know we critique it all the time, but we’d be lost without it! What would we do if we couldn’t sit here feeling smug and sanctimonious at being able to see through all the Establishment’s conspiracies and propaganda!”

    Suppose you’re right, sis. Plus I’d really miss my post-midnight dose of Goldie Hawn!”


    “Yes, sis.”

    “Seeing as Anomie is out... well, we could always...”

    “Ah, go on then. I know we both have wanted to do it for a long time... I can’t suppress my feelings any more... Let’s do it! Let’s watch ITV!”

  • Scam the McCanns!!!

    The news that Shannon Matthews’ abduction may be a shamelessly engineered stunt can only mean one thing.

    The McCanns totally have a lot to answer for!!!

    It was inevitable that a spate of copycat cases would result after the blanket media coverage the McCanns’ Find Maddy campaign received.

    The more dead impressionable and ignored elements of our celebrity-obsessed society were bound to succumb to this kind of temptation, as the only chance most white working class mothers have of meeting the Pope, being profiled in the Times or being on GMTV is if their child is abducted. And the McCanns’ tireless self-promotion is totally contributing to this situation.

    It’s surely no coincidence that the only way they can keep their daughter’s name in the public eye is by constantly maintaining a high media profile themselves!!!

    But, more importantly, what Shannongate has also totally illustrated is the potential honeytrap that is the McCanns’ Find Maddy fund, with relatives of Shannon allegedly attempting to claim money from it.

    Once again, bourgeois wealth is acting against the interests of the working class!!!

    The lure of this unearned wealth is causing the underclass to consider having their daughters abducted in order to survive in Brown’s Bourgeois Britain.

    For the sake of preventing any future Shannongates it’s time to expropriate this fund from the McCanns.

    Why should all this wealth be kept back for one daughter of the bourgeoisie (who’s probably totally dead) when there are working class girls risked being stashed in council houses divans because of it?

    The time has come to expropriate the wealth of the bourgeoisie.

    Liquidise the fund!!!

    Scam the McCanns!!!

  • Mugabienificant!

    Once again, anti-imperialist liberation hero, international statesman, economic genius and demi-God on earth, President Robert Mugabe has successfully stuck it to the scheming and duplicitous European and North American governments trying to undermine the sovereign Republic of Zimbabwe. Mugabe, the savvy political whiz-kid, has been able to engineer a situation where there will be a run off election for the Presidency of Zimbabwe. Some of the more, naive, inadvertent puppets of Western MSM may not understand why this is such a fillip for the man who learned judges call ‘Zimbabwe’s Mandela’, but let me explain to you using the insight that only a totally hot bona fide lawyer with her own completely genuine practice can provide.

    Many of you may be aware that the 3rd candidate in this election – other than President Mugabe and leader of the Western funded, ruthless, outlaw, MDC, noted anti government conspirator, and a man willing to have his own people torture him so he can show the scars and blame it on the government, Morgan Tsvengurai – is ‘former’ ZANU-PF loyalist Simba Makoni (No relation to Stuart Makoni of NME fame).

    What you will almost certainly not be aware of is that Makoni is the totally preferred candidate of President Mugabe to take over the glorious socialist revolution when Mugabe himself is unable to continue in the job due to his advancing years. Mugabe tried to position Makoni for this when he made him Finance Minister in 2000, however Mugabe knew that despite all of the ‘cleansing’ he had achieved over the years there were still some imperialist British forces within ZANU-PF (he even knew for a fact that some of them had DVD Box Sets of Some Mother’s Do ‘Ave ‘Em) who would try to block Makoni’s progress should he be seen as Mugabe’s man. Because of these elements, Mugabe devised a dead cunning plan to have Makoni say dissenting things about the government’s policies, break away from ZANU-PF, run as an independent where he could prevent the MDC gaining over 50% of the vote, swing his weight back behind Mugabe in the run-off election, thus ensuring through political dealing that he would be seen by all as Mugabe’s rightful successor. This, extraordinary, Machiavellian plan was the only way the imperialist forces could be out-manoeuvred and Bob (Mugabe, not my brother, Bob!!!) was the only man who could execute it.

    Obviously the MDC have lied and claimed that Tsvengurai has achieved over 50% of the vote to avoid a run-off and foil the brilliant presidential masterplan, but INDEPENDENT observers have rejected this seditious nonsense. Clearly irate at having the democratic process in Zimbabwe subverted this way, the police have taken strong and decisive action in raiding MDC headquarters and detaining activists in order that a fair and unbiased campaign can continue and good governance prevail throughout the land.

