Manuel Stimulation

A Christmas Prayer

noreply@blogger.com (Manuel Estimulo) — Tue, 20 Dec 2011 12:19:00 +0000

Baby Jesus, mild and meek

Grant us all an outlook bleak

Guarantee a life austere

Misery throughout the year

Baby Jesus, barely born

Look upon a world forlorn

Billions facing daily strife

Promise them an afterlife

Through your death upon the cross

Exalt obedience to the boss

Put their suffering into perspective

Serve as an ideological corrective

Baby Jesus, it’s an emergency

Banish the people’s thoughts of insurgency

Justify their deprivation

Self-sacrifice for their edification

Banisher of usurers from the temple

Set for us a good example

Though many moralists still confuse

Honest bankers and filthy Jews.

Baby Jesus, to Earth you came

To show us who we ought to blame

Fornicators, harlots, commies,

Atheists and unwed mommies.

Profligate Greeks who don’t pay taxes

Teen binge drinkers with Brazilian waxes

Rioters in cities, fighting the cops

Liberal clergymen, establishment fops

Immigrants, multiculturalism, violent video games

Public sector workers, Wikileaks naming names,

Bradley Manning, Arab Spring, Wall Street Occupiers

Baby Jesus, damn them all, to brimstone and Hell’s fires.

Better still, O bringer of peace

If it’s not too much trouble, bring blessèd release

Free your people from their insanity

Annihilate the rest of humanity.

May you all have a pious, spartan, and devotional Christmas.

Besos

Manuel

Mariano's Trench

noreply@blogger.com (Manuel Estimulo) — Wed, 23 Nov 2011 08:57:00 +0000

A loose translation: Aggressive Begging for Change.

This past month has been demonstrating the various ways in which the different nationalities of the world make clear their personal innate characteristics through their response to the austerity. In Greece, the technocratic corporate government imposed by the Illuminati cabal at the head of the IMF and European Union has met with the typical Greek response to all forms of government: indifference that is borders on downright insolence; let us not forget that the Greeks was invent democracy, so they have had longer than anyone to realize that it does not work. In Italy, as usual, the peoples there was meekly accepting the paternal advice of their German allies and happily sit back in the sun and not worry about anything, like Nicolas Cave in Captain Corelli's Mandrill and also every other film he has ever made. In Egypt, where they was make the initial mistake of getting rid of their benign dictator (actually, their initial mistake was having for a dictator an Egyptian; they should have had a Spanish one), the people are now uprising because they have realize that everything lapses into chaos if you try to combine military rule with elections. Either they must now hold their own elections independent of the military and nominate their own leaders, which would be a recipe for disaster: the pyramids was not built using direct democracy! The alternative is to abolish elections and have a proper military government who can impose proper Christian austerity and asceticism, mostly by spending all the country's money on weapons.

In Ireland, in contrast, everyone has left the country. At least that is to say, all the smart peoples have gone, such as the foreing intellectuals who was only there for the "good times": the hookers, the cocaine, and the software localization jobs. And good riddance too, I say. Now that Ireland is enjoying a so-call brain-drain, leaving behind in charge End O'Kenny, the Drain-Brain, successor to Brain Cowen, the Inane-Brain, it will allow the 100% Real Irish people who have stay behind to return to the simpler days of Bord na Mona, proper Catholic education, and xenophobia. The Irish are the only people in Europe who are actively looking forward to the austerity; do not underestimate the attractiveness of simpler, rural times dominating by big families, the radio phone-in, character-forming manual labour, and famine.

And in Spain, of course, the people have done the sensible thing and before the Illuminati get the chance to intervene, as per the idiot Zapatero's plan, we have instead elected in power the PP, which is stand for the People's Party and tell you all you need to know about who the People are. You can see in the picture above the winner of the election, Mariano Rompuy, sorry, Rajoy, who was once upon a time a member of the post-Francoist People's Alliance party, which was the nice fascists. Rajoy is what people with the political sophistication and pretentiousness call a prominence grise, which is a Latin phrase that literally is translate as "a Grey Nose." This is like a Brown Nose escept it is specifically relate to bureaucrats. Think Adolf Eichmann.

The win for the PP is a strong kick in the genitals of both sexes of the socialists, the PSOE, who clearly was not austering fast enough in the view of the Spanish people. The Spanish people knew that if things were allow to drift on the way they was, the Germans would intervene, in their BMWs and Heinkels, and take over and have all the fun. Now, however, all the punishment will be in Spanish hands. An iron fist in an oven glove is just what Spain is needing now, and it is better that it is a grey Spanish fisting than a German one.

There is still a problem with Spanish democracy, however, besides its very existence. Of the 34 million legible voters, only 24 million are voting, and of those 24 million, 600,000 either blank their voting sheet or soil it. That means, in toto, that one-third of the population is not taking democracy seriously; nearly half, if you count those who voted for the socialists. In Australia, they respond to this crisis of legitimacy by making voting compulsory. In Spain, however, this crisis of legitimacy is a good sign. Contempt for democracy only goes to show how many of the people still hanker back for the days of dictatorship. The Spanish people still innately understand that leaders are not people who are elected as such. Human beings are constructed in such a way that there are natural-born leaders in any community, who come to the fore as a result of circumstance, history, or simply the force of their personality. In any situation, there are natural leaders, even if it may only be just for that situation or particular talent: Who, for instance, can deny that Rafa Nadal is the best tennis player in the world? And yet give him a sack of kittens and ask him to drive over it in his Lexus 4X4 and he is useless. If you want a kitten-squasher, you go to the expert. Probly Andy Murray.

My point is that leaders are not elected. They are chosen by birth. And any electing, consensussing, accountability and cetera is just a brake on natural social forces that should be allow to play out as God intended. Ironically, by their inaction, the Spanish people have done precisely that. In this sense, it is because democracy does not work that it has worked, allowing the true national Spanish spirit to espress itself in the embodiment of Rajoy, a Spanish man for our times. His challenge now will be to wage war, figuratively, metaphorically, and literally, against the enemies of Spain on all fronts: the Illuminati in Brussels, the atheist communists at home, the immigrants, un-Spanish thinking, and people in general. All of us true Spanish must wish him well. Certainly, I shall be watching on with great anticipation and enthusiasm and also with binoculars, from my austere retirement penthouse in Dublin 4. Estìmulo: ¡Absente!

Do Not Panic. Kill All Actors!!

noreply@blogger.com (Manuel Estimulo) — Sat, 22 Oct 2011 09:46:00 +0000

"No point getting toilet paper. It will be miles away by now."

Here is Leonardo Da Capo and Kate Wimslet above from the new movie Contagion!, which is already spreading like an incurable rash across box offices near you. The movie is telling the true story of how actors travel all around the world making films and in the process carrying with them virulent deadly diseases such as the lurgy, rabies, pimples, syphilis, and popcorn. A lot of people have already made the point that the movie is not meant to be a true story but is only a metaphor that is meant to warn us about the dangers of immigration, and therefore that we should close all our borders, including the bookshops, but the irony is, and I don't believe in irony, that more than 30 people died during the making of the film, all of them from illnesses contracted because they went abroad. But you won't hear that mentioned in the film, will you? Oh no. And why not? Because it is a work of fiction.

In fact, the correct way to look at the film is this, my way. Rather than the film's message being a metaphor for clamping down on illegal immigrants, those deaths of the various crew members (including two best boys, one first grip, and Miss Wimslet's fluffer) should be seen as a metaphor for the Hollywood movie industry and the way that it spreads its evil testicles through foreign cultures, the subcutaneous implicit insidious liberal value-system that Hollywood embodies infiltrating and undermining locally constructed belief systems such as voodoo, Copernicanism, creationism, heart-warming fascism, and, in places like Australia, Bananas in Pajamas and penis puppetry. These long-held and much-cherished vernacular worldviews struggle in the face of the virulence of Hollywood liberalism because of the latter's technological know-how, its shiny newness that appeals to all primitive, innocent savages, and its loud bangs and large-breasted women, all of which distract and confuse the former penis worshippers so that they do not notice the sneaky subtext being slipped in underneath: the sympathetic portrayal of Jews and freemasons, the blatant feminism, the tolerance for inferior races, the anthropomorphizing of Muslims. All of these things are there, if you look closely, but nobody does because they are all still recovering from the shock of seeing an elephant fly.

You are probably thinking now, "Well that's all true, Manuel, and well observed," but how does this fit into the correct fascist view of the world? Surely inferior races with their stupid worldviews and religions will just be wiped off the face of the earth in the struggle for survival like that appalling race of human beings in Independence Day. To which I would reply, "Did you not see the end of that movie?! Also, you are confusing Catholic fascism with Social Darwinism, you inbecile! Fascism does not want people to be killed. No! That is just a typical Hollywood distortion of its actual, true message, which is stay where you are, don't immigrate, open your hearts to Jesus, and export your resources to Spain."

You see, we in the Falangist movement appreciate and understand the importance of societies retaining their own cultures and sense of place. The peoples of all societies have developed their cultures and values so that they are appropriate to where they live—Islam for the desert, Buddhism for the rice paddy, Christianity for the battlefield, and cetera—and which is why they should never be mixed up together. However and neverthenonetheless, having said all that, it is also clear that 1) Christianity is correct and therefore we have an obligation to take Jesus's Good News to all human beings regardless of their ability to understand it, and 2) it follows that there is a natural hierarchy between societies, specifically those superior ones which have received Jesus's message first, and the inferior ones which are not in Europe.

Sadly, then, it is cucumbent upon us, the European Christian West, particularly the Spanish, to shoulder the white man's burden of subjugating other cultures and, like benevolent but strict schoolmasters, guiding lesser races in their quest to be just like us, which they never can be. This is a great and onerous burden, which is why we require so many resources from foreign countries to carry it out properly, what was incorrectly called the "circle of life" in that doicumentary The Lion King, yet another piece of schmaltzy liberal Hollywood schlock that totally misrepresented Nature. And don't not get me started on Bambi.

Contagion! thus carries a confusing message. It talks about contagious infectious death-dealing plagues as if they are a bad thing, when in fact it is movies that are the virus and therefore a bad thing, and the truth is that some plagues are actually a good thing, such as missionary work to unenlightened countries and The crusades. Therefore, in conclusion, Contagion!'s true message is that we are all dead in the long run and we are in a race against time to make sure everyone catches the virus of Christianity before they die.

There. Now you will not even have to see it. Me neither.

#Occupy_Quality_Street!!

noreply@blogger.com (Manuel Estimulo) — Wed, 12 Oct 2011 08:48:00 +0000

Don't Mention the Chocolate War. I was Mention It Once, But I Think I am Get Away with It.

Unless you have been living in a yurt (which is a tent containing pro-biotics), you will have by now have heard of the assortment of people, made homeless by predatory borrowing, who are making themselves at home on the various streets of the Western world, in imitation of the homeless Arabs in the Israel/Illuminati-inspired Arab Spring Surprise, which, coincidentally, was take place last spring. These actions are being called occupations, which is ironic because all these people involved do not have occupations, being generally unkempt, hairy, unable to get out of bed on time, having a bad attitude, talking back to their boss, probably Humanities graduates types of people. Of course, these are always the first types to get hit when a recession takes place; it is a myth that the poor take the big brunt of economic crisises, and the reason is because they are always poor, and therefore they have inbuilt stalwart coping mechanisms already in place to deal with their powerlessness and poverty, such as alcohol, bingo, cigarettes, and church. They do not have any espectations whether the economy is shit hot, or just shit, of any improvement in their lot, whereas during a boom time even Philosophy graduates can find work of some description, even if it is just in the fashion industry, where their feeble bodies are regarded as ideal and their feeble minds regarded as genius.

Now, as you are well know, I am by no means a fan of modernism, modernisty or modernart, but one of the top best things that modernisty ever produced was something called the public square, an idea nicked from the ancient Greeks and ancient Romans, who also invented modernisty. The public square is a place, or a Place, usually in the middle of the city, where can be concentrated all the ne'er-do-wells, the moaning Minis, the carpers, the pikeys, the breamers, and every, Tom, Dick, Harry, Sam n' Ella, thereby keeping them out of the way of hard-working decent ordinary apolitical and non-political people, the so-called backbone or cervix of society, who can therefore get on with their lives of quiet desperation undisturbed by rabble-carousing hordes. In Germany, always ahead of the herd, they went one better: Rather than a Public Square, they have instead the Public Sphere, invented by the Frankfurt School of Design and named after the famous and brilliant Nazi architect Sir Albert Sphere. This not only concentrates the city's malcontents, it is also sound-proof, so nobody can hear them scream. In Morocco, on the other hand, rather than a sphere, they have the ram's bladder cup, which contains all the piss and vinegar but is open to the sky, where their Gods live.

These present-day malingering occupants, however, either have not realize that they are meant to use the public square, or else they cannot read a map. Or also, a further possibility is that they are like the zombies in the Evil Dead movies returning to the shopping mall, but instead of the shopping mall they are returning to the places where they use to work or where their money use to be, namely, banks, offshore covens, golf courses, the pockets of short-armed bondtraders and cetera. They are milling about aimlessly, not knowing at all where they are going or what they are moaning about, also like zombies. This, incidentally, is what happens when you have a leaderless movement. In the old days, when there was things like useful trades unions, well-disciplined communist parties, reliable propaganda mechanisms, the idiot proletariat could be relied upon to march properly, all in a line behind their smarter but still idiot leaders, through the weekend streets when the offices are all shut, and all the way to the public square, where they was then entertained by tedious speeches from the platform, vacuous polemical haranguing, and Bono. Then they would go home and try to spot themselves on the news. When the cold war was ending, however, and capitalism no longer had any use of the useful idiots leading the useless idiots up a back alley to nowhere, then the unions and communist parties was all put into cold war storage, like the delivery boy in Futurama, only perhaps to be brought out again in a time of crisis when it looks like the peoples are starting to get ideas above their station. Or even next to their station.

Thus, no doubt soon you will probly hear soon some business leaders or pretend potential self-appointed communist leaders lamenting the lack of organization of the #Occupy movements, describing them as "in choate" (which is a kind of wide penis with no head), or "udderless," or "lacking discernible goals" (like Sporting Gijon). What they are really mean is that there is a ferment of new ideas that therefore could be dangerous and must be curtailed, or at least curtopped. After all, nobody has any idea where a march that goes nowhere might end up. If these peoples weren't too feckless to emigrate we could at least lure them onto a ferry with the promise of jobs in Australia and transport them there. We would never hear of them ever again! But while they are there, in the midst of ordinary, heads-down, knees-back God-fearing punters, fermenting theories without limitations and trying out new processes, such as democracy—never a positive development—they constitute a threat to our docile, passive, obedient way of life. They must be stomped on by square-headed baton-wielding riot police, preferably from up the country, before any new ideas seep out into the public body at large, like a ball of ideological pus.

