Balls O' Na

Many years ago I was in the State of Paraná, Brazil, listening to the roar of the greatest (by volume) waterfall in the world. The Chilean girl I was with giggled at the name and explained that, in Santiago, this was a way of saying 'useless'.

Jair Bolsonaro seems certain to be elected President of Brazil later this month on a ticket of shooting blacks. Balls O' Na doesn't quite put it that way, of course, but that's what it amounts to. Balls O' Blood won't be going out there himself to do the shooting, naturally: young Brazilian worker boys will be paid to take the bullets while he and his generals sit in Rio sipping cachaça, counting the reais and chortling.

Well, so what? If the people of Brazil want to shoot their blacks, or at least have them shot, what can one do but grimace and turn to the sports pages? The idea of sending in the gunboats to try to instill a bit of civilization into the Savage World is not only unfashionable but too expensive. No doubt…

Why Bourgeois #MeToo Sucks Ass

In response to Hadley Freeman

It was just silly things at first: staring at me

Staring at Hadley would be silly and certainly a sign of poor taste.

But more than a teacher should give to a student, which is any number from one upwards.

I wonder what gives Hadley such absolute moral authority on this subject. Apart from being an immensely privileged woman with a soapbox who wants things to whine about

I worried about him.

Sure she did. I bet she lay awake at night full of pious concern.

He didn’t feel bad now, because he didn’t feel bad then.

Why should he? He wanted a date, didn't get one and moved on. Pity Hadley can't, whiiiiiiiiine.

#MeToo movement that was supposed to change gender relations for ever.

By criminalizing, or at least hounding out, anyone who does not share WCTU morality. Nice.

In 2016, he was acquitted of four counts of sexual assault and one count of choking, relating to three women.

Yes, acquitted. But never mind, eh? God forbid an innocent man should be allowed to tel…

Messaging/emailing my son (13)

Good morning, I am writing this from steamy Cebu city, the Queen of the South and the oldest city in the Philippines. I often come here for a few days break because, although it's just as hot as South China, the beaches are better and the girls are friendlier.

'The girls are friendlier'? If ur looking for love that's fine ur life I just want to say ur nearly 50 and fat soooooooooooooooooooooo good luck - u can always find a blind girl. I have a question: was I a mistake? Due to u and mum having uhhhhh a sleep after u got divorced. Mum's a bit vague.

You were definitely not an accident (launches into long explanation). 
Anyway, here's a poem I wrote after you arrived:

The Gift

The night before you pushed and struggled out
I slept on the ground, ice and snow about
That was Art's path; I shivered coldly
My belly empty, sod and soul solely

But then you came, your hair was fine
Brightness eyes, beautiful son of mine!
I never knew before what life meant
Until you arrived an…

The missing moolah

Carrie Gracie and the missing moolah. Well done, Ms Gracie: a storming campaign. £@300K!? And then, in a gushing flourish, she gives away the lot to charity!

The genius of the haute bourgeoisie in manufacturing cultural hegemony... That millions of workers, for whom £30 quid extra might help pay the licence fee this month, should care about this Regency farce...

Yet they do, cheer or grumble as disposed, and fail to see the payday's been ponced from their pittance.


Yesterday I was 50. To 'celebrate' I am laying my oeuvre on an unready world. You may purchase a copy here. Alternatively the ebook here.
If I know you and believe you have sufficient intellectual and amoral heft to sup my ambrosia, I may send you a copy gratis. This supposes of course that I have an address for you. If not, you can buy your own, yer skinflints.

Diary of a Loony (7) (1975) Mr. Whippy

In 1975 we moved out of the Lodge. Yoni had found another job in Lincolnshire, where she would stay until, ten years later, she fled to New Zealand with her sons, cutting them off from their father for fifteen years. Fuck knows how they get away with it, but they do. Still, last I heard she was a mad, broke old bag in a tumbledown on South Island. 

We landed as lodgers in Vile's council house in Binfield Heath. I don't know how my mother knew Vile: probably one of the barflies at the Imperial Hotel, Henley. She was another runaway mother, who had taken up with the local ice-cream vendor, Pat. 

Pat was not a nice man. He thrashed Vile's kids for any reason, none or just because they liked to play. Perhaps he'd had a hard life. That Vile let him do this is, I hope, still a shard in her hoar heart.

My grandfather died and all constraint on my mother's madness was removed: it was about this time she took up with the hairy Scottish ape, whom my grandfather would have thras…