Tripping Up

So BritPrince Rufus Castratus and his wife Caring-Slut head off to Africa to do Noble Things, said things including but not limited to hugging Black chilluns, waving their own baby around, and giving inspiring speeches to Third-World Yoot, telling them not to despair but to strive to achieve the kinds of things otherwise only available to people born into noble families, or married into them, or to those of inherited wealth.

The problem, though, is that the African Adventure was supposed to be a giant PR stunt to assuage the storm of opprobrium which burst out when the Royal Ginger addressed a climate-scold conference, telling everyone to lower their carbon footprint, when in fact he’d swanned over to the conference on a series of filthy, polluting private jets.

And the African Adventure certainly started out that way for them;  adoring crowds at every stop, lickspittle Press reports and millions of cute baby pics everywhere.


Because of royalty (his) and celebrity (hers), a certain amount of security would be needed because Africa, and (forgive the unconscious racism) there is no such thing as an “armored SUV” anywhere on the Darkie Continent except as owned by various criminal thugs of the Mugabe stripe who (quite sensibly) were not going to hand over their armored vehicles and leave themselves vulnerable to, well, the rest of Africa.

So the BritGov arranged for a few of these rhino-trucks to be flown over to Darkest Africa, creating in their wake a carbon footprint equivalent to the Krakatoa eruption (some slight exaggeration, but that’s the leitmotif  of the International Climate Fear Set, isn’t it?).  Needless to say, all the Perpetually Indignants are beside themselves with fury.

I kinda feel sorry for His Gingerness.  He’s tried so hard to Do The Right Thing (as defined by his Hollywood slutwife):  announced that they’re only going to have two children because social responsibility;  given up birdshooting, boozing, foxhunting, eating meat, carousing and all the other stuff which made him lovable, and gone pretty much Full Woke (and we all know what perils lie there).

And that’s the problem right there.  If you’re going to set yourselves up as the Duke and Duchess of Wokeshire, you’re always going to fuck up disastrously in some way or another no matter what you do, just because of the nature of your job (such as it is) and the minefield that is wokedom.

Stop to eat some local delicacy at a roadside vendor?  Don’t you know that the animal which gave up its testicles for you is on the U.N. Endangered Species List?
Attend a tribal dance festival, put on some of the dancers’ duds and join in the dance?  OMG that cultural appropriation is SO disrespectful!
Watch your cousin ride in some equestrian competition?  Don’t you KNOW how much the horses suffer?
And so on.

There’s a simple solution to all of this for old Harry:

  • ditch the slutwife, keep the kid (and I have some support for this)
  • start doing again all the things he used to enjoy before the Mulatto Actress Infatuation (boozing, bonking blondes, birdshooting, driving fast cars, doing all four of those things at the same time,  etc.)
  • tell the whiny wokescolds to fuck off — he’s a Royal, FFS, and he doesn’t need anyone’s approval to do anything

But he’s never going to go there, is he?  Because in terms of becoming King of Britishland, his brother (and his  expanding brood) has relegated Rufus pretty much to the 2nd XI, inheritance-wise;  and without being the Woke Prince, therefore, all he would have left to do is open supermarkets, attend formal balls, go to church with Granny, and hand out the trophies at the Upper Twittering Boys Athletics competition.

Just like all the other minor royals, in other words.

But at least he’d get his balls back.

No More Trophies For You, Matey

I usually email Mr. Free Market and / or The Englishman to tease them about the latest BritGov foolishness — it keeps me busy (because of the volume thereof) and I like getting the return emails, contents of which I cannot share because bloodthirsty / seditious / both.  Here’s but one example:

Mr. FM’s response to this idiocy, however, was different:

The government could ban trophy hunting souvenirs after a huge spike in the number of bloodsport mementos being brought back to the UK.
Animal welfare minister Zac Goldsmith said the sport ‘turns my stomach’ as he revealed there will be an urgent consultation over the controversial imports.
It comes after a strong public backlash to trophy hunting after the deaths of animals such as Cecil the lion in 2015, as well as elephants and leopards.

We’ll leave aside the necessity for a government “animal welfare minister” for the moment, and concentrate on Mr. FM’s response:

“Excellent.  Given the cost of taxidermy, not to mention the astronomical shipping costs, this ban will just leave me more money to buy tags to shoot more animals*.”

In other words:

Yeah, that’s going to work really well for the BritGov.  It’s a classic example of what happens when you want to legislate against something but know fuck-all about the subject.