The one advantage of having these malodorous obnoxities stay in one place for the time being is that the virus which they represent cannot spread. What is more, it will be actually possible to sow a virus amongst them themselves. Not an ideological one. A proper one. I am not wanting to imagine for one moment what the sanitary conditions must be like on Wall Street, for instance, but it will only be a matter of time before the first spores of anthrax ripple through the throng; there must still be some of them left over from the biological research programs carried out by those involved in Farm Warfare (the CIA training facility, not the band from Liverpool). I have already been told that there is a cockroach cluster assembling in Battery Park which has been trained to sneak into protestors' sleeping bags and deposit there a cough and cholera strain (possibly I misheard and it is a "cuff and collar" strain, equally deadly to these workshy recalcitrants. Or perhaps I am confusing it with the Tie Flu.

You would naturally espect that countries like Italy and Spain, with their soft-centred atheist anarchist cosmopolitan populations, would soon fall for this sort of protesting. So far, Paris, home to the crunchy Frog, has not surrendered, but it is only a matter of time. Saddest of all is the news that even in Holy Pissing Ireland they have a couple of #Occupy sites. This is the sort of thing you can see and hear if you go to the one in Dublin. Is a big disgrace! I am mortified. I think.

In fact, you know what? I think you should go down there right NOW if you are in Ireland and tell them what you think. And tell them Manuel sent you!

Irritation is the Sincerest Form of Flattery

noreply@blogger.com (Manuel Estimulo) — Thu, 06 Oct 2011 14:50:00 +0000

Didn't You Kill My Brother?

As goes the old saying

Big fleas are having little fleas upon their backs which are bite them, and little fleas have even littler fleas, and so on until you get to the littlest.

What I am referencing here to on this occasion by my witty apothegm above is the recent case of plaguerism in the Irish media spotted by Brian Whelan (Hack), who has been uplifting the veil yesterday to show how (allegedly) the Irish Esaminer columnist and ghostwriter Steven King has been publishing articles that are eerily similar to those which are also being written by former atheist communist Brendan O'Neill of Spooked Online, also known as The Dustbin of History. King, who was previously a political adviser to Nobel Peace Loyalist and First Minister of Northern Ireland David Trimble, probly espected that nobody would remark upon the identicalities between his own words and those of O'Neill because what he was saying was esactly what you would espect from someone of their persuasion, whatever it is, and therefore people's eyes would glaze over before they got to the second paragraph. However, for anyone who could be bothered to look closer, such as the indefatigable Whelan, the resemblance is almost uncanny, as if O'Neill and King were of one, collective hive mind, like the Phoners, which ironically enough appear in King's book Cell, or also the Borg, or else the Gerulaitis. King also knew that O'Neill was previously belong to the Revolutionary Communist Party, an organization which was notorious for the fact that its members have never had a single original thought in their entire lives—indeed, since that party disbanded all its members have become The Institute of an Idea—and therefore that what O'Neill wrote had already been thought before, only probly more eloquently and more lucidly by fascist writers such as myself.

Which is where I am come in. Because recently O'Neill was write what some people believed was a very witty parody of one of my own past blog posts for the British Empire newspaper the Daily Telegraph. This was an article in which he lament the death of bullfighting in Catalonia. You can read the article here, although you must forgive the typos, such as where it says "Brendan O'Neill is the editor of spiked, an independent online phenomenon dedicated to raising the horizons of humanity by waging a culture war of words against misanthropy, priggishness, prejudice, luddism, illiberalism and irrationalism in all their ancient and modern forms," where it clearly means to say IN FAVOUR OF.

This is O'Neill in full flight:

To put a bull into a bullfight is to ennoble it. As a participant in a strange, centuries-old ritual, in a violent dance-off between man and beast, a bull acquires a significance far beyond its own natural existence. In fact, the only "purpose" in the life of a bull is that bestowed upon it by picadors and matadors – it is through their efforts, and their efforts alone, that a bull is transformed from being a rather pointless, instinctual beast into a noble creature worthy of being watched by an audience of thousands. In this sense, bullfighting is humane rather than cruel, since through the endeavour and labour of the bullfighting brigade a bull is given a use and purpose nature could never have designed for it.

What is a bull but a grunting creature destined to live a rather sad and short life of munching grass and impregnating cows? Through the humanity of the matadors, bulls selected for a bullfight are spared this terrible fate and are given something they could have never, in a million years, discovered for themselves: a purpose in life.

and here is me, writing in June of last year:

If history is teach us anything, it is that the majority of the world's species alive today would not be alive were it not for the fact that they serve some purpose to humanity. The Dodo, for instance, is a prime esample. Once it had serve its purpose to mankind, in providing food, then it become estinct. Ecologists, sociologists, theologists, and macrobiotics are all unanimal on this: There would be no cows or pigs or sheeps on this planet, were it not for mankind husbanding them, wifing them, then killing and eating them. Is because mankind have a vested interest in their perpetuance that they are still around, whereas other animals that are not so tasty, such as the unicorn, are long gone. Why are you think Noah did not bother putting it in the ark? Because they are taste like shit! (And also because their horn could make significant damage beneath the water line if they broke loose and went on an escapade). Imagine what the world would be like with no cows, pigs and sheeps. It would be less smelly, certainly, and we could have a much better road and rail infrastructure once we had concrete over all those fields, but on the other hand, you would not have no hat. Nor sandals. Both of which are made from cow. You would have no bacon sarnies, no electricity, no pork scratching, and girls would have no pigtails, because they are all made from pig. And there would be no sheeps.

In similar, if you are to ban the corrida, you will be in ultimate saying goodbye to the bull. Not, however, in this case because the bull will estinctify. No! Let us be honest. Throughout all time, we have know that the bull is mankind's natural enemy, after the Jew and the Muslim, that there is always been a danger in keeping sustained the bull population. But that was always the price we pay for the corrida. The bull is an estremely fierce and proud and big-balled beast. He lives for the corrida, for the opportunity to do battle with Man, to chase around the sawdust a multicolour curtain and diminutive hero with sword and lances and things. There is nothing finer, more noble, for the bull than to compete in the corrida, to choke slowly on its own lifeblood knowing that it have given everything in a carnal, cathartic orgy of agony, lust, muscles, meat, power, yearning, thrusting, and an object lesson in mortality in front of a crowd of appreciative Spanish aesthetes.

Si!! Is almost as if a ventriloquist had come into the room, inserted his hand into Brendan O'Neill's anus, and then used his other hand to type an article having the same views as my own. After having had lunch with me. And washed his hands.

Now, I am not the sort of person to cast aspersiums or to even claim to having had any original ideas of my own. I get a lot of them from Top Gear. But I merely draw to your attention how those of us such as myself with small minds (by which I mean we have no audience of readers), can be sucked off by other slightly less small minds, and so on and so on up the food chain, like mercury. Is like a form of edmosis, in which partially formed ideas slowly crawl their way towards the light, similar to a scary foetus, until eventually everyone has got the same idea but have no idea where they got the idea from. It was me!

And therefore to those people who say that there is no point in me blogging my fascist views for nobody to read, I direct your attention to The Irish Examiner, the Sunday Independent, the Daily Mail, and, to a lesser estent, everything printed by News International, who may not have necessarily been hacking my phones but, well, they was hardly had need to.

I am not sure that I have any case to sue for any damages, but I console myself that the damages caused to society by my writing will more than compensate. I merely am sew the seed.

Round Ireland with the Falange: County Wexford

noreply@blogger.com (Manuel Estimulo) — Wed, 25 May 2011 16:39:00 +0000

That Keith Richards has really let himself go, hasn't he?

Quizmistress Anne Robinson: Which Mick is the lead singer of the Rolling Stones?

Idiot English Contestant: Is it Bono?

Those for whom Irish music is epitomized by the seisiún or the céilí, featuring a bodhrán player, a guitarist, a fiddler, a tin whistler and Shane MacGowan, will be surprised to know that most of the components of the traditional arrangements can locate their origins in the Iberian peninsula, with the exception of Shane MacGowan, who is as English as Pontefract Cakes and anal sex. You only have to look at his teeth for proof. The guitar, of course, everyone knows is Spanish; it was originally called the Spanish guitar, but this title eventually came to be regarded as a tautology because there was no other kind of guitar, the much-inferior banjo and ukulele being invented much later by slaves in America and Hawaii working in sweat shops making knock-offs. The fiddle is a cheaper version of the violin, usually associated with the Austro-Hungarian Empire and Northern Italy but so clearly related to the guitar in design that a good case can be made that they plagiarised it but never saw one being played and so improvised, using a modified horsewhip. The tin whistle or flageolet was invented by a Frenchman, Juvigny, in the late 16th century, of which nothing can be gainsaid except that although he lived in Paris he always wanted to live in Madrid, like all Parisians of his own and our age. The bodhrán, similarly, is a cheap imitation of the tamborine, this word being a corruption of the Spanish word Tambor, meaning drum. Here you can see the Tambores de Calanda, which are played non-stop for 24 hours a day during Holy Week, regardless of whether the drummers' hands bleed, get blisters and calluses on their palms, or get splinters from the drumsticks in their eyes, mouth and/or ears. They do this because to commemorate the fact that there were drummers following Jesus up to Calvary and because when they pushed away the stone from his tomb there was a massive drumroll from the skies. And then a cymbal. The only genuine and definite Irish musical instrument is the harp, which was invented by the blind Irish harpist O'Carolan (although he was not called this until after he invented the harp), and even then he didn't know what it was he was playing.

I was very keen to get to Wexford on my journey around Ireland because much of the archaeological and historical evidence indicates that it was here that Ireland's musical heritage began. It was here that Saint Iberius established his church, long before Saint Patrick ever arrived on the island (there is no record of Patrick bringing any musical instruments with him, although he may have driven the snakes out of Ireland with his awful tin whistle playing, the first snake uncharmer). Saint Iberius, who obviously came from Spain, lived on the island of Beggerin in Wexford harbour. He drew many disciples to his modest church, mainly wanting to learn to play the guitar or the organ. There wasn't much to do in Wexford in those days. We know from the story of another saint, Saint Veoc, that in those days it was a desolate, barren place, qualities that drew Veoc there from Armagh in the hope of a hermitic existence. Imagine his disappointment at finding the place full of spotty novices learning the first chords of "Smells Like Teen Spirit."

Sadly, Saint Iberius's home has now disappeared. I was advised by the lady in the Tourist Information Office with the square glasses and peppery hair that the island had become part of the Sloblands, which I assumed was simply a reference to the local council estate, but which turned out to be reclaimed polder land like they have in Holland, so that the island had been rejoined to the mainland. The lady in the Tourist Office also told me that I would need to get a licence from the council if I wanted to start digging there for the fossils of guitars or bodhráns, and she rather ignorantly opined that there were not likely to be any there after all these years. Which shows how little she knows about Creationism. In the same way that our Good Lord placed cenobites, Tyrannosauruses, saber-toothed tigers, and David Blaine in blocks of ice or inside coal mines to be discovered by humans as a test of faith, and also patience, so also he would preserve all the many important holy relics for worship by the faithful, rendering them incorrupted by the ages, the air, the bird poo, and science, like those dead nuns trapped in glass in the rue du Bac.

It so happened that this part of my tour coincided with a significant musical event in the history of Ireland, namely, the victory in the Eurovision Song Contest of the retarded Siamese twins Jedward, who you may have seen on the television being separated at birth by famous surgeons who also warned their parents that they would never be able to talk properly, let alone sing. Nonetheless, the Irish elected to be represented in the contest by Jedward as a way of sticking up a metaphorical two fingers, both identical, at the Europe that is demanding that they all work harder and also have no jobs. This is not the first time that Ireland has demonstrated such petulance, of course. Only the other year they sent Dustin from Turkey, who wasn't even Irish, and in previous years they have sent Mary Hopkirk, Johnny Rogaine, Dickie Rock, and Mary Peters and Lee. None of these did the Irish reputation for mellifluous Euterpian prowess any favours, and it was partly in response to watching these performances on European TV that the False Pope, Benedict, decided to ban rock and roll and support the call for the return to the Latin Mass, sung a cappella, with nary an amp in sight. This was a pope who booed at Bob Dillon when he plugged in his electric chair at Newport, Isle of Wight, in 1954 and began singing along to the godawful racket that came out. Then he turned it off and everyone realized the godawful racket had nothing to do with the electric.

Although from an Irish background, Dillon has never had the opportunity to represent Ireland at the Eurovision, and with him recently reaching the age of 70 and having been senile for the past 30 years, it doesn't look like he will ever have the chance to perform any of his classic tracks—"Wichita Grub Man," "The Times, They Are a Changeling," "I'm the Rolling Stones," and "Mister Tamberlaine Man" (he was also the inspiration for the well-known Beatles song "Hey Jew"—before an unappreciative audience of millions. It may come as some consolation to him to have been awarded only a year or two ago the Prince of Asturias Art Award (previous winners include Yo-Yo Ma, Elvis Presley, and Hitler), which recognizes rich celebrities who have done something vaguely artistic, such as commodifying protest songs, but I suspect he would much rather compete against Ukrainian Death Metal Yodellers, prancing puppets on strings like Jedward, and the German S Club 7. Any true artiste would want to show he could cut it with the best. I know that he was massively disappointed not to be invited to Princess Diana's funeral, where all the biggest names in the industry appeared on the largest stage of all—The Abbey—to show what they could do. Elton John sang his famous song hit "Candle with the Wind," which went straight to number one in the hit parade subsequently because the English people love funeral dirges and play them at all their parties. Then he followed up with "Rocket Man" and "Goodbye Yellow Brick Road." After that, blackface singer Tracy Chapman came on and sang "Fast Car," followed by the Animals, who sang "We Gotta Get Out of This Place." And finally Joe Dolce came on and closed with "Shaddap You Face" followed by a selection from his album Difficult Women. Dillon would have loved to have come on at that point and given a rousing rendition of "It's Alright Ma'am, I'm Only Bleeding," but apparently the Abbey was booked for a christening at six and the toilets needed hosing down.

I have not touched here, on my favourite Irish musician, who hails from a very different part of this pious land, but it would remiss of me not to mention a man who has contributed more to drawing the Irish people closer to the one true path through the medium of music than any fake messiah in sunglasses dodging taxes and swanning about with world leaders. This man, like Our Lord Jesus, knows what it is to be reviled, to be persecuted, to be mocked and laughed at and scorned for daring to speak the truth. He is thus a modern-day Cassandra, warning of catastrophe but never to be believed. And yet he persists. Indeed, only last year Jim Corr announced on the radio that he would, if necessary, stand for election for the European Union in order to save Ireland from the Freemasons. The government of Ireland, he warned, is riddled with secret societies, such as the Masons, the Rosicrucians, the Mormons, the Pretenders, the Persuaders, and the Champions, and that these societies are determined to sell Ireland's birthright to the highest bidder, probably Noel Eedmonds. He would not allow this, he said. He would do everything in his special super powers to stop it. He also made the very interesting and novel observation that the attacks of 9/11 in the United States were caused by rogue elephants in the Bush administration, a claim I had not heard made before.  