    A scurrilous rumour going around is that ZANU-PF have added the names of thousands of dead people to the electoral role to increase the vote for their candidates and provide a false result. What an outrage! What white imperialist pro-Rhodesia propaganda! The fact here is that ZANU-PF are totally the only ones bright enough to understand that, in Zimbabwe, the dead cannot be denied their voting rights! Let me explain. The life expectancy in Zimbabwe is extremely low at 39 years. The reason for this is not government incompetence as some others may have you believe, it is in fact due to imperialist British agents undercover in the Zimbabwe health system striking a secret deal with Chemo-Fascist cartel GlaxoSmithKlein (GSK) to spend the entire Health Service budget on Lucozade. GSK grossly overstated the medicinal benefits of Lucozade and, while minor colds and hangovers were treated effectively, many more serious diseases were not combated by the gloopy death poison that GSK and their friends in the UK government had inflicted on Zimbabwe.

    Now that we have established factually why the life expectancy is so low, we can come to understand why the dead must be allowed their say. Very few of the population alive now were involved in the independence struggle. These lazy ingrates have sat back and grown fat off of the work of their forefathers. They do not truly understand what Robert Mugabe has done for Zimbabwe. The fate of this election cannot be left to them, the people who must decide it are TRUE Zimbabweans! REVOLUTIONARY Zimbabweans! DEAD Zimbabweans!

    These dead Zimbabweans are the type of people who can cut through all of the bullshit that is reported by Western media and lies proffered by Western agents. They know that Zimbabwe is leading the world in all sorts of fields, such as:

    Zimbabwe is proudly winning the war on cattle obesity!

    Zimbabwe has more billionaires than any other country!

    Zimbabwe has the most arable farmland in the hands of bloodthirsty militias in Sub-Saharan Africa!

    This is the sort of information that you won’t hear on the BBC (Bourgeois Bumfuckers Cabal). The same BBC who are already laying the groundwork for an imperialist invasion when Mugabe wins – undercover SAS agent John Simpson has been in Zimbabwe preparing for a week, in blatant contravention of Zimbabwe law – but it won’t work BBC! It won’t work Mark Thompson! It won’t work Huw Edwards! It won’t work Terry Wogan! Once again, the imperialist forces will fall to Robert Mugabe, through his intellect and indefatigability, the proud revolutionary who can never be conquered.

    As a fellow anti-imperialist and revolutionary, I will celebrate President Mugabe’s victory in the run-off election with a can of non-alcoholic lager (non-alcoholic, because alcohol is bad for you and lager because I am won ov da ladz) whilst watching my beloved Same Difference videos on YouTube. It’s not downtown Harare, but it’s the next best thing.

    Viva Sicillia!

    Cuba Libre!

    Well Done Zimbabwe!

  • Passport control!

    Being raised in a dead revolutionary freedom fighting household meant that my brother and I were suckled together on the milk of anti-imperialism.

    As adults we have continued to fight the good fight, as much as our respective occupational commitments as solicitor and PE teacher allow us.

    However, both of us were appalled at the lickspittle British media’s serving up of the fascist-militarist-imperialist-Islamphobic propaganda that is Prince Harry’s Afghanistan war diaries.

    As a consequence of this, and in protest at the continued imperialist activities of the British Government, my brother Bob and I have renounced our British citizenship.

    Chanting our dead anti-imperialist slogan of "Not in our nationality!", last Friday we presented ourselves at the Iranian embassy and applied for citizenship of the Islamic Republic of Iran.

    It feels dead good. We have overthrown the imperialist yoke from our passports!!!

    Bob considered this dead ingenious and one in the eye for the "muggy imperialist cunts", stating that "our victory is their victory!!!"
    However, despite renouncing our dead imperialist British citizenship and becoming dead anti-imperialist Iranian citizens, we will continue to reside together in east London.

    Doubtless some will accuse us of hypocrisy for our continued espousing of regimes and values we ourselves would never wish to live under. Others will point at our convenient separating of ourselves from the actions of the British Government while continuing to benefit from living under its jurisdiction.

    This attitude smacks of the fascist and xenophobic persecution of immigrants that exists in Britain today!!!

