At the End of the Day


Watch telly. Play online games. Do not think.


In one of the local grocery shops here the other day – having washed my hands in Medigel upon entering – I bought a few vital items (Champagne vinegar, Ketchup, fillet of vegan Guinea Fowl, Braised vole sur son lit d’escargots en jus de troufflé mango  – that sort of thing) and then proceeded to the checkout where, with great vigour and attention to detail, the till girl sprayed my money with DDT and gave me a receipt via her surgically gloved hands.

This act struck me as being the only time in my life when I had been a witness to genuine money-laundering.

I waved away the receipt, and received a lecture of several minutes duration on how (if I didn’t have a receipt to show the gendarmes) they would fine me for Wandering About Carelessly Spreading The Plague with no evidence of shopping having taken place.

Just so you Blighty-based folks understand this fully, I now need a signed attestation to leave the house at any time, a till receipt to prove I was shopping to avoid Acute Starvation Syndrome, and a persuasive manner to explain to uniformed State clodhoppers how I need to pick up my meds from the pharmacy on the same trip…and that doesn’t involve any wicked plot to destabilise the French State.

The Times continues its daily battle to defeat million-strong statistics with COVID19 anecdotes about very old people dying of…well, COVID19. In today’s escapade, Murdoch’s Morons told us that the Marquess of Bath was a victim; he was 87 years old. I met the Bath Marquess at a victuallers’ do about 20 years ago. Placed on the next table to me, he spent most of the evening eyeing up my then wife. Amused by this, we engaged him in a twenty-minute conversation in which the Bathist revealed himself to be a jolly interesting chap driven largely by his dick. He had a life better than 99.999% of Earthling humanity. I am not in any way bitter about that; I just don’t know whatTF a “serious” newspaper is doing mourning his death as something unexpected.

Kenneth Law Sumner also succumbed yesterday. He joined the 617 “Dam Busters” Squadron in 1943. I owe a debt to Ken – as we all do. But Ken was 98 fucking years old: would he have approved of the liberties being taken by the opportunists in this, our virus-obsessed world? I very much doubt it.

Rupert’s family (with the adorable exception of daughter Liz) of course continues to report on the Prime Minister’s alleged inability to arrange a socialising session on a puppy farm….or for the Murderocks to replace the BBC’s risible Leftlib tendency with a news station leaning somewhere to the more extreme personality defects of Reinhard Heydrich.

But hey – Roopdedoop gives us live footie, right? Surely, such things override all ethical considerations…, for example, real news to calm the population down – rather than fake news to bring the Government down.

And finally, all those Labour minorities looking for advantage owe a debt of gratitude to Our Owen Jones:


Sadly for Labour as a Party, every free-thinking, open-minded voter in Britain owes a much greater debt of gratitude to Their Owen Jones.

The Boy Wonder needs a lesson in Promotion by Ability. I’m also at a loss to know exactly what these ‘victories’ are to which he refers.

He’s a grafter is the Jones-boy: he digs a bigger and bigger hole for the Opposition with every opinion he expresses.