*I should point out that in most parts of Africa, there are few limits as to how much game you want to shoot;  the degree of scarcity drives the price up or down.  If you want to shoot another one, you just pay the additional tag fee — which by the way, are nosebleed (see here for typical per-animal tags).

So Much For That Freedom

I know that this travesty happened in Britishland and not Over Here, but I can foresee such a thing happening should the Socialists ever get their hands on the levers of power:

Anti-Semitic blogger who sang songs on YouTube comparing the Holocaust to a ‘theme park’ is JAILED after publishing 50 new posts in breach of a ban on social media use

Given the subject matter of this foul woman’s blog, I’m just surprised that she wasn’t offered a senior position in Britain’s Labour Party.

Now Longtime Readers will know full well that I have no time — none — for anti-Semites:  I think they’re nasty little fuckers, without exception.  But as with all things pertaining to freedom, I look at the bigger picture, see the intolerance being shown towards viewpoints that do not adhere to the modern ideals of political correctness —  such as, for example, every other post on my  blog —  and the only difference Over Here is that while the politically-incorrect can be “de-platformed” by host providers such as FaecesBook, WeirdPress or YooChube, that’s a whoooole ‘nother animal from being chucked in jail  for the same “offences”.

And yet I wonder:  if the Loony Left [redundancy alert] are ever given complete control over our society, can anyone persuade me that it could never  become a crime, for example, to be a “climate change denier”, “sexual harasser” or a “Nazi” (by their definition of the terms)?

Given that these tits want to abolish the Second Amendment altogether, adding a few asterisks to the First would be a simple task.

Delenda est Sinistrae  (if I may be so “intolerant”).

Long Weekend

As we Murkins head into the last long weekend of the summer, I thought it would be appropriate to see how others do long weekends — or specifically, how they do a “Bank Holiday” weekend in Britishland.

Last weekend, in fact, was the hottest such on record in the U.K., so of course the pasty-skinned Brits headed for the beach to get properly burned:


Okay,there were some  sorta-worthwhile sights along the way:



But if stuck in London, there was always the annual Notting Hill Carnival:



And for the sake of balance, just to prove that I can be inclusive:

Or, if it was too hot in daytime, one could always wait until night time and hit the pubs:



If I didn’t know better, I’d say this lot were having a pee through the windows:


You have to admire their stupidity bravery in balancing precariously (and, one assumes, drunkenly) over those anti-pigeon spikes, though.

But none of that is exclusive to Britishland, really — you could do all that anywhere in the world.  To make the thing British, you’d have to participate in the World Bog Snorkelling Championships, wherein one has to swim through a malodorous boggy trench — and this is what makes it truly  British — in fancy-dress costume:



Given the choices at the top of this page, I think I’d rather do the Bog thing, dressed as a Viking.

Still, in the same spirit:  enjoy the Labor Day Weekend, folks!

Enter Boris

I’ve always liked Boris Johnson — yeah, maybe it’s the Old Boy thing (Eton College was the “brother” school to St. John’s) — but what I like most of all is the predictable way the U.K. Left has responded to his accession to Number 10 Downing Street:


Just note that underneath Johnson’s jovial, stammering, Hooray-Henry exterior, there’s some serious intellect going on.  (See here where he talks about Winston Churchill’s oratory.)  In other words, he’s the complete opposite of ex-U.S. President (Half-)Black Jesus, underneath whose smooth and urbane exterior… not much was going on.

And if PM Boris can’t get Britishland out of the horrible European Union, the Brits deserve to get everything that happens to them.

Go Boris!


Pale Shadow

It appears that while once-Great Britain has been solving problems like plastic drinking straws and imposing taxes on milkshakes (!), their navy has been allowed to deteriorate into a motley collection of rowing boats, dinghies and canoes:

The Royal Navy has only ordered one aircraft carrier, a handful of offshore patrol vessels, five submarines, and a single new frigate for the next decade as a report says its force will get even smaller.
It comes as serious questions have been raised over Britain’s ability to defend itself following Iran seizing the UK-flagged tanker Stena Impero in the Strait of Hormuz.

In essence, the once-proud Royal Navy has allowed a British-flagged ship to be hijacked by a bunch of ragheads in a speedboat.

Of course, Uncle Sam will probably come to Britain’s aid again in protecting the sea lanes (see:  WWI and WWII), but let’s hope that this altruism will not get in the way of the British government’s clown show (see: Brexit).

Feckless idiots.