Much as I admire the man, I believe his perspective on how the world works is nonetheless a little cock-eyed (an Irish expression which means he views the world through the eye of his cock, much like my randy brother Hornolo). It is not the Irish government that is the enemy, but the Illuminati in Europe, the bankers and cabals running the Masonic European state. Indeed, this is so obvious to any right-thinking Irish man that it makes me wonder whether or not Jim Corr is not in fact a false flag operation, a cleverly cultivated plant intended to discredit sensible fascist views with his bizarre rantings. His cloned sisters certainly suggest some kind of perverse scheme dreamt up by an insane Communist scientist in a Berlin atelier or Übungsräume. It is not beyond the realms of possibility.

Still, a partially accurate paranoid right-wing neo-fascist conspiracy theory is better than none. And in days like these, when you don't even hear the likes of aryan ubermenschen Jedward demanding that the elderly and disabled be euthanized, it's necessary to find solace where one can. Just don't listen to their music.

Famous people from Wexford include American "comedian" Des Bishop, monobrowed narcissist Chris de Burgh, founder of Irish music Saint Iberius (see above), and U.S. president Barack Obama. Although there is some dispute about this.

Lucky numbers: 0

Gemstone: Bakelite

Next week: County Waterford

Round Ireland with the Falange: County Carlow

noreply@blogger.com (Manuel Estimulo) — Thu, 12 May 2011 08:37:00 +0000

Few people know that the Palace of Versailles is based on Bagenalstown railway station.

Carole-Anne Delaney must have extraordinary influence within the Irish media, or else the jungle drums of County Wicklow work remarkably fast. I was no more than ten minutes up the road, having escaped from her clutches, when I noticed people waving at me, pointing at me, or shouting in the distance and running after me. "Surely," I thought, she cannot already have written a book review mentioning me in passing and had it published in the Irish Times. Even if she phoned it in and it went straight into the online edition." But then I reminded myself that Wicklow is the natural home for the Irish literary intelligentsia/mafia, ever alert to developments at the leading edge of scriptorial erudition and technics, and they would inevitably have been following Miss Delaney on Twitter or Facebook. Thus it followed that those mobs in the distance vigorously shaking baseball bats, pikes, and golf clubs above their heads were well-wishers from the book-reading classes alerted to my endeavours and keen to offer some encouragement in whatever way they could, no matter how small and inconsequential. I waved back and offered them my most sincerest cheery smile.

I was half-way across the Wicklow Mountains National Park when I really started to feel the cold and thought it might be a good idea to put some clothes on. When it was first made, in 1954, the Dürkopp Diana was regarded as one of the most luxurious scooters on the market, but time has moved on, and heated handlebars, shatterproof windshields, and woolly gloves and boots come as standard on most scooters, I understand. I am reluctant to move with the times, but such an adherence to tradition has its downsides. Fortunately, the Diana does have sufficient room for a ruck sack or travel bag, a suitcase at a push, and I had had the foresight to bring with me an extra set of clothes should I lose my original and preferred travel outfit under such circumstances as had occurred at Miss Delaney's house. This change of clothes consisted in a pair of swimming trunks, 70-denier tights (jet black and therefore resembling leggings or, in my case, my legs), an Aran Isle sweater, a Real Madrid shirt (home), a deer-stalker hat, and a pair of expensive Italian shoes belonging to my dissolute and delinquent brother Hornolo. I had taken them from him without his permission but knowing that they are wasted on him. He has dozens more pairs besides.

A quick survey of the map upon exiting the park showed me that a small diversion of only several hours would take me to the Poulaphouca Reservoir, which I was determined to visit solely on account of its splendid name. Indeed, as I wended my way northwards along the R756 and R758, the wind smiled as it caught my words, unable as I was to avoid revelling in the name, reciting it endlessly to myself: "Reh-Serr-Voir. Reh-Serr-Voir. Reh-Serr-Voir." It has such a resonance, don't you think? For me it conjures up Celtic mists, hills of bracken, diseases long unknown to Western civilization but still kept alive in Irish hamlets cut off from the world for centuries.

Sadly, when I arrived, it turned out to be a lake. Nothing more. Two workman who saw my perplexity from across the road in their hut came over and were most helpful, explaining that "Poulaphouca" is an Irish word meaning "Pool of Water," "Phouca" or "Phucca," to give it its traditional pronunciation, being the old Irish word for water. I committed it to my memory on the off-chance that it might come in handy later during my journey should I be dehydrated, and counted my diversion as not entirely wasted. Interestingly enough, the workmen were at a loss to translate for me the word "Reservoir," that pungent and eloquent word so redolent of a lost Hibernia, and my Irish-Spanish dictionary was of no help. The nearest word I could find was "Rastafáraí."

I cut my losses. I wanted to get to Bagenalstown by nightfall, which meant a straight run southwards along the N81 towards Tullow before heading cross-country on some of the scenic backroads of County Carlow. The county's roads have long been known for their terrible state, the only rival to those of Cavan in Irish folklore for their potholes, crevasses, and sudden disappearances (to be replaced by paths of cowpat-friendly rubble). There is an Irish tribute band from Drogheda called the Ring o'Stars* who have a line in one of their songs about "10,000 holes in the R170122," which is a two-mile stretch of road just outside Borris. That said, the last two decades saw a remarkable turnaround in the maintenance and treatment of Carlow's roads, the intent being to attract tourists who would otherwise not feel inclined to visit the county, which has very little going for it other than its famed blandness. But with the brand new roads, the place had something else to offer. "Come to Carlow whether you have Haemorrhoids or Not!" was the Carlow County Tourist Board's slogan between 1998 and 2007. And people did indeed come. Tourism more than doubled during that period: up to as many as 831 people in 2003 alone.

The recession really bit in 2009, and last year's dreadful winter took even larger bites, mostly out of the concrete and Tarmacadam that had so mellifluously lulled visitors to sleep for many a trip. Consequently, Carlow's roads are as bad now as they ever were. Although it isn't just Carlow that's suffering. Winter was winter everywhere in Ireland. Saint Stephen's Green in Dublin's city centre now has chasms that stretch across several lanes, hardy weeds sprouting up from them due to a lack of upkeep, a decline in tourist traffic, and the price of petrol. Evolution seems to have bred a particularly hardy weed there, immune to fumes and with an impressive elasticity that allows the plant to spring back to full size after being run over by the 145 bus. Not that I believe in evolution. I use the term as shorthand for my deity, the way Richard Dawkins does.

In a futile effort to increase road use and thereby increase revenue through a tax on petrol use, the government recently widened the M1 motorway around Dublin airport, having been made aware of research showing that if you add more lanes to a road, they soon fill up with more traffic. This is an argument generally used against the adding of extra lanes and is premised on the existence of cheap fuel, but the government figured that if they make cuts to public transport at the same time, they could save money and force people onto the roads, thereby increasing state coffers. A brilliant move, if people have jobs to go to, although as it has transpired, the Port Tunnel, the largest construction project in the history of the state, transporting goods and tourists to and from the ferry port without creating congestion in the city centre, currently has a rate of use of one vehicle per hour. It is anticipated that, at such a rate, the project will have paid for itself around the time that our Sun goes nova.

With the population of Ireland back down to 3½ million and counting, it's difficult to know who the government thinks will be driving these cars. Children barely know their left from their right and don't have much pocket money left over for petrol once they've budgeted for essentials like red lemonade and condoms, and it may surprise this government to learn that the dead don't get out much. Zombies might be ubiquitous in the popular culture these days, but you never see them driving a car. It isn't possible without a functioning brain stem. Unless you count fans of Top Gear, that is, but they're already out on the road killing people. And in some cases, eating them. Perhaps the government is banking on the Death Coach picking up some of the slack.

But as we like to say in Spain, "He who shops with Catalans must take two wallets." Or, in other words, a hedged bet is better than a bet head. In Spain a few years ago, we had a very famous case of a disabled man in his motorized bed who was arrested for drunk-driving on the motorway on his way to visit the local bordello. José Antonio Navarro, who is 95% disabled, had got drunk and was intending to visit ‘Jade,’ a local whorehouse, but took a wrong turning off the roundabout. When he realized that he had taken the wrong turnoff, he decided to continue along the motorway in order not to put other drivers in danger. And fair play to him. This is the sort of inspiring attitude that the Irish government should be encouraging. I do not mean drunk-driving, of course, which even the Spanish only do at night-time, but if only the government was to open a few knocking-shops at the newly opened Apple services at strategic points along the motorways of this country (one just outside Galway would be particularly well-frequented), they could guarantee getting at least half of the Irish population out on the roads, whether they had cars or not. I have frequently seen Spanish men crawling on their hands and knees both to and from such bordellos.

I am not entirely sure how a bordello would go down in Bagenalstown, which strikes me as a very pious and devout place, even if at times ominous and filled with foreboding. My history book The Truth About Carlow!: Saints, Murderers, Sodomites, and Celebrities tells me that this was the place where Saint Laserian first considered establishing his church, before eventually building his cathedral in Old Leighlin. Apparently, he was deterred from building in Bagenalstown on Day One of construction because the first person he saw that morning was a red-haired woman, considered even back then to be a terrible sign. Consequently, he took the rest of the day off, like any sensible construction industry boss, but the next morning an angel came to him and told him to sit in the stone chair on the top of Ballycormac Hill and to build his church on the spot where the sun first shone. It turned out to be Old Leighlin. My history book says the stone chair was preserved over dozens of generations at Ballycormac until 30 years ago, near to a house now occupied by a Mr. Radwell. The father of the present Mr. Radwell broke up the chair, however, and used the stones in making a fence. His fate is not recorded, but I expect it was death.

Saint Laserian is recorded as having miraculously healed a boy who had been decapitated, but my book does not say if he, like Our Lady of Mount Carmel (see County Wicklow), used his laser vision (it was Saint Laserian who gave this particular holy power its name) in a kind of cauterizing/welding operation or if he just did it by praying. It does, however, explain why Saint Laserian is now the patron saint of shipbuilders, microprocessor manufacturers, and Bond villains. Even so, it was a holy power of no avail when Saint Laserian met his match, Saint Sillán of County Louth. While he did not have laser vision, Saint Sillán's eyebrow more than compensated for this lack. It was said that anyone who saw Sillán's eyebrow would die immediately. Laserian, being a plucky saint, tried to pluck it out. Unfortunately, he had to look to see what he was doing (my suspicion is that he pulled out hair from somewhere else on Sillán's body and upon looking at them doubted that they could be eyebrow hairs). One look at Sillán's eyebrow and it was curtains for Laserian. Black curtains.

This happened over 1,000 years ago, on April 18th. Which is his feast day.

There is a range of opinion as to where Laserian's remains can be found. Some say that he was buried under his church at Old Leighlin or under the high cross in Leighlin, whereas others say that looking at Sillán's eyebrow results in death by explosion and that Laserian has no remains other than those scattered around the fields of Leighlin and now well mulched into the earth that he once trod and ploughed with his laser vision. Still others wonder why Laserian didn't just use his laser vision on Saint Sillán and evaporate him instead of using his normal vision, but the rules of engagement for saints in combat against each other preclude offensive use of holy weapons. Sillán's eyebrow constitutes a defensive weapon, and anyway Laserian started it.

Famous people from this town include Beauchamp Bagenal, famous rake, drunkard, duellist, and former MP who fought his duels leaning against a tombstone; Swami Dennis D'arcy, the guru with a whip; and Barack Obama. Although there is some dispute about this.

Lucky numbers: 23, 12, 9, 1,034

Gemstone: Mud

Next week: County Wexford

The Ring o'Stars are less a tribute band than an Irish Oasis, updating and localizing the Beatles' lyrics rather than their music. Thus, they boast in their repertoire such classics as "Let It Beef," "Norbrinstown Wood," and "Lucy in the Spar with Dermot."

Round Ireland with the Falange: County Wicklow

noreply@blogger.com (Manuel Estimulo) — Fri, 06 May 2011 08:56:00 +0000

"You're not from around these parts, are you, Señor?"

"On the run from the authorities and living in Cork."

"Died in the arms of a rent boy from a methamphetamine overdose."

"Lost his house in a poker game, went insane, now raising llamas in Monaghan for gladiatorial combat."

"Locked herself in a cellar in 2005 and refuses to come out."

"Jailed for treason."

"Fired for impersonating a gynaecologist."

"Caught cheating at Russian roulette. Told to leave the country within 24 hours. Training for the priesthood in Clare. Still impersonating a man."

A decade is a long time in journalism. It is nearly ten years. That is my joke about journalistic accuracy. And also it is difficult to drum up any sympathy for the plight of the average hack among the general public, who these days regard journalism as the first refuge of the scoundrel, a once-noble profession now reduced to regurgitating press releases, writing puff pieces for the local businesses who effectively pay their wages by deigning to advertise in their paper, or else rifling through the rubbish bins of minor Irish celebrities—all Irish celebrities are minor—in the hope of finding proof of sexual peccadilloes, infidelity, or drug abuse. They know precisely what to look for thanks to their own tawdry, sordid, sad, sorry lives.

I was hoping that at least one of my contacts would still be keeping it together after all this time, however. When I was working for Spanish intelligence in Ireland back in the 1980s and 1990s, I frequently had cause to liaise with members of the Irish press in order to help them put the requisite spin on stories about Spain, whether it was to suggest connections between the IRA, ETA and Colonel Gadhafi, cover up details of Spanish government involvement in helping Nazis on the run, or promoting Enrique Iglesias's latest single. Irish journalists were always very accommodating and co-operative, as you might imagine, in exchange for a box of Cohibas, a meal in the Four Seasons or Roly's Bistro, a massage and happy ending at Miss Whipcream's establishment in Dun Laoghaire, a day at the races with 500 punts to spend, or a weekend away at the Loughrea Hotel and Spa, all of which can now be won in competitions on TV3. Journalists once upon a time had a reputation for longevity, for the capacity to endure, to type out nine types of shit, 12 hours a day, on two bottles of Paddy and 40 Carrolls, and still make it out of Doheny & Nesbitt's before the wankers from Department of Finance came in after work. Unfortunately, the hard-bitten cynicism and contempt for authority once a pre-requisite of the self-respecting journalist has now been replaced by hard-bitten cynicism and contempt for oneself and the once-respected job of reporter, with the consequence that no-one can last in the job any longer than five years without becoming a parody of themselves, a mindless keyboard-banging monkey inebriated only to enable them to look in the mirror each morning without asking themselves how it came to pass that someone with a Master's from DCU and a 2.1 in English Literature could be pretending to have a shit in the bogs of Toner's just on the off-chance of overhearing a conversation between Eamonn Dunphy's daughter's nanny's brother and that bloke who does the cider adverts.

I had been hoping to drum up some publicity for my very important state-of-the-nation tour of Ireland by roping in some of my old friends and calling in a few favours, also known as blackmail. I am by no means a miserly man and can admit to a small fortune, on paper at least, if you count my retirement home, shares in Miss Whipcream and Jane Bondage's highly lucrative business, and the gold ingots that my neighbours the Mengeles back in the Canarias have stowed away for me, but paper money butters no parsnips, or as we Spanish say, "God will look after the blind driver. Those who can see must look after themselves." Therefore it was incumbent on me to try to find alternative sources of funding for my trip, and what better way, I thought, than to take advantage of the hospitality of the Irish, to exploit their reputation for welcoming strangers and milk the sow of human kindness, a kind of pig/person hybrid which came about through xenotransplantation rather than bestiality.

