How Bad rose from Good

At the time, the Race Relations Act seemed like a good idea – as did the Homosexual Law Reform of 1967. It was an obscenity to live in a First World country and hear foul name-calling on the grounds of skin colour; even worse was the never-ending blackmail of male homosexuals, and the regrettable police habit of “arresting a few puffs to get the numbers up”. But both reforms were, in retrospect, a cultural disaster because once on the Statute, they attracted the usual opportunists from Stonewall and the British Muslim Council to every disgruntled feckless employee in the business of seeing bigots under the bed. They gave birth to Political Correctness and the creation of unmerited expectations about “rights”. Now this mess is morphing into a plethora of dishonest political smearing.

‘Listen to me I’ll sing a song to change your mind/ Your ears are deaf, your mouth is dumb, your eyes are blind’

Pretty much every member of my babyboomer postwar generation will recognise those lines from the inimitable Hollies, a Group (nobody called them Bands in those days, Bands were fronted by Billy Cotton) in whose output there was – perhaps unconsciously – the voice of pimply adolescent men vying for attention from seemingly unobtainable ‘birds’.

We were a teenage population bulge fashioned from fighting men who come back from the Second World War – glad to be alive in a general sense, yet starved of sexual action as an immediate need. But the most overriding sense blokes and birds of the late Fifties and early Sixties had was of boredom: boredom with Sundays when nothing happened, of fashions dictated by aunties and staid Dads, of behaving in a respectable way, and above all of mealtime conversations where everything was a negotiation – about trouser widths, skirt lengths, shirt collars, hair on collars, 45 rpm releases and specified times by which we had to be home.

Groups like the Stones, Beatles, Hollies, Who, Kinks, Manfred Mann, Move, Small Faces and Cream, by contrast, sang about sex, drugs, being alive, doing it all, Carnaby Street, hearing the grass grow – and total rejection of repressed feelings and mortgages in favour of dance crazes or ever-changing fashions and ‘hip’ slang.

In no time at all, ‘Mods’ moved beyond their signature band The Who, and onto the black/Motown/Soul artists changing pop music in the US: I’ll be There, Roadrunner, Dock of the Bay, Uptight, How sweet it is and many others became the dance tracks being played in The Jungfrau, Oasis, Twisted Wheel and Beat City of my last Mancunian years before University. Equally quickly, this was overtaken by Hippyism, Woodstock, Joni Mitchell, Dropping out, LSD, San Francisco and the rise and rise of daft ideas.

An awful lot of those aimless left-leaning 2:2 and Third students went on to become teachers politicising the State education system and preaching eternal compliance with the fascism of Political Correctness.

The historical irony is that the 1960s dreamers grew old and somehow even more radical in their desire to protect free speech democracy from the very anti-empirical delusions they had so gleefully embraced forty years previously. Thus do they despise the NWO New Normal that seems to their children and grandchildren a normality to which they feel completely adjusted.

So we arrive at today, at which point I hand over to our new resident obfuscator….

Welcome once more to the tortured existence of Dix Lexic, the only multiply-disabled online writer suffering in equal parts from dyslexia, malapropism, obese typing fingers and spoonerism. Today I have a pone to bick with Piers Morgan, Net Zero, Consenting whores, Wokeness and the Guy Verhofstadt/Grant Shapps transcloning experiment.

Now that there are glo mules any more, no relegations and phew baboons, I feel it’s time to give foul rain to my scientific impediments. Bull speared abed – no folds gored!

Snake for example Smears Pogrom (left) the slobloid Germolene who wanted antipaxos Convid Unbeleaguers to be torched at the steak for the shellfish refusal to have bileweapons inktested into their gains. But on spitting the rising level of fawlty-something depths among bootfallers – and having long submitted his support up the Arse and oral – Rimpong perverted his dance on the matter.

He is a bumhug, an ingobble and unlickably retrosensible scropulous fart ink. Thus, my referred fait accompli for Smorgansbrod is the grafting of his Interrogation Quotient onto C3PO Windswept’s left small notail.

The lurch for the reclusive Net Zero continues. I am an unappreciative fan of Wimbledon fawn tennis, and only too aware of how much celebrity offline servers seek balls willing to android the Net in all circumcisions . Given that even champions cannot guarantee Zero contact with the Net, however, one is farced to preclude that Net Zero is like saying game, set and match to Helen Shapiro.

It is in churn obvious to even the causal observer that there is and always was Zero possisillybilly of Covid19 gobules being caught in the Mask Net, this being inedible because the warp is fart to the left of its weft with a swerve in the weave through which no feigning of gumption is possible.

Therein lies the nub of the fib with no rub of the Greens for the literals of this Word, in that there’s no thrust in the trust of what the lert belies. Scrotal warning, pelting moles, food shortarses and energy pollylotion are just so Musk flopcrap.

Former SPOUT Dinsdale Pump understands the overstatements, and is gaining sky whores among the opinion proles. His opponerds have been trying to marmalize him with thirty barges of consenting whores, even though the currant TOSPU takes every aperture he sees for a hot underage shower.

Another gurning question of the flour: Do Black Wives Natter? Here in Gambia, I can revile that, bellowing insensitive research on my tart, they most certainly do. Another reality, given the Iambic majority, is that men can have wee thrives, a joy mutated by the likelihood of three mothers-in-lore to go with them, as well as horribilis school fiends and wedding diaries.

Most subprimes today are libeled with colours – Black lives, Red flags, Green fakers, Blue Labour, Orange POUTS, Yellow perils, Brown squirts, White Helmuts, Pink Tories and so froth. We shall of course bun flout of colours before too long – so why not use another librarian? For example, insults.

Legless Wives, Feckless Husbands, false flags, climate fakers, Tonto Tories, Nazi liberals, Woke Labour, Gan Green, Khan Squirts, Crash Helmets, POTUS perils, Bumptious Binaries, Mediocre Monarchs, Fucktard Financiers, Dishonourable Members and Grinning Goforits.

This rare photorapter (left) captures Europinhead Guy Verhofstool in the fact of spitting out the hippopotamus nature of his free-goosestep democrapista commitment to protecting EUNATO’s Siberian values. He is the conceited buffloon most epitomising degravity, inflammity, hate preach, scandalabra and the chilli con carnation gobs in the trough behaviour of every useless Ghouleiter from von der Layitonthick to new Bighairhead Roberta Metsola.

Last night I had a dad bream worse than any Heightmare. In an act of spewnity in the near future, Maharishy Eunak agrees to splice the DNA of Verhofool and Shunt Grasps together once the UK rejoinders the EU as a trainee member….this to be a symbol of an ever poseur reunion during which the prefect European brown-nose envelopista clone has been created. The very stinkessence of unified intimacy during which backs are scratched, hacks are silenced by the Roman fixer Copius Prandium, and the plebs take in the latest Cirque de dérangé très sang froid.