    To those not infected with the fascist-militarist-imperialist-Islamphobic agenda we say: stand shoulder to shoulder with your dead anti-imperialistic Iranian east London residing brothers and sisters! You have nothing to lose but your passports!!!

  • Is Kate McCann the female Harold Shipman?

    Even though all the evidence gathered by the Portuguese police is overwhelmingly circumstantial, and will almost certainly never be enough to secure conviction in a court of law, Kate McCann is so obviously and totally guilty.

    Despite the efforts of their establishment-backed PR team to spin the case details; and the xenophobic British media (the Times almost behaving like a McCann in-house magazine), daring to print shameless and groundless accusations of Portuguese police incompetence, the McCanns’ arguida status remains.

    The British press have been full of xenophobic propaganda from this medical Lady McBeth (or should that be Lady McCann – she probably will be by the New Year honours list!!!) and her establishment cronies from day one, printing scurrilous stories such as Portuguese police beating confessions from a suspect on the last occasion a young child went missing in the Algarve (only fifteen miles from where Maddie disappeared). Accusations from British police that the Portuguese carelessly allowed for the crime scene to be contaminated is just colonial nonsense, and an example of white imperialists attempting to impose their cultural practices on others.

    It’s about time the British press stopped colluding with the top brass in the Metropolitan police and better exposed the Met’s corrupt and incompetent activities. Does an institution notorious for such failures as Stephen Lawrence, Jean Charles de Menezes and Jack the Ripper (120 years on and they still have totally not identified the killer!!!) merit the coverage instead of the plucky (and indigenous) Polícia Judiciária?

    The McCanns’ claims of Maddie being abducted are about as believable as a mother claiming a dingo took her baby!!!

    The McCanns will always be dead guilty, even if they evade justice with their Branson-financed briefs. But what other crimes could Killer Kate be guilty of? Where are the calls for a public inquiry into her record as a GP? After the police dogs caught the scent of death from her, who knows how many other medical mishaps this woman could be responsible for? If the McCanns can be considered suspects in the death of Maddie, who’s to say they couldn’t have killed before!!! Both McCann and Shipman were paid-up BMA members, this connection between the two so obviously meaning something totally sinister.

    The lack of an immediate public enquiry is so obviously a total cover up by the establishment, dead keen to avoid another Shipman-esque scandal of bourgeois, professional decadence. Smear tactics, press leaks, calls for hapless police members to be removed from their duties and political interference in judicial matters – it could only happen in ‘democratic’ Britain!!!

  • Whatta man!

    Whatta man, whatta man, whatta man, whatta mighty good man! I wanna take a minute or two, and give much respect to the man that's made a difference in my world.

    Obviously I’m totally not referring to this man:


    I am of course totally refering to the most significant anti-imperialist leader in the world today, President Ahmadinejad.


    What a speech! My man Ahmi is smooth like Barry and his voice got bass.
    He's smart like a doctor with a real good rep, and when he comes home to Iran, he's relaxed with pep.

    ahmadinejad 1

    Ahmadinejad totally killed there, and was dead right in meeting the Iranophobes head on, making a monkey out of Bollinger! And grey really is his colour! *drools*

    Look out you imperialist fascist scum - Ahmi is coming to get ya!!!


  • Comments policy

    Being such a virulent anti-fascist (not to mention anti-Zionist and anti-imperialist) means I believe totally in freedom of speech. However, I also believe totally that some people’s speech is freer than others. As a consequence, I reserve the right to delete posts without explanation. As an anarchist, anti-fascist and supporter of indigenous freedom fighters everywhere I am willing to provide a platform for dissenting voices. However, consistently exercising this right will be considered totally fascist behaviour.

    The following may lead to your post being deleted:

    Being too elaborate or thoughtful (it’s a blog, not a thinktank)
    The comment consisting of racist, xenophobic, imperialist propaganda or crap
    Linking to racist, xenophobic, imperialist, racist websites
    Addressing someone as “Rob”, when their name is actually “Bob”,

    The following are exempt:

    Posts in total agreement
    Comments that disagree in a particularly obsequious fashion
    Comments detailing violent ends reserved for fascists, paedos, soldiers of imperialist forces and the McCanns
    Posts from relatives, such as from my brother, Bob, or anyone else called Bob (although see post deletion qualifications above)
    Referring to my being totally hot (which I so am)!


The content of this website belongs to a private person, is not responsible for the content of this website.

"Integrate the javascript code between and : Integrate the javascript code in the part :