There being not one of my former journalistic contacts still capable of generating goodwill towards my endeavour—who, in any case, would trust a journalist these days?—I retreated to the nearest barbershop for my morning hot towel shave and a well-deserved haircut to reflect on my available options. I ought to point out here, perhaps, that this was no spontaneous, ad hoc decision. I am a particularly hirsute individual who requires a minimum of two shaves a day, sometimes three, and a haircut at least once a week, and experience has taught me that time spent on this unavoidable chore is the perfect opportunity for reflection and inspiration. In addition, barbers, at least in Spain, are the best source of underworld rumour, commonplace wisdom, arcane lore, and local gossip. Also they know 15 different ways to kill a man with a comb.

Gerry* the barber from Bray, for this is where I was on my tour so far by now, was a chunky balding middle-aged Londoner with sideburns who manipulated his blade and towel with a panache and bravado that would have put the great matador Enrique Ponce to shame. Barely was I in his chair and the razor disinfected than he had deduced my foreign origins and elicited from me the nature of my quest.

"We used to get journalists in here all the time," he told me, the flash of the morning sun sliding down the cutting edge of his blade as he scythed it through the air. "Once upon a time they took pride in their work, in their appearance, in their vocation." He paused to look me straight in the eye. Via the mirror.

"Not any more. Too ashamed to be recognized in public. These days they cower behind beards—even the women—and let their hair grow long and lank like . . . I don't know . . . greasers."

"What is greasers?" I asked, without dropping my gaze.

"You know. People from Greece. Moustaches, beards, lots of hair, unkempt appearance, smashing plates."

"Ah yes, I know this," I said. "Plates of meat: feet. They have smashing feet."

"No. Not rhyming slang. They smash plates. On the restaurant floor. When they dance."

This was a cultural stereotype that had passed me by, someone who generally prides himself on being able to compartmentalize and pass ready-made opinions of foreigners, but I took his word for it that this was something journalists do. I had often seen them standing on the bar of the Shelbourne Hotel urinating into one another's mouths, but smashing plates on the restaurant floor . . . why would anyone do that?

"I'll tell you what, though," he went on, "if you're stuck, you should try . . . wassername . . . the Delaney woman down near Greystones. She's always in the papers."

"She is who?"

"Delaney. You know. The writer woman."

I had no idea who he meant, having failed to stay au fait, au courant or au naturel with the world of literature, so it was with some embarrassment that I had to confess my ignorance of Ireland's most famous writer of chicken literature, Carol-Anne Delaney, author of the world-renowned "Irish Hearts" trilogy—Hearts and Carrickmines, Clonskeagh to My Heart, and Heart of Greystones—as well as countless other blockbusters that have remained on the New York Times Foreign paperback romantic fiction list for the better part of this century: Killiney and Tigers, A Celbridge Too Far, I Stepaside for No Man, and These Boots Were Made for Walkinstown.

"I can make a call for you, if you'd like," said Gerry. "I have a mate in the . . erm . . . legal profession who knows her well and owes me a favour. He can have a word and see if she'd be willing to meet you, mention you in one of her columns, book reviews, fashion pieces, interviews, that sort of thing."

"You could do that?" I said, turning my pristine, shiny face up in awe. Gerry just shrugged.

"Sure. I'm the barber."

And thus it was not two hours later that I found myself at the ivy-bordered front door of Rosacea Cottage, just outside the small village of Delgany, not a stone's throw from the Carmelite convent, where tradition has it that Our Lady of Mount Carmel appeared to the local children, who threw stones at her, and were consequently melted by her laser vision, whence the recipe for crème caramel. The door was opened by a purple-haired giant of a woman with a snub nose and what I assumed were shoulder pads, even though she was wearing a halter top. Her smile was a gleaming, brilliant, bluey white, the result, I later found, of chewing biros and Mint Imperials all day, habits that Miss—NOT Ms—Delaney had acquired early in her writing career.

"Much of the surrounding land is of no agricultural value," she informed me off-handedly as she guided me into the conservatory for afternoon tea. "I would rent it out to farmers, of course, even though they can be such cute hoors that most of my time would be spent keeping an eye on them, so instead I've had it all landscaped and called in one of the top Italian designers to give it that cultivated but louche look."

It reminded me that County Wicklow is known as the Garden of Ireland, an eminently suitable title, particularly given that it is indeed in Ireland. Calling it The Garden of Austria would be bound to cause confusion. Or worse, the Garden of Japan, since the Japanese Gardens are in Kildare, as everyone knows. But I was not prepared for the vast size of Miss Delaney's holdings. During the Celtic Tiger years, she explained to me, the Irish public couldn't get enough of chicken literature. They were flying off the shelves. Like chickens. At the height of the boom, she told me, there were 300,000 chicken literature books being published every week in Ireland, which meant that each individual member of the public had either read or written 16 novels. "And that's not including poetry," she said, "although there's no money in that. Only idiots write poetry."

After tea she gave me a quick tour of the public areas of Rosacea Cottage (she has an open day once a year during which she poses for photographs with her adoring fans, signs copies of her novels, accepts gifts and tithes, and gets through two packets of Solpadeine; she used to stockpile Kaolin and Morphine and let the ingredients separate, but Boots have stopped selling it). We then retired to her study/writing room to discuss business. I must confess that I had anticipated an airy, cheerful, well-lit room overlooking the extensive gardens, but Miss Delaney prefers to work ("and it is work, don't forget") in an underground bunker, lined with mahogany panelling and bookshelves, featuring not her works, as one might expect, but photographs, some of the author herself, but most of them of her inspirations: Mother Theresa, Dame Barbara Cartland, Margaret Thatcher, Mary Harney, Ayn Rand. "All strong, powerful women, Manuel, you will notice," she explained. "All of them knew what they wanted and pursued it single-mindedly, regardless of what anybody else thought of them." She caressed the frame of a picture of Mary Harney strangling a goose. "In women such qualities are invariably frowned upon, whereas in men they are considered honourable. Just think. Michael O'Leary, Jeffrey Archer, Michael McDowell, Gordon Ramsay. All of them admired, nay, worshiped and fawned over for their strength of character and determination. Women who exhibit those qualities, on the other hand . . . " Her voice trailed away and she shook her head dejectedly as she stroked Barbara Cartland's cheek. I felt it best not to express my personal feelings on the matter of the weaker sex and the emasculating nature of liberal society, bearing in mind that I had not yet been able to take advantage of her.

"It must nevertheless mean a life of loneliness," I ventured, a speculation that suggested empathy when in fact I felt that it served her right for taking away a man's job. But Miss Delaney had no time for mawkish self-pity. She quickly bucked up.

"Let's get some tea and biscuits and discuss your itinerary," she said.

Over the next 20 minutes or so I outlined my plans and offered suggestions for how Miss Delaney might help me: a direct donation into my account, going onto the airwaves and telling everyone to give me free food and accommodation, mentioning me in the opening lines of her next book review for the Irish Times ("The correspondence between Martin Heidegger and Hannah Arendt, skillfully edited and annotated in this volume by Martin Golightly, put me in mind of the fearless, handsome, and pious but humble Manuel Estímulo, currently making a tour of this benighted nation of ours . . . "). At most turns, she demurred, not contemptuously but firmly explaining the shortcomings in my proposals.

"You must understand, my dear Manuel," she said, "the emphasis in the phrase 'publishing industry' falls upon the second word. These days publishing is exclusively a business enterprise, and unless you are already a well-known public figure, publishing houses have no interest at all in attempting to sell your wares. The publishing world is a very conservative place–"

"–I am pleased to hear it."

"Good. But a consequence of this is that it is near impossible, especially in times like these, for outsiders to break in. Even those of us who are successful must write to a formula, giving our readers exactly what they want. I do not exaggerate. I can give you the precise breakdown of the plot, character, and storyline requirements for the novels of any of the top 50 novelists alive today. And that's before you begin to consider the tie-ins: film rights, product placement, toys, spin-offs, location cachet, newsworthiness. There's no point writing a book today about leukaemia or Alzheimer's. They've been done to death. Or autism. Or the Holocaust. You have to look at what's going to be in the news in 12 months' time. Who's likely to be dead by then? Is there a centenary coming up in 2014 that you can exploit? Or else make up a new illness. Growing old backwards, for instance. That's a good one. Or growing a new cock. How about that?"

I was crunching my Hobnobs with abandon by this point, making furious notes in the margins of the Daily Mail which I'd taken from the pile of newspapers Miss Delaney told me she was throwing out. But at the mention of the word "cock" I must confess that my knee jerked with surprise (and a brief experience of déjà vu as I recalled the first day in the showers at school). That jerk catapulted my tray of half-eaten Hobnobs to the floor, where the plate smashed and the biscuits crumbled. I looked up at her in horror. She rose from behind her desk.

"Not to worry, Manuel. I'll go get a brush from the scullery. I'm sure the maid will have something like that."

She crossed the study to the door but turned as she opened it.

"Of course, there is one other way of breaking into the business, you know, Manuel. You could have sex with someone already on the inside." She gave me what I thought must have been a meaningful look before disappearing up the stairs and into the daylight above.

Now, I am not fool enough to imagine myself to be a sophisticate, with all the worldly wiles of, say, an American. And Heaven knows that I have done my best to disdain and dismiss all material goods and pleasures as trivia, mere gew-gaws and trinkets of temptation by means of which Satan lures us into the maw of Hell. But even I have the presence of mind to be able to spot an opportunity for career advancement when it is presented to me on a plate, as it were, winking at me over its shoulder with its arse raised in the air. And therefore you will not be surprised when I tell you what I did next. As quickly as possible, I relieved myself of my clothings so that I would be ready and waiting for Miss Delaney when she returned to the room, having no doubt washed herself down there and put some lippy on (I splashed some gin from the drinks cabinet on my cheeks and gave my penis a quick spritz too just to take the daily stink off it). I then climbed up onto the Miss Delaney's desk, attempting to look magnificent, masculine, magisterial, and another word that begins with an m but I don't know what it is in English. And while I stood there waiting, I did some dynamic tension exercises I remembered from Charles Atlas that would make me looked pumped. Also I masturbated a little.

I was therefore a little disappointed when Miss Delaney returned not only still fully dressed and with no apparent lipstick on her mouth, but also wielding what I can only describe as the thickest, longest, knobbliest broomstick I think it has ever been my misfortune to lay my eyes on. "Unless I have seriously misread this situation and the next half an hour is not going to involve some rampant sex after all, I can't for the life of me imagine how she is going to incorporate a broomstick that size into proceedings," I thought to myself. However, and possibly fortunately, I had indeed misread the situation. Upon seeing my virile form standing erect upon her workstation, Miss Delaney at first screamed with terror, an emotion that soon took a backseat to violent, incandescent rage, which manifested itself in the way she charged at me waving the broomstick above her head.

"Aaaaaaarrrrrgggggghhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!" she yelled, channeling a million banshee howls, her huge shoulders now generating serious purchase through the broomhandle. I leapt from the table, the first swipe missing me by inches, and clambered onto the nearest bookshelf, hoping to scramble high enough to be out of her reach.

"Get down here, you vile man!" she screeched, swiping again at my behind, which hung down like a forbidden fruit as I clung to the rail protecting her first-edition Atlas Shrugged. I inched along as best I could, she still swiping with her broom, photos of Harney, Thatcher, Sarah Palin, crashing to the floor.

"Help me! Help me!" I implored, before realizing that there was nobody in earshot and that anyone who did happen upon us would simply imagine that we were re-enacting the final scene of the movie The Fly, my pink shaven head lending the scene a particular veracity. There was nothing for it but to jump and make a break for the door.

"There's been a big mistake," I said, trying to placate my assailant in order to improve my chances of escape.

"I'll say there has," she replied as I landed on the floor on all fours. "Get out of my house, you monster." She attempted to scuttle me off with a final swish, but I was already halfway up the stair before the broom's trajectory was complete, leaving my clothes behind, and I refused myself the luxury of looking back until I was at least a half-mile up the road. At least I'd had the foresight to leave the ignition key in my scooter.

*All names have been changed to protect the guilty.

Every Cow Has a Silver Lining!

noreply@blogger.com (Manuel Estimulo) — Thu, 14 Apr 2011 07:47:00 +0000

It's What's Underneath That Counts! (Not the Udders)

"What is the most common expression in Ireland?"

This was the question which was pose for a competition recently in one of Ireland's most wide-read magazines, Ireland's Own (target demographic: widows/spinsters aged 90 to 130). Although my subscription to the magazine was let lapse once I retired to the Canarias (prohibitive postal charges), when I was work in Ireland back in the 1980s for the Spanish intelligence services, this magazine was essential reading in order to acquire up-to-date information on what the population was thinking, and consequently a week was never go by without it appearing on the top of a pile of documents on my desk, the always gorgeous watercolour painting on its cover stamped with a single word: Urgente.

Even though my reading was for work purpoises and therefore by definition a trial to be endured, I was raised to enjoy pain and suffering, especially those of others, and Ireland's Own was replete with suffering, especially of the Irish people and their saints, all of whom seem to have been killed by the English at Vinegar Hill (which I think is a poetical metaphor for Calvary rather than an actual place). Consequently I came very much to look forward to my rendez-vous with the Irish psyche, an attitude that both enhanced my appreciation for and understanding of the prevalent worldview abroad in the land and also to scale the greasy pole, which is not a reference to Ludmilla the office secretary but to the promotions I secured in my several years in the embassy. When I leave Ireland, it was with much sadness but also a hefty pension as chief of station, and much of that can be placed at the doorstep of Ireland's Own, although, needless to say, I have no such intention of doing so.

I was, however, intrigued by the competition which was run by the magazine recently, if you remember. Since I am now newly back in Ireland, it was strike me that the correct answer to this question would tell me a great deal about how much the country had changed in the years I had been away. I had seen some of and sympathized with the lovely holy pissing Ireland of yore, a simple, pious, bitter, fervently nationalistic Ireland driven by self-hatred, hatred of others, and the love of our lord Jesus and his blessed mother, but it was clear to me that a materialist atheist capitalist conspiracy had insinuated itself into some parts of society, particularly the urban regions, with their cosmopolitanism, ladies living alone, Jews, bookshops, lack of playing fields, and huddled masses (although not huddled Masses, which were still, thankfully, much in evidence down the country). Thus I took it upon myself to utilize this competition question as a springboard for some amateur research, suspecting that the changes which have take place since the arrival and departure of the Celtic Tiger would manifest itself in the answers I was likely to receive.

