What Could Possibly Go Wrong?

This Swedish woman is a tireless campaigner against the deportation of criminal “refugees” and in a gesture of… well, you guess it, I can’t — goes home with two teenage Afghans she meets outside a bar. The inevitable occurs:

A Swedish woman in her 40s was brutally raped by an Afghan teenager while another migrant man molested her, a court has heard.

As the man said: you’d have to have a heart of stone not to laugh hysterically at this story. Read the whole thing; I guarantee you’ll be shaking your head all the way through.

Man, some people are just plain fucking stupid.

Adding The Years

I hardly ever read the insufferable, whiny Liz Jones (former editor of some girls’ magazine, now columnist for the Daily Mail and a lifelong Train Smash Woman), but this article’s headline caught my eye, and I found myself nodding in agreement.

Shouty headlines on Friday morning proclaimed: ‘Couple of glasses a night shortens life by two years! Much more than four bottles a week can lop off five years!’
By that count, I should have died four years ago.

I think I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve really needed a drink (as opposed to just wanting one), but I’m with Liz this time.

I have always wondered about the veracity of these scare stories, thinking, well, what if your wine glasses are really small?

As Loyal Readers know well, I don’t believe any of these shitty studies and / or scare stories anymore, because all you have to do is wait a couple months, and another study will come out and completely contradict the earlier one. Most of the time, they’ve all been written by scolds and busybodies who want to tell us how to live our lives — and by the way, when did every fucking thing become a matter of public health?

And Miz Jones surely has a point with this thought:

And I cannot help wondering why everyone wants to prolong a life that will inevitably be joyless, as if this were our only ambition.
There’s nothing to look forward to at the end of the day. No point sitting on a terrace with a beautiful view as, with no stem in your hand, all that’s left to do is fiddle with your phone. No reason to crave the interval during a play; I tend to slope off home at half-time, the prospect of Act Two too tedious without bubbles.
There’s no point winning an award or getting married or getting out of bed on Christmas morning. I’m generally asleep by nine, as there’s nothing to do. Nothing to dull the loss of a parent or child. Nothing to hold.

Here’s the thing: speaking for myself, I don’t need any of those reasons to have a drink, not a single one. But I can quite understand why someone else would want or need a drink on those occasions — whether out of joy, sorrow, or just wanting to relax.

As I said, it’s a rare occasion indeed when I agree with Liz Jones; but on this occasion, despite her irritating demeanor, I find myself in full agreement with her sentiment towards these tools: just leave me the hell alone and quit trying to scare me into living my life the way you want me to.

Scary stories are supposed to frighten children into better behavior. And by trying that tactic on adults, it reveals exactly what these “public health” Nazis think we are.

Fuck them all. Time for a healthy breakfast:

.

Babes And Sucklings? Fuck ‘Em

One of the most irritating and destructive Biblical statements is that innocence breeds strength — “Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings…” etc. No. What you get out of the mouths of babes and sucklings is meaningless, uninformed babble at best, and sociopathic speech at worst.

As Loyal Readers know, I don’t have a FaecesBook account, so I don’t really have a personal dog in the current fight about how Zuckerberg’s little toy has been turned into an open-top mine of personal data for others to play with. (Click on that link at yer own risk: I nearly had a coronary when I read it.)

All I have to say is: this is the kind of thing you get when teenagers create multi-billion dollar companies without adult supervision:

They don’t have a fucking clue what they’re getting into, or the eventual consequences of their actions. (Or they do, and they’re amoral little fuckers like Mark Zuckerberg.)

And speaking of kids with guns: the day I support the idea that callow adolescents (like these children) get to dictate public policy and Constitutional amendments, is the day y’all need to ship me off to Senility Central. You have my full permission, given in advance.

“Ladies” Day

And the parade of Train Smash Women continues at Aintree, on the inaptly-named Ladies Day:

 

 

…and just to prove my point, here’s my favorite Train Smash Woman of all, the wonderful Lisa Appleton:

Speaking of umbrellas, here’s one who matched her brolly not with her outfit, but with her tattoo:

Amazingly (and unusually for Aintree), not all the women were hideous:

 

 

…albeit sometimes quite alarming:

…but “pretty” ain’t the way to bet at the Grand National:

And there was so much more to come when the booze started to flow…

I know, I’m so weak. I just can’t help myself. Moth, meet candleaaaaaargh….

I love them all, these Train Smash Women.

And They’re Off !

So after the Class of Cheltenham comes the Ass of Aintree (a.k.a. the Great Train Smash Women Pageant):

Okay, okay… there were a couple of sorta-decent specimens there too, although one has to look hard to find them:

  

 

  (girl needs a suntan, badly)

Best line of the day: “According to racecourse bosses, there’s no strict dress code for the festival as there is for Royal Ascot”, and accordingly the Train Smash Women are just overwhelming (in every sense of the word):

    

  

…and it’s only Day ONE !!!!