I therefore was set up my stall in various parts of the city of Dublin and the suburb of Dun Laoghaire where I am now based and asked people the question posed by Ireland's Own. So in order as not to raise their suspicions, I carried on my person a fake Newstalk i.d., a microphone, a portable tape recorder (conveniently, I had one given to me as a birthday present in the 1970s), and sunglasses so I could not be recognized. I set up first my stall outside the swimming baths, sometimes following people in and sometimes following them home afterwards, then outside a GAA club, then also outside the FÁS offices on Baggot Street, then immediately after that outside the Waterloo pub (also on Baggot Street), then outside Harcourt Street police station, inside Harcourt Street police station, and then a ladies' hairdressing salon. And finally back inside Harcourt Street police station. I was able to make from this process a fairly representative sample to extrapolate with (and some nice photos too). The most popular answers I received to Ireland's Own's question, masquerading as Manuel's Own question were (in no particular order):

(1) "Hail Mary, full of grace. Our Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus." (This was reassuring to hear and also allowed me to engage in some guerrilla praying.)

(2) "If you really loved me, you'd put it in your mouth." (This suggestion was particularly common among ladies.)

(3) "We are where we are." (This was usually said with a sneer.)

(4) "There is no god but Allah, and Mohammed is his prophet." (A consecutive number of students from the college of F.E. in Ballsbridge said this to me with barely contained laughter, which I took for contempt and proof of the insidious Islamicization of education in Ireland that the Irish Independent is always warning people about.)

(5) "This is the wettest July on record since last July." (I insert here myself the word "July," but respondents actually used every month on the calendar).

(6) "We apologize for the delay to this train, which was caused by a technical difficulty/a lorry hitting a bridge/suicide at Killester."

(7) "What time's your flight?"

and

(8) "We here at Ireland AM have teamed up with [insert the name of any half-empty hotel in the provinces]."

These, I think you must agree, constitute a varied and representative sample of what passes for the commonplace banter of the average Irish interlocutor. Imagine therefore my surprise, having entered all eight of these statements into the competition under different identities but the same address so as not to complicate any prize collection, when the winning entry was announced and it transpired to be the proverb which now makes up the title of this blog post: "Every Cow has a Silver Lining." I was at once taken aback, mystified, and yet also strangely comforted, since it made me realize that the old Ireland that I had so much loved was still intact somewhere out there, somewhere beyond the fleshpots of sin and depravity that make up Dun Laoghaire/Rathdown.

My overseas readers will no doubt be asking, though, what means this saying "Every Cow Has a Silver Lining"? Although not my Spanish readers, who will be familiar with a similar such proverb which we have, "Every Bull Has Gold Inside," which is a clever proverb that plays on the words "Toro," meaning bull, and "Oro," which is the word for gold. This is an old farming expression which tells you of the high esteem and importance in which rural communities hold bulls and their regenerative powers, since a good bull is much more valuable to a farmer than a dozen cows. Some people, mostly foreigners, think that the saying is meant to be taken literally, as a reference to the bull's seed, but bull semen is not gold at all, merely a sort of orangey-beige, as any Spanish child can tell you from school trips. The Spanish saying is therefore nothing more than a metaphor.

In the case of the Irish saying, however, there is some evidence that rural communities still believe that it is literally true that cows have silver linings. This is because of the peculiar history of the Irish dairy economy. Irish farmers, while astute, tight-fisted bastardos, are also very sentimental sons-of-bitches, and since the country gained independence, not a single cow has been slaughtered in the 26 counties. Irish farmers could not bear to see the cows they had become so fond of and intimately affectionate with shot through the skull with a bolt gun. Therefore, all cows were exported "on the hoof" by ferry to England, often under better conditions than Irish men and women (anyone who has taken the overnight boat train from Dublin to Holyhead can testify to this), and then the cows were ritually slaughtered by the English, which is what they are good at. The butchered meat would then be distributed to all three corners of the British Empire, including Ireland, where the populace are notoriously fond of their rump steaks, chitlings, buffalo wings, and Bisto. Of course, by the time the cows are in the butchers' shops in Kilkenny, Castlebar, Carlow, and sometimes Athlone, they are no longer recognizable as the individuals they once were, and what is more, their skin has been removed long ago, kept by the English who use them for their rugs, having FIRST removed the silver lining! This, at least, has been for hundreds of years the Irish farmers' suspicion for how come the cruel, vicious, animal-hating Protestant English were getting so rich while the decent, animal-loving, pious Roman Catholic Irish were still having to pay €5 for a decent tongue sandwich.

It was heartening to think that this traditional worldview is still underneath the surface of the superficial postmodern multicultural communist Ireland of today, even though the casual observer has to peer deeply under the carapace, or the bonnet, depending if they are looking at a car, a ladybird, a small child, or a teenage girl. The competition result proved to me that the shallow mediocrity that some sections of Ireland aspire to adopt as their defining national characteristic has not yet taken hold across the country; somewhere out there the beating heart of the true Ireland persists, throbbing under the surface like an unwanted erection at the aforementioned swimming baths, and since my return to this island has been premised on the belief that conditions have never been riper to restore Ireland to herself, her true pious, disciplined, fascist Roman Catholic self, locating the source of that pulsating flesh would be the sine qua non of success. It must be massaged, cajoled, made stronger and bigger, the way it once was, so that it can rejuvenate and regenerate this once proud, but also very humble, nation.

I have resolved therefore to embark upon a nationwide tour in search of the real true Ireland. I plan to take in every single county and every major townland, village, convent, farm, and bar in my quest. I have already packed my Tupperware box with sandwiches and filled my Thermos flask (with Bisto, of course!), and Miss Whipcream and Jane Bondage have promised to keep an eye on my home in my absence, dealing with post, burst pipes, death threats, unmarked packages that appear on bank statements as "Runnymede Entertainment Enterprises," and the football scores. I have asked them to record for me the Champions League final so that I do not miss Real Madrid beating Manchester United 6-0 at Wembley, but I espect I shall be able to watch it in a field in Fermanagh, hopefully surrounded by cows. With silver linings.

Let us pray.

A Man's Work is Never Done!

noreply@blogger.com (Manuel Estimulo) — Thu, 07 Apr 2011 10:39:00 +0000

Why Book Burning was Invented!

I have never been a great fan of Do-It-Yourself, also known as D.I.Why, both for practical and for ideological reasons. In the first place, it is an attitude which is synomynous with anarchism, exemplified by the punk rocking, fanzines, blogging, and masturbation. It reach its apogee in the late 1970s, when all across Britain and Ireland there was open all these megastores such as Virgin, B&Q, Homebase, Allied Carpet Bombings, Atlantic Homeboy, Home Despot, and, in Ireland, Hoodies. Also on the television were such shows as Home Improvement, Tomorrow's World, Practical Anarchist, Kitchen Impossible, and Upstairs and Downstairs, all of which was intent on turning the men and women of Europe into atheist communist autonomous revolutionaries. Every Sunday, which is God's day, I remind you, men and women with hate in their eyes and dogs in their cars would drive to these suspicious out-of-town meeting places where they would congregate, plot revolution, buy nailguns and grout, and then return to their homes and put honest decent Christian small businessmen out of work. For this was their devious plan, the Why in the D.I.Why: A noxious conspiracy to break the petty bourgeoisie and draw them back into the seething proletarian mass, thereby polarizing society into decent God-fearing wealthy hacienda owners on the one hand, and, on the other hand, the scum. Everybody else.

Out of principle therefore I have never done a proper day's work in my life, choosing instead to employ others, lackeys of some sort or another, to do it for me. I am thereby generating employment, gratuitude, indebtedness, droit de seigneur, and a sense of noblesse oblige which is only proper and fitting and which keeps society stable and moving in the right direction, which is nowhere. I have deliberately avoided learning how to turn taps on and off, change a plug in my bath, how to empty my jacuzzi, how to open the oven (or close it, obviously!), how to exchange lightbulbs, or how to flush a toilet. These are all jobs for someone else. It has therefore been a bit of a wrench to find myself last week standing in my kitchen with, in my hand, a bit of a wrench. And a bit. A drill bit. Which was because I have had the decorators in. Miss Whipcream and Jane Bondage, my old friends who I was mention last week and have found me my new bachelor pad in Dun Laoghaire, have been getting the place "done up" for me, and it is turn out that they are dab hands at all manner of activities that involve screwing, nailing, banging, and plumming. And also teabagging.

My natural manliness was felt a little threatened by this broad knowledge, so in order not to be intiminated by them, I snuck out one of the mornings last week while they were still assembling the lowering apparatus in my bedroom and took a walk down to the Dun Laoghaire public library. I have never been in such a place before, again as a matter of principle. Libraries should be privately owned and books rented out to those willing to pay for them, not communally owned and given to all and sundry, whether they can read or not and who might get God-knows-what ideas out of them. And who-knows-what infections off them. At least with a private library you know whose pubic hairs they are. Neverthenonetheless, I made a member of myself (although I used a pseudoname so as not to leave a record or to be embarrass at a later date for overdue fines and the likes).

I find myself now however in two minds about the value or lack therein of the public library. After I was a member, I then say to the library lady, "Now perhaps you will help me, library lady. I am somewhat retarded in the ability to do the crafts around the house, and therefore I am needing some books that will enable me to feel better about myself, especially in the presents of other sex members." The library lady was just stand there for a minute contemplating me and stroking her moustache, and then she was take my hand and say, "Come with me, dear," and lead me to a shelf where she pull off two books which she give me:

"I think you will find these perfect for your special needs," she said.

I did not want to make her look like a fool in front of all the homeless people and snoring pensioners sitting around us, so I didn't not say anything at the time to dispel her of her mistake. A man must show courtesy and discretion on such an occasion so as not to humiliate a woman until he gets her home, so I just nodded and said thank you to her and then when she had her back turned put the books in a small boy's satchel hanging on the back of a chair. It was already apparent to me that all library staff are morons, probably volunteers left money in a feeble-minded aunt's will and therefore at a loose end and with a desire to confuse the aged, so I therefore ventured further into the library on my own in order to satisfy both my curiosity, which is very small, and my hunger, since they had also a cafe.

After two hours of meandering and doughnut munching, I was finally able to find books of some merit. Thus, even though I would instinctively feel that all public libraries should be burned to the ground, I was also force to ask myself where else in the Greater Dublin area I would be able to find books so perfectly tailored to my needs:

This is just a refresher course for me. Making coffins was part of my training during National Service. Like the SAS, we in Spanish intelligence always know where the bodies are buried. Because we buried them ourselves!

Actually, I took this book for Miss Whipcream, who has a couple of boas. Furry ones. They do not look well at all. They just lie there on the back of her sofa.

I am not disabled, but I do sit around all day doing nothing, so I am figure that clothes for the disabled will not be much different to clothes for the lazy. Mostly tracksuits, pyjamas, and slankets. I do not have much confidence in the contents of this book, however. The cardigan on the cover has buttons on. Who can be arsed doing up buttons?

NOW we are talking! Since part of my agenda is to take Ireland back to the days of the burro, this book will be invaluable in providing tips on feeding, beating, overworking, and insulting donkeys, all part of the traditional rural Irish way of life that disappeared when the Ford plant opened in Cork (2005, I think).

You see now why I am ambiguous about public libraries? They are a source of some of the most treasured and valuable works in the English language, but they are also open to the malodorous hoi polloi. It is very important therefore that they are saved and treated properly, preferably by being bought up by someone who will look after their contents for posterity. I always say that a little knowledge is a dangerous thing, so it is better that the rabble have no knowledge whatsoever, and the little knowledge provided by libraries is shared amongst policemen, soldiers, and the secret service and intelligence agencies: the people we want to be dangerous.

Anyway, when I got home, Miss Whipcream and Jane Bondage was fast asleep in my bed with smiles on their faces, and the batteries in my adjustable sander was all dead. I wouldn't not mind, but they had still not erected my pommel horse. Is a big disgrace!

Nazis R Us!

noreply@blogger.com (Manuel Estimulo) — Fri, 01 Apr 2011 10:23:00 +0000

Enough Space for All the Books a Fascist Could Read!!

Being very sensible, over the past fourtnight (which is only actually two weeks: I will never get the stupid English!) I have been very busy organizing my return to my spiritual home, lovely holy pissing Ireland, having heeded the call from End O'Kenny (see last week's post) telling all ageing Nazis, fascists, Falangists, and cetera, that it is safe, just like in that film the Marathon Man (which was recently remade as the Snickers Man; not as good, but with the same strong message: you can't eat a lot of chocolate and espect to get off lightly at the dentist). Safetiness is not my main reason for coming back to Ireland, however. Not at all. No. Is instead because of the new climate that O'Kenny is promising the Irish people of austerity, suffering, poverty, inequality, joblessness, empty shelves, civil war, grazed elbows, holes in pullovers, rubbish haircuts, fly-tipping, water charges, no schools, weak beers, alcoholism, marital strife, and penile servitude. What decent Christian in his own mind could resist the lure of such a scenario?!

There will be much work to be done bringing the Irish peoples back to the proper austere Roman Catholic life to which they have traditionally been devoted until the Celtic Tiger turn their heads, but the circumstances are now propitious (whatever that means) and I am sure that the church hierarchy in Ireland is rubbing its hands and thighs in delight at the opportunity that the financial and social crisises will provide for them to insert themselves back into the lives of the men, women and children across the land. In much the same way that the Big Society idea in the Great Britain really means hoovering up the crumbs traditionally scattered before the proles and instead letting the charities take the strain of separating out the "deserving" from the "undeserving" poor (in my view they all deserve to be poor), so the crisises in Ireland will mean cutting back all the communist features of the state (education, hospitals, care of the elderly, infrastructure) and encouraging instead the major civil institutions, such as the Holy Roman Catholic Church and Hezbollah, to demonstrate their magnaminity and that they don't not bear any grudges against the idiot Irish people who turned their back on God in favour of Mammon during the boom times. The Church knows it full well from history that this is a regular occurrence, and it also knows full well the Parable of the Prodigal Son, which is in the Bible, so I am confident that the Church will happily and selflessly welcome home with open arms all repentant sinners on their hands and knees.

An austere lifestyle is not just good for the soul but also good for the body, of course, and we Falangists pride ourselfs on our self-discipline, our self-denial, our Spartan bearing, our love of suffering (both our own and that of others), and our capacity to endure deprivation. I have, however, deprived myself long enough of the delights of lovely pissing Ireland, stuck as I was in my retirement villa in the Canarias, idly sipping Cardenal Mendoza and watching the topless volleyball on the beach through my binoculars. What kind of life is that for a man? It is shallow, meaningless, and empty. What pleasure there was to be had came thanks to my neighbours the Mengeles, but they now are getting old and withered and are unable to parade or hold a whip as well as they once could. Is therefore good fortune for me that the tide has turn in Ireland. Finally once again this is a place where an ascetic despiser of all things superfluous and luxurious such as I can feel at home.

I have therefore rented out a nice house in Dun Laoghaire, where I was previously once about to move in with my good friends Jane Bondage and Miss Whipcream, two ladies of high breeding what I was use to work with when I was stationed in Ireland with the Spanish intelligence. They was always giving me good-quality details about all the judges and politicians and businessmen visiting their premises. I will be able to renew my close acquaintance with them, and they have been very decent enough to find for me this new bachelor pad

where I am in the process of moving all my comestibles, domestics, cosmetics, and comics. It is not the biggest and most pre-possessing of houses, I know, but it does have a certain je ne sais quoi, a spirit, a geist, if you will. Miss Whipcream tells me that it could do with a larger living room, and Jane says there are some slates missing, but she knows a local chap, Lenny Roofinstall, who will make it look just fabulous. "It will be a triumph," were her precise words.

So I am all boyant and enthused about this return. I have it on good authority that some of my old comrades have already arrived in Dublin and are acclimating very well. I have been already into IKEA to stock up on basics: a chair, a spoon, a hunting knife, a silencer, night-vision goggles, some salmiak, a bottle of schnapps, a bookshelf (see main picture), hiking books, plimsolls, pantyhose, a tourniquet, and an iPad 2. I have downloaded the Bible.

I shall now look forward to reacquainting myself with all my old Irish friends and also resurrecting my old network from the Gladio days. Some of them must still be alive or on the outside. A covert network of ageing fascists will be just the ticket to get the country going again. Or at least to accelerate its headlong charge back to the 1930s. My fervid hope is that once we pick up speed I can push Ireland right back to the 16th century before anyone can put the brakes on. Feudalism might be asking a bit much, escept in Carlow, perhaps, but with a bit of luck we can at least get back to the days of burros and buboes.

If the economists are all correct, and they never are, Ireland is now esperienceing the clam before the storm. They do not mean Jean van Damn Clam, the mussels from Brussells. Rarther, it is a metaphor meaning that everything is locked tight shut like a shell but with the hurricane on the way about to batter it. Like scampi. I shall therefore make haste and reach Ireland by next week. Miss Whipcream says she still has my Wellington boots and long brown mackintosh. I don't think I shall need them, however. I AM the coming storm!

Turn Your Pasty Irish Faces to the Sun. And Go Blind!

noreply@blogger.com (Manuel Estimulo) — Thu, 24 Mar 2011 12:43:00 +0000

¡A Land Fit for Falangists!

"This is our country. This is our journey. Yes, we are in times without precedent but I believe that for Ireland this current crisis is the darkest hour before the dawn, that we have a generational lightness of soul, that in the long Hibernian nights on the western edge of Europe we remembered the light that went before, imagined the light to come. We are a people looking always and ever to the possibilities of a new day. That new day is here, a bright new day where there is no gap, where the people and its Government are one again, a day when our people are united in cause. Seamus Heaney said: “You have to try to make sense of what comes, remember everything and keep your head.” We will. Together and for our country let us believe in our future. For Ireland and each other, let us lift up our heads, turn our faces to the sun and, as has been already said, hang out our brightest colours. This is the first day of a journey to a better future. That future will be achievable when Ireland can again take charge of its own destiny, when by the centenary of the 1916 Rising we can prove to be the best small country in the world in which to do business, to raise a family and to grow old with dignity and respect."

Enda Kenny, March 9, 2011.

Facing the sun in my new shirt
that you embroidered in red yesterday,
That's how death will find me if it takes me
and I won't see you again.

I'll take my place alongside my companions
who stand on guard in the heavens,
with a hard countenance,
they are alive in our effort.

If they say to you that I fell,
know that I'm gone to my post up there.

Victorious flags will return
at the merry step of Peace
and they'll bring five roses:
the arrows of my quiver.

Spring will laugh again,
which we await by air, land and sea.

Onwards, squadrons, to victory,
that a new day dawns on Spain!

Spain united!
Spain (the) great!
Spain (the) free!
Onwards Spain!

English translation of Cara al Sol, the anthem of the Falange Party.

¿What clearer clarion call could there be? Now is the time I think for me to return to my spiritual homeland, lovely holy pissing Ireland. I have heard the call and got the message. ¡Ireland is open for business!

¿What Colour is Your Parasite?

noreply@blogger.com (Manuel Estimulo) — Wed, 02 Mar 2011 10:05:00 +0000

¿Why Does My Home Smell All Fishy?

There is a very wily, clever, cunning word-play, probly invented by The Jews, according to which it is argued that Jesus Christ was NOT a Christian. ¡Sí! ¿How ridiculous is that? ¡It was his surname, for Christ's sake! Saying this is like saying that I am not an Estímulon. It would make no sense whatsoever. And yet this is what the atheist communist Jews are try to instinuate: Jesus was a Jew, they say, deliberately trying to discredit Jesus and sow doubt amongst the Christian faithful, particularly those of them who have not read the Bible. The intention is to make them start think to themselfs, "Oh dear, maybe that is true. Perhaps it is in the Bible and I was not aware of it. I had better not admit I am not sure. But wait. Perhaps I am being taken for a mick. ¿After all, if Jesus wasn't a Christian, then why are there so many of us? I shall ask my priest in the morning. He will know. He knows everything. He would have heard during Confession if there was any truth to the rumour." And so most Christians are usually stay Christians, fortunately, but still the gnawing doubt has have been put in their heads by the evil Jews, and so when the first time the Christians read the Bible and find out that Jesus was a Jew, they realize that the priest is a liar and lose all faith in the Bible and Jesus. Because of the Jews. The wily cunning Jews.

The moral is: Do not read the Bible. Especially if you are Christian.

In a similar way, Karl Marx, who was also a Jew, like Jesus, but not a Christian, although he did become a Christian, being baptized when he was 6, once said, "I am not a Marxist." Which again was just confuse everyone. But remember, Marx was a Jew, and he was using what is called Dialectical Mentalism, which was invented by Plato (not a Jew, as far as I can ascertain), which is a way of saying something and its opposite both at the same time. Which is what The Jews do. You see, Marx was a Marxist, being named Marx, but he wasn't not a follower of Marx, who are also called Marxists, because they are dicks. Similarly, Jesus wasn't not a follower of Jesus, unless you count the Holy Ghost, who was also Jesus and God and who followed him around everywhere. What Jesus and Marx are really mean is simply that they did not believe in themselves. Such low self-esteem is quite normal for high achievers. For esample, you only have to take one look at the world around you to realize that God was lacking in self-belief. It did not stop Him from creating the Universe. Indeed, it was his main motivation, his Prime Mover, if you will. If it wasn't for self-doubt, none of us would be here. I think. Although I am not sure.

Karl Marx was enough of a Marxist, however, to know the writings of Karl Marx, wherein he was correctly saying that "The history of all hitherto existing society is the history of class struggles." And he is not alone in being correctly saying this, or in being a Marxist to the degree that he believe it. Indeed, all the ruling classes of societies are good enough Marxists to know that this is true. Moreover, they are further good enough Marxists to know that the most important aspect of being the ruling class is to keep hidden from all the other classes that there is a class struggle going on. Because so long as the other classes are not aware of it, they will not try to organize against the ruling class in order to secure a larger portion of the social cheese.

It was the absence of this knowledge which is what was strike me the most about all the stupid moron commentary which have been taking place in Ireland over the last week in response to the stupid moron general election there. Liberal writer Fintan the Toole in the Irish Times last week, for instance, says ridic things such as that the Irish people have voted to endorse the EU-IMF bailout. Lots of other people are say things like, "I cannot understand it. The people have voted for the same thing that they have just voted out. ¡Another right-wing government!" This lack of awareness is a good thing, of course, from my own personal fascist perspective, even though I would prefer they had no election at all. And also no Internet or Fintan the Toole. And you will find hundreds of comments like this, all incredulous that the "Irish People" "don't get it" or "are idiots" or "deserve everything they get after voting for austerity," or "are timid, cowardly, conservative people." Which all really just prove none of the above but that the commenters themselves are big suckers and dupes. Or if they are not dupes they are dupliciting.

Because the big unmentioned yellow elephant in the room is class. It is a classroom. As someone else once said somewhere else (it might have been Jesus), "there is a class war being waged, but only one side is aware of it." You see, it is not being the "Irish people" or "the voters" who have voted for the Fine Gaels. No. It is the professional and ruling and chattering classes who was voted for them, and they have did so with a perfectly cold and reasonable logic too. They are know full well that the policies which the Fine Gaels will implement in the process of running Ireland will not hurt them anywhere near as much as they will hammer the idiot working classes and the poor and the young. And they know this because the Fine Gaels have told them so.

You must never underestimate the capacity of the upper, middle, and professional classes to protect their own interests, to the exclusion of everything else. You must realize that they did not get where they are today by hard work. No. They got where they are today by protecting their privileges, their wealth, and their unequal opportunities, AND by denying and minimizing them to others. The more they can ensure that social mobility is reduced for those beneath them, then the safer they are feel; the less competition there is, the more secure are their privileges. The Fine Gaels know this full well, and so they are shape their electoral message loud and clear and sent it to their target demographic: Everyone must share the pain, but that doesn't not mean the pain must be share equally. Indeed, under the Fine Gaels, relatively speaking, you will be better off than before.

QED: The Fine Gaels are a Marxist party.

The only worrying aspect of the stupid moron general election was that this time it is become clear increasingly that the idiot subject classes are start to become aware that their interest is not being serve by the government. Once upon the time, they was use to vote for the right-wing populist Fianna Fail party, who was always sure to give them crumbs from the dinner table, but now they are begin to catch on that they are engaged in a game that they cannot not win. This time around, some of them voted for communist parties such as the Labour Party or the atheist People Without Prophets, which is a very worrying sign and should be stopped immediately. If that sort of insubordinate behaviour is allow to spread, we could end up with a repeat of the civil war. And I am not mean the Spanish Civil War for Golf, which we win, or the Irish Civil War, which we was also win, but the English Civil War, the one which had the romantic lovely royalist Calvaliers but also the mean Protestant ugly Skinheads and, worse, the spit-on-their-hands Diggers, the trouserless Sans Culottes, the dog-on-a-string Levellers, the New Model Army, the Muggletonians, and the Mekons. The sound track might appeal to middle ages people, but the dress sense will be appalling. And no true-blooded Irish man wants to fight in an English Civil War. He would want both sides to lose.

The plan now is that the Fine Gaels can con the idiot Labour Party into coming into government with them. This will make the government look like it is being run in the national interest and will help to conceal its real agenda of protecting the wealthy. And when the protests inevitably start, it will be the Labour Party which will take all the stick. And all the stone. Like a police man's riot shield. And the Fine Gaels are his baton. The presence of the Labour Party in government will also serve to divide again the subject classes and disillusion them with the possibility of solidarity and therefore the possibility of successful struggle. As long as then all the workers and poor do not emigrate, then the system can keep on working.

Someone had better close the borders.

¡Is a joke!

Who Needs International Rescue?!

noreply@blogger.com (Manuel Estimulo) — Thu, 24 Feb 2011 12:14:00 +0000

Is End O'Kenny. Our Very Own Tracey Ireland!!

Do you remember growing up the very amazing clever animated television program show The Thrunderbirds Are Go!? No. Me neither. I am too old. In Spain, when I was grow up, all we had was comic magazines about the Crusades and oranges on a stick. But a few years ago, the Thrunderbirds was come back in fashion for the young children these days when the presenters on The Blue Peter Show make a cheapskate version of the program set, featuring the Thrunderbirds' home base, Tracey Ireland, named after the head of the family, Tracey Ireland. It was composed with cheap nasty disposable items that children could easily find such as plastic bags, Stanley knives, Parazone bottles, used toilet paper, coat hangars, some leaves, and a rocket ship. Children all over the world made their own Tracey Irelands and played at being one of the Thrunderbird pilots, such as Alan, Scott, Gordon, Brians, The Hood, Tintin, and Bitch. Very few of the children wanted to be Tracy Ireland himself, since he was a kind of father figure who overseed everything with a benign indifference and was too busy anyway playing golf, reading the papers, and shooting boatpeople.

The show was brung to mind for me only his week by the uncanny parallels between Thrunderbirds the show and Ireland the country, which is this week facing the dismal prospect of a democratic election. As you are already know by now, I am violently opposed, in principle and also in practice, to democratic elections, but this one in lovely pissing holy Ireland is different because it is not really a proper democratic election anyway: all the parties who are being allowed to win have the same policies. Also besides, the election is already a foregone conclusion, since the winners and losers are already decided. End O'Kenny will be the winner, and everyone else will be the losers.

The Fine Gaels have been keeping End O'Kenny under raps, which I was thought was because they were embarrassed by him. But now I realize that he is their secret weapon. Like Thrunderbird One. At the bottom of the swimming pool. Escept he would not sink, because he is so wooden.

This was what was strike me when I watched O'Kenny in one of the tougher interviews he has done this election, on The Den. For the viewer, the esperience was like the end of the book Animal Farm, where the animals look from pig to farmer and back again and cannot tell them apart. This time, my eyes was switch from End O'Kenny to Dustin the Turkey (the interviewer) and from Dustin the Turkey (the interviewer) back to End O'Kenny, and it was impossible for me to tell which one was the politician and which one was the puppet. And then, when O'Kenny kept going on about the International Rescue and taking care of the corporations but otherwise cow-towing to Ireland's European masters, it hit me that he is not just any puppet running just any puppet government. No! He is Tracey Ireland from Thrunderbirds, the father of all the Ireland people, and like they did on The Blue Peter Show, he is going to transform the country into a model economy, composed of cheap nasty items and used toilet paper. But without the rocket ship.

The wondrous thing about lovely pissing holy Ireland is that most of the Ireland family (Scott, Gordon, Alan, Bitch etc.) are not only willing to trust Tracey, they are lending him active support by voting for him in their drives. The only dissenters seems to be Brians, the twins, who have cut the apron strings, and also the puppet strings, and fled the nest to Australia, a large, warm, sunny Ireland with jobs. The rest of the family, brought up on obedience and father nose best, are ready to put their shoulders to the grindstone and their ears to the wheel, even though they will have no jobs, no homes to go to, and not even a suitcase to hide in and shout "let me out." Like Cuddles the monkey. On the contrary and neverthenonetheless, they have taken up the Fine Gaels campaign slogans as their own: Vote for Emigration! Vote for Homelessness! Vote for Famine! And they are all singing the Fine Gaels' campaign song, Prince's "Tonight We're Going to Party Like It's 1845."

All this, of course, on the proviso that it is the public sector workers and trade unions which suffer the most. "You must never underestimate the power of spite, Señor Estímulo" Herr Mengele was point out to me as we watched O'Kenny struggle with short words and lose to Dustin at Jenga. "So long as he promises vicious vengeance against anyone with a cheerful, positive, or compassionate outlook on life—nurses, carers, firemen, charity workers—there will always be plenty of pinch-faced misanthropic church-going rural folk—our kind of people—ready to support him, keen to punish anyone who exhibits such naivety and arrogance. You must see, of course, that it isn't self-hatred that motivates people to vote for Kenny. Nein. It is hatred of other Irish people. For being uppity. The Brians realized this, and they have already left the country, because they could. Those who remain behind in Ireland either have a vested interest in the system and too much to lose by emigrating, so they will vote O'Kenny, or else they have no choice but to stay. And those, the ones who are stuck, they are the ones O'Kenny will punish. The sitting ducks."

"I have to say, Herr Mengele," I was reply. "I do like his style. He really does sound like one of us, doesn't he? Do you think we should invite him to join our Fascist International?"

Herr Mengele just winked at me and was tap the side of his nose.

"I don't think he needs an invitation, Señor Estímulo," was all he said.

VOTE CHAIR FOR A FASCIST FUTURE!!

noreply@blogger.com (Manuel Estimulo) — Thu, 10 Feb 2011 10:46:00 +0000

We Promise an Electrifying Campaign!

If you are say to anyone, "Who was your favourite ancient Greek philosopher born in the 4th century BC and who was belong to the Cynic school and who live in a barrel," seven times out of ten they will answer you "Diogenes of Sinope." Because he is. Everyone is know about and love Diogenes, who was called a Cynic because he believed that human beings are no better than dogs, and who therefore was a proto-typical fascist. The word "Cynic," incidentally, is come from the Greek word for "dog," which finds its roots in the original Spanish word "Canarias," meaning "canary," named after the bird which the ancient Spanish used to hunt dogs. There was some confusion at the time, when the ancient Greeks didn't realize which one we were pointing at.

Diogenes was well known not so much for his theories as for putting them into practice, such as living in a barrel, masturbating in public, and living on a diet of onions, all of which are things that dogs do. Most famously, on once occasion, Diogenes was walked around Athens in the middle of the day holding a lit candle. When people was ask him what he was doing, he reply, "I am looking for an honest man." This is clever, because it is imply that daylight on its own is not enough for him to find one. Legend has it that when Alexander the Great was meet Diogenes and his candle and ask him if there was anything he could do for him, Diogenes' reply was, "Yes. You can get out of my light." For which he was killed. On another occasion, when Plato had made the pompous declaration to a crowd that "Man is a featherless biped," Diogenes turned up later with a plucked chicken, which he then throw in front of the crowd and say, "There is Plato's man." Everyone had a big laugh. Diogenes was actually more of a Sarcastic than a Cynic.

Anyway, I am mention Diogenes because of the story that when the Athenians was preparing for their elections, Diogenes used to get out of the barrel and roll it all around the city just so he could "look busy as well." Nobody liked him. However, it again is time for us to "roll out the barrel," because the pointless politicians of lovely holy pissing Ireland have begun their pointless election campaigns to decide who will implement the policies of their Illuminati/Masonic/Jewish masters. Earlier this week was appearing the first priministerial debate on Ireland's porn channel, TV3, in which the priminister in waiting, End O'Kenny of the Fine Gaels, didn't not appear. He had something more important to do in Leitrim. Such as hide. Instead, the debate was between the two runners-up, Martin Michael of the Fianna fail and Eamon Gilmore of the Labour Pastry. Overall the general view afterward was that everybody was a winner. Martin Michael was a winner just by being there, because his presence was lending credibility to the idea that Fianna fail is a party that may legitimately be considered as the prospective government instead of a bunch of criminals and traitors who should be making their argument in the dock, not on television. Eamon Gilmore was a winner because he is not Biff O'Cowen or End O'Kenny, even though everyone would have preferred to see his Fat Rabbit. And End O'Kenny was a winner by NOT being there. The only loser was the Irish public, because TV3 had originally announce that if End O'Kenny did not turn up, they would replace him with an empty chair. But they did not. It was a lie. But also, it was a disappointment, because a lot of people would have like to have hear what the empty chair had to offer.

I made the point to my neighbour Herr Mengele yesterday morning over Bran Flakes and brandy and cigars, that a very good case could be made for the Irish people to elect an empty chair rather than any of the partys in thrall to the Dark Alien Forces. Herr Mengele was agree with me hole-heartedly, but then he was come up with an even better idea. "Rather than just any old chair, Señor Estímulo, we should encourage the Irish people to vote for an electric chair." I was at first bemused, in spite of my natural prejudice in favour of capital punishment and my desire to see it implemented everywhere. But Herr Mengele elaborated: "Not only would it be a snub for the Eurocrats and Jews," he said, warming to his argument, "But we can make a perfectly plausible and economic case for its use as well. What is more, I know just the place where we can get one. It is fortunate for us that the American judicial system is so soft and weak-kneed liberal. These days they only ever do humane executions. Where's the fun in that? Come, let us draw up a manifesto."

And so we was spend all of yesterday morning fine-tuning our policies, using a calculator and a colouring-in book, like the Greens do. I am not personally having a particular head for business, but Herr Mengele is still rapier-sharp in his head. "First, we will execute the paedophiles," he said. "Not priests, though," I interjected, "who were tempted by Satan." "Then we will execute the drug dealers." Again, only illegal drugs will be included, such as marijuana, smack, and crunk, not legal drugs such as Bran Flakes, brandy, and cigars. "Then, of course the Travellers." By which he mean not people going to their second home in Kinsale or rich foreingers bringing in money to the country, but gypsies and anyone generally scruffy. "And last but not least, strikers," by which he was mean Aer Lingus cabin staff, nurses, and so on, not Robbie Keane, who isn't much of a striker these days anyway.

"Most importantly," said Herr Mengele, "are these two points. One, we show the executions on the paper view channel. And two, all of the patients, er, I mean prisoners, will be executed naked."

At first, I was not sure about this. I am not the sort of man who is interested in looking at a naked man, even if he is being killed. "But Señor Estímulo, consider how much pleasure you will get as a diminutive hairy ugly old Spanish man with a tiny penis seeing a tall handsome oiled blond 20-year-old with an enormous wang meet his maker as an undignified writhing contorted mass of shit, piss, and dripping fat. We Germans have a word, you know, which is called schadenfreude. I do not know what it is called in Spanish. But trust me, you will not be alone in wanted to see such a show. Besides, we can always get in PR and marketing people like that Terri Prone to advise us on who we should be executing to maximize our returns. You'd be surprised at the things people will watch. Ryan Tubridy, for instance. Besides, if they are naked we can post the videos on the Internet. That's where all the real money is being made these days."

We have therefore calculated that if we charge €100 per execution and begin with 100 executions a year, with a population of 4 million people in Ireland, that will bring in roughly €40 billion in the first year alone, more than enough to pay off the Gnomes of Zurich, Bankers of Brussels, and Merchants of Venice. Then we will take our product to the next level. Advertisers will be knocking down our door for a piece of the action, I think. Not the Gas Bord, obviously, but undoubtedly companies like George Foreman, Marlboro, Braun, McDonald's. And then we will broaden out into celebrity executions. Under the Taliban, the half-time entertainment at the Afghan Cup Final used to be provided by one of the popular local boy bands, who would be reunited for a final time in front of a huge crowd by being hanged from the crossbar. I have no doubt that we could do something similar in Ireland with Westlife or Jedward. Also, we could have a phone-in vote for viewers to decide which member of the band will be killed. I shall call it the Execution Factor!

You know, I am amaze really that Rupert Murdoch has not yet trademark this idea. But then, when did he ever have the interests of the public in mind? He is happy just to force-feed them shallow, hedonistic garbage, not the kind of edifying, motivating and spiritually rewarding programming we are talking about here. Sometimes I wonder if he is even a Catholic at all!

So I am asking all of my Irish friends to spread the word. Myself and Herr Mengele have become very aroused at this conception, and now I think we can arouse the hole Irish people by getting them to fill in their box with CHAIR. There is no better alternative in this election, and in the long run they will thank us. Go home, therefore, back to your cottages, huts, and hovels, with this powerful, uncompromising message:

ELECT FOR ELECTROCUTION

YOU ARE KNOW IT MAKES SENSE

VOTE CHAIR!!

The Haçienda Must be Destroyed!

noreply@blogger.com (Manuel Estimulo) — Thu, 03 Feb 2011 09:59:00 +0000

Send Off the Clowens!

Lovely holy pissing Ireland has erupt into chaos and violence this week as the government was dissolve and now there is an empty vacuum standing in its place. A very espensive vacuum that does not work very well. A Dyson. And as any moron student of political philosophy can tell you, if a society is not having a leader, very quickly humans return to a state of nature, eating berries and twigs, like they do in Monaghan, and having unprotected sex outside marriage and without a priest watching, like in Cork. Is therefore imperative that lovely holy pissing Ireland is soon replacing the vacuum with a new brush that sweeps clean. Not one of those little handbrushes with a dust pan, either, but a gigantic nailbrush, with metal wires for hairs and wielded by a strong man. Or better yet, a strongman.

The currant problem with Ireland is that it is have an electoral system which guarantee that nothing can ever change. The same peoples have been in power in the country since the 1920s. They are called The Gombeen Men and they have a new record out in March. Of course, not having no change ever is a very good thing, so long as what you have in place is a strict feudal hierarchy, but Ireland was taking a wrong turn in the old days when it was introduce the new-fangled concept of democracy, even though it had already been tried and showed to fail in the USA, America, Britain, France, and Germany. But once democracy sinks its teeth into a people, it does not let go. Is like rabies. And also, like rabies, eventually the people who are bitten stop noticing that they have been bitten and even stop being in any pain after a while because the virus has got to their brain and they end up comatose and frothing at the mouth and being scared of water. Is like a frog in a blender. You can slowly turn up the speed and the frog will not notice.

Ultimately, however, what is happen is that the democracy atrophies into the kind of corrupt, decadent, nepotistic cronygarchy that we are see today in Ireland. Is only natural, of course, and Aristotle the Greek was warn everyone about it several hundred year ago. What will happen, he esplained, was that when you have a stable democracy, everyone is go about their normal day-today lifes and in the meanwhile there is develop a division of labour, with the consequence that you end up with a political class which is self-perpetuate and act in its own interest at the espense of the rest of the people. And because the job of running a democracy is in basic one of managing the state, all the rival groups within the political class all end up looking and acting the same, going to the same restaurants and brothels, the same schools and golf clubs, and in reality they have nothing between them different escept a cosmetic veneer. Thus, as you can see above, Biff O'Cowen has eyeliner and lipstick on, whereas End O'Kenny, who is boss of the Fine Gaels, wears a wig and high heels. Otherwise, there is nothing to tell them apart. Even their parties are no different, escept that the Fine Gaels does not pretend that it cares about the working class.

This stability of the decadent corrupt political class is reinforce by the political structures that the class has put in place to protect itself. The simple idiot Irish electorate votes by using a system known as UTV, which is stand for Unavoidable Transferring Vote. What this mean is that whoever they vote for, the same people get in. If they vote for the Fianna fail, that party is form the government with its Gombeen agenda. If they vote for the Fine Gaels, that party forms the government, with its Gombeen agenda, with little difference from Fianna fail. And if they vote Labour, Labour is make a coalition with the Fine Gaels, who they pretend not to agree with but in fact they are indistinguishable. So, a vote for Labour is a vote for the Fine Gaels is a vote for Fianna fail. Is genius!

Not only that, but also the political class has covered itself so that when one party is out of power, it is really in power by virtue of marriage. For instance, Richard Burton of the Fine Gaels, who was use to be married to Elizabeth Taylor, is now married to Joan Burton, of the Labour Party. Brian Lenihan of the Fianna fail is married to the chairman of the Central Bank of Ireland and to the head of RTE. End O'Kenny is married to the owner of the Irish Independent and Biff O'Cowen to the owner of the Irish Times. And Eamonn Gilmore is not married to anyone but he has a Fat Rabbit. Is just like the 400 Familles that run France, or else Paraguay in the 19th century, when the country was belong to a small elite of landholders and haçienda dwellers, all married to one another and owning the newspapers, television, race horses, race llamas, and the now-estinct paraguays, after which the country was named. Similarly, in Ireland even today, a third of all the TDs are landlords. And some of the others are landladies. The rest are not. But they would like to be.

Is therefore impossible for the electoral system in Ireland to change anything. Is the electoral system itself which is have to be change. The most sensisble suggestion I have heard so far is that instead of electioning a government, Ireland should dissolve the political class altogether and hold a lottery. Whoever wins the lottery can then be made ruler of Ireland, unless it is a lady who wins, in which case we will have to re-run the lottery until we get it right. As Aristotle was rightly point out, dictatorship is a much better idea than democracy and has been tried many times in history with much success, e.g. Spain. The lottery has the added benefit that whoever is made dictator will probly be just an ordinary decent run-up-the-mill Irish citizen with your typical broadly acceptable fascist beliefs, and he will no doubt jump at the chance to rule the country if history is anything to go by. However, to ensure that there is no nepotism or cronyism, which has been the downfall of Ireland so far, whoever wins the lottery, we will have to kill all his family. Is a small price to pay to avoid corruption, I think, and I imagine the winner himself will be okay with it given all the free sex and drugs he will be able to get as absolute ruler. Berlusconi seems to handle it quite well.

Therefore, to all my reader in Ireland, I would ask you to doorstop your candidates when they come pleading for your vote and ask them, "Are you willing to have all your family killed for a better Ireland?" If they say no, you have my permission to slam your door in their faces. Do not accept any compromise on this point. Sinn Fein may offer to have other people's families killed, but that does not count.

And if they DO have a lottery, don't forget to buy a ticket. It Could be You!!

Less Politics, More Football!!

noreply@blogger.com (Manuel Estimulo) — Fri, 28 Jan 2011 10:20:00 +0000

This is a Worrying Sign

Just over a year ago there was big riots in Egypt and in Algeria by football fans who was angry about the cheating of the opposition's players, not surprising when you consider that it was two Arab countries who was play one another. Even although there was much tut-tutting at the time about this sort of disgraceful public behaviour, many others of us was more sanguine. We said not just "Well what are you espect?" but also, "At least all these rioting fans are demonstrate a healthy nationalism and xenophobia, which will distract them from not having no jobs and also prevent them from joining some kinds of pan-Arab Muslim brotherhood. Otherwise we will have to start the Crusades again." But now, not 18 month later, splashed all over our television screen like the incontinent sploogings of a rabid Onanist, is all the news that the Arabs are once more revolting, not against homosexuals, Israel, the idiot George Bush or even falafel prices, but this time in protest against their own masters, the very men who have given them football and foreing enemies for the last 30 years. Is a big disgrace! Some peoples are have no gratitude whatsoever.

It was start off in Tunisia, which have always struck me as a very nice place to visit, everythings considered. Unlike other Muslim countries, you can drink their lousy local beer in public and sit by the pool showing your legs. Even the ladies, if they are foreing. Everyone in Tunisia was also strike me as well-educate and able to speak Spanish or, if that was too difficult, Italian. The government also had agreed not to teach any of the natives to swim, in a deal with Silvio Berlusconi, so that none of them would ever make it by accident across to Sicily, and in return Berlusconi was send over wealthy Italians to be waited on hand and foot and also his home videos. Tunisians peoples, when I have visited there, are always very polite to your face and do not spit in your soup and, as far as I know, had also a healthy contempt for all their neighbour Arab countries, such as Morocco, Libya, Algeria, and El Salvador. Indeed, they are almost European in their contempt for Arabs. So this is what is make me so confuse now about all the protest that are going on. The Tunisians had never have it so good! They are as close to European as an Arab can be, they have a nice hot sunny country, they live under a dictatorship, the most ideal kind of government, they know the Spanish, which mean they can appreciate the best culture and civilization, so what on Earth is making them want to have a revolution? Is not make no sense!

And then, to make the matters worse, the ingrates in Egypt are see what was happen in Tunisia, and instead of saying to one another, "I see the Jews are stir it up in Tunisia. And stupid fucking Tunisians have fell for it too," the Egyptians, who themselves are have a marvelous tradition of 300-year-old dictatorship, are say to one another, "Let's show those Tunisian morons what a REAL revolution is," and they are start rampaigning in the streets, showering themselves beneath police batons, and waving threatening placards such as like the one above which must make any decent person shit in their spats. And not just are they trying to outdo the Tunisians in iconoclastics, they are also try to outdo them in tourism by making a virtue of their infantile rebelliousness. Look, for instance, at the latest video here for the Egyptian Tourist Board:

And now I am hear report on Al Jazeera that the protestings have spread all over my Yemen, wherever that is, and that today in Egypt they are especting massive protests because it is the Muslim bank holiday, so it will all be kicking off for the weekend.

But not kicking off in the right way. If only the dictators of Tunisia and Egypt had have any foresight or common knowledge, they would have realized that it was time to organize a football match between their countries. Perhaps a round-robin of all the Arab countries, called the Arab League, which would have ensure that instead of trying to outdo each other in revolutioning, the ignorant masses would have been fighting in the streets over which of their countries was best at kicking a bladder between two sticks. All smart dictators are know the important of sports. That is why El Generalísimo was have Real Madrid invented.

Is a sad day when football itself is become under such pressure that nobody is able to take it seriously any more. Even in the United Kingdom, which have a queen, football is become a laughing stoke because two football commenters have been give the sack just because they are make sexist comments behind closed whores. What is the world come to when the sexism is not allowed in football? What is the point of having sport in the first place if there is not going to be allow any male bonding, competition, aggression, violence, anger, hatred, misogyny, viciousness, racism, sleazy gang bangs in motel rooms, war, nationalism, innuendo, vulgarity, drunken arguments, vindictive chanting, WAGs, roasting, and replica kits? If you are start to sissify sport by insisting on non-threatening work environments, equality, and respect for the opposition, then you must not be surprise when it stop being a useful social tool for maintaining patriarchy, discipline, and rivalry among the idiot masses. We must stand up now and loudly proclaim our support for Randy Gray and Richard Quays because if we do not, our countries too will go the same way as the Arabs.

Say It Loud and Say It Proudly: Balls NOT Jobs! Goals NOT Votes!

You are know it make sense.

Fascist Ladies: Know Your Place!

noreply@blogger.com (Manuel Estimulo) — Fri, 14 Jan 2011 08:56:00 +0000

You should be at home making profiteroles, not making penis jokes on a podium.

Me: I have a question for you. What have got in common Ronald Reagan, Margaret Thatcher, and Pope John Paul Mark 2?

You: Is it that they all are dead?

Me: Don't be a moronic. Everyone all knows that Pope John Paul Mark 2 is not at all dead but is being kept under loch and quay in the cellars of Castelgandolfo by the evil usurper Bendedict and his lackeys. Also his lickeys.

You: Yes, of course. You have reason. I give up, then. In what way are they all common?

Me: I am glad you ask. What they all have in common is that they was all spared by God from being assassinate in order to carry out their divine mission of restoring the caliphate. No. Not the caliphate. The other one.

You: Hell on Earth?

Me: No! Idiot! I mean the restoration of the rule of the Holy Roman Catholic Church on Earth. The Pontifract.

You: Ah yes. Of course.

Me: Of course. Because, as you have probably already notice from looking back at history, all the good people who are fulfill God's divine mission on Earth survive assassinations, whereas all the evil peoples—John F. Kennedy, Abraham Lincoln, Martin Luther King, Robert Louis Stevenson, John Lennon, George Harris—die. And as you can see from this list, it is not like there is any simple earthly esplanation, such as right-wingers are better marksman than liberal pacifists, because it is clear that the people who was doing the shooting were not politically motivated at all. They was just either concerned citizens, such as John Wilkes Booth, James Earl Gray, and Lee Harvey Norman, or else just fans of good music, such as Mark Chapman and cancer (Chapman, I understand, was motivated by the rumour that the Beatles was about to re-form, so his differences with John Lennon was mainly aesthetic). And also the peoples who tried to kill Reagan, Thatcher, and Pope John Paul Mark 2, namely, John Hinckley, the IRA, and Grey Wilf, they was all similarly apolitical. They just liked Jodie Foster.

Therefore, even though it is a truism that the Good Lord works in mysterious ways his wonders to perform, any fool with half a brain left, like JFK, can see that there is a definite pattern in his actions, and this is why I am much begrieved to see fascist ladies such as Sarah Palin who should know better making ridic statements in the media following the rampage shooting in Tucson, Arizona, last weekend.

You can always tell that a political movement is in trouble, when its leader is a lady. The so-call Tea Party movement, for instant, have made Palin its spokesperson. Obviously, she is the brains of the outfit; you can tell, because she wears glasses. But this in itself is a sign that something is fundamentally wrong. No right-wing organization can survive for long when women are its leaders, intellectual or otherwise. It is symptomatic of the decadence, degeneracy and flabbiness of American conservatism that its men have allowed women out of the house in the first place, let alone allow them to read books/teleprompters/People Weekly. And then to put them in charge of the movement? What kind of limp-wristed panty-waist lisping flounceboys are the "men" in this so-call Tea Party!? Are they biscuit munchers?! Are they saucer sippers?! Are they pinkie raisers?! They should be ashame that they are incapable of organizing a virile, manly, BUTCH tea party, with their women back in the kitchen making the sandwiches and scones and fairy cakes. With two sugars please. That way, you would not have the idiot Palin standing up in public with her mouth in a luscious O around a hairy microphone, ridiculing her husband's dimensions, and saying stupid things like, "this rampage was not politically motivate. It was a nutter on the bus."

Si! That is what she was say: It was not a politically motivate rampage! It was just by chance that the gunman shot a congresswoman and a judge, and everyone around them. Because in any random crowd at any shopping mall in the United States, you can guarantee that at least one person will be a judge, and another one will be a member of Congress. America is a democracy like that.

I am being sarcarstic, of course. The fact is, unless you are willing to argue that the gunman's REAL target was a nine-year-old girl and it just was happen to be a coincidence that the judge and congresswoman was there—a conspiracy theory that I have not yet heard on Glenn Beck but is only a matter of time—then you really do not have a leg to stand on and should think about sitting down. And maybe buying a wheelchair.

Is very embarrassing for the so-call Tea Party. And it also show (1) that a little learning is a bad thing and (b) that fascist ladies are better off having no learning at all. Even the more proof of that came when Palin was make reference in her television speech to the casting of a "blood libel" against Tea Party members by those who have accuse them of stoking hatred. What a dunts! Any fascist in his right mind can tell you that the term "blood libel" is have a specific meaning, and the fact that Sarah Palin was use it demonstrates conclusively that her husband have been leaving books lying about the house and she has most likely dipped in and skimmed one then lost interest without properly digesting it, like when you do a brass rubbing of a Latin inscription. Some trace remains, but you are not know what it means.

"Blood libel" is a term which was invented by the Jews, Zionists, Masons, Illuminati, and their liberal intellectual friends in the media as a way of smearing fascists and holy Roman Catholics for their revelation that Jews killed Christian children and used their blood in the making of matzos for consuming at Passover, when the Jewish God flew over Egypt and only killed the Christian children. No true fascist would ever use the term "blood libel," because it implies that there is no truth to the claim. Therefore, when Sarah Palin was include it in her speech, you could hear fascists all around the country slapping their foreheads in exasperation in front of their televisions and saying "somebody needs to take that woman indoors and shoot her." But of course they was only say it to themselves. Not on a Web site.

My only hope is that all of this is a cunning plan to unite all right-thinking right-wing people by bringing down the wrath of mockery upon Palin to such an estent that they begin to feel protective of her. We know how this was done very cleverly by George W. Bush. He was such a blitherin gidiot that when all the liberals and blue state pointy heads was laugh at him for not knowing where New Orleans was or for stapling himself in the ear when he answer the phone, ordinary American fascists who was just like Bush felt defensive about him, which was consequently able to generate solidarity with him and sympathy for him. True-blooded American fascists all said, "Hey! We can't not spell either and who cares where foreing is?! We want a president just like us, not one like you smart-arse liberals who can hold pencils and speak black." And so spiteful did they feel, that they was all vote for him. Twice.

But we must be careful. Fascists rarely trust cunning plans. We prefer generally to be outfront and calling a spade a spade. If something stands in our way—a gate, a whitetail deer, a trade union—we prefer to smash it using brute force rather than guile. You need to show all of the above who is boss. Cunning plans have a way of backfiring. Or firing back. Because fascists are not cunning. Jews and liberals are. And also women.

But not fascist women. Go figure!

You: Women, eh? Kuh. How true. Bless you, Manuel. And thank you. I will go now.

Me: Si. Go.

You: I love you, Manuel.

Me: Si. I know.

You: Will you hug me in a manly way?

Me: Not right now. Just go.

The Beast Is Among Us (Again!!)

noreply@blogger.com (Manuel Estimulo) — Mon, 20 Dec 2010 10:07:00 +0000

Is Julian Donkey-Boy. Everything About Him Is Scream "Antichrist"!!!!

The always-reliable Bible (New Testament) is tell us that when the Antichrist is come to Earth, everything about him will make people think that he is really the Messiah, and you can see from the picture above that the founder of Wikileak is tick ALL the boxes in that regard. Not only is he blond and blue-eyed like Jesus, but also he is a reader of the communist atheist Guardian "newspaper" and he is use an Apple Mac laptop. Nothing could be more puke-inducinglish right-on and do-goody and decent and APPARENTLY moral, unless he was wearing a halo. Even his name is suggesting holiness: Julian Ass-Ange, which is mean Julian Donkey-Angel in French, a reminder of the birth of Our Lord in a manger in a stable in Australia all those years ago. Is therefore no coincidence, I think, that this sinister epitome of virtue has appear at this time of year, like an unmoving star in the firmnament, so that people deliberately make the connection between him and the true Messiah.

However, no true Catholic will be deceived by this façade. Or should I say, F-ass-ade? No. Is façade. Is a French word. For one thing, Wikileak itself is pretending to be a source of liberation for humanity that can only bring good results, as if knowledge and information were ever a blessing. All that Wikileak has done so far is sow dissension, doubt, mockery of authority, and social chaos. In a time when everyone sensible is agree that society and social cohesion is founded on trust, faith, obedience, and discipline, the very idea that knowledge wants to be free is an offence to humanity as a hole. We must keep knowledge in its place! There is more important things than knowledge and freedom, and those who preach otherwise are dissemblers and bringers of discord.

Also, if you say his name properly, Assange's name in French is NOT donkey and angel but Ass-Singe. Si! He is revealed to be Julian Donkey-Monkey! Thus is esposed his true Darwinian atheist agenda and true patronage. The Book of Revelation by John the Hallucinator is telling us in Chapter 6 verses 65-67 that:

Beware the beast born of the coupling of ass and ape, who will rise when the Moon does not. There will be much wailing and gnashing of teeth in his wake. In his bearing he will resemble Adam, but in his character he is the snake.

Everythin here is thus clear as liquid! You can see in the photo above that Donkey-Monkey is the bearer of the Apple! What was the Apple in the Garden of Eden? It was the forbidden fruit which Man ate at the bidding of the Snake. What was the apple represent? Knowledge! Which was what lead to Man's downfall. Quod Bot Demstromandum. The Donkey-Monkey is the Snake!

The final bint in the jigsaw is the nonsense about the Moon not rising. This is make sense when you are realize that there is a lunar moon eclipse on December 21st this year, which is, not coincidentally, the Solstic, the longest night of the year, when everything is coated in darkness. Is truly the most appopriate time for the appearance of the antichrist himself, and God have sent us these warnings, in the sign of the eclipse, the Bible, the Apple computers, and the silly name Wikileak, to warn us that this man is the TOTAL INCARNATION OF EVIL INCARNATE! Approach him only with garlic and onions. Do not try to apprehend him, or he will use his special hypnotic powers and laser vision. Also he will fly away. Whatever British judges is say. He has secret wings.

In Franco's day we would have all enjoy a massive show trial and witch burning before Donkey-Monkey was found correctly guilty and shot. Is a sad indictment of our world, I think, that we cannot do this anymore. There is lots of candidates who I would like to see burn at the steak, and is so cold at the moment that we could all do with a good fire to gather round and rub bodies together. Would be very good in itself for social cohesion. And even if there was not a fire, we would probly all be stick together by the cold.

Is a joke!

Erin Go Feudal!

noreply@blogger.com (Manuel Estimulo) — Tue, 07 Dec 2010 11:41:00 +0000

The Future is So Dark, I Cannot Find My Shades

As you can see from the above photo which I was take the day before yesterday, everyone here is bloody freezing and having to huddle together on the beach at Playa Blanca in the hope that our body heat will generate enough warmth to see us through another miserable Canary winter. You may not have notice the weather report among all else that is going to go on these days (such as the Winkileaks fiasco and the Danny Bonaduce surprise wedding/massacre) but last week the temperature in Lanzarote dip to 21 degrees Celsius. Is a big disgrace! And we are all know who to blame for this, don't we?: Yes. Is the filthy Jews and their Masonic allies who control the weather in order to manipulate the markets. You know, my good neighbours the Mengeles have had to dig out their old black leather overcoats and peaked caps, which they have not worn since the war! And even then, they dare not venture outside; not even in the daytime.

But Manuel, I am hear you say, how come all those people on the beach in Playa Blanca are naked? I know you have a lot of Germans there in the Canarias, and we all know how much they like to be the first on the beach, but we are also know how much Germans love their lebensraum. The only thing worse than being squashed up against a fat sweaty German belly is being another fat sweaty German. So who are all the other naked peoples? They are not English because there are no tattoos. What give?

Well the answer is simple. They are all normal native Canarians. More specifically, they are the indigenous populations of Lanzarote. And as you can see in this picture, they are all facing towards Fuerteventura, which is full of soft southern shites and where the temperature is currently 24 degrees Celsius. In a proud display of Northern machismo, the Lanzaroteans are stripping to their bare breasts and showing that no matter how cold it is get in Lanzarote, we are all hard. Also we are drinking proper beer, Dorada Especial. None of that fizzy Clara piss. And we are smeurk the tabs.

Of course, even in our shivering we are mindful of occurrences that take place elsewhere in more fortunate lands. In lovely pissing Ireland, for esample, today is when is announced the decision that the country have decided to revert to feudalism, having finally realize that the benefits of capitalism are illusory or else end up in the pockets of bankers and their lick-spittle lackeys in government. I have been saying this for years, as you are all know, like a voice in the wildebeest, and nobody was pay any attention whatsoever. I was always console myself with the thought that one day they would all learn and it would serve them right and if there was any justice in the world they would come on hans and knees crawling to me and beg for forgiveness and ask for me to take over ruling the country like a benevolent despot (in the same way that El Generalísimo was rule over Spain for so many wonderful year).

It is look to me like this is not going to happen anytime soon, but I am neverthenonetheless so please that lovey pissing Ireland, a place so close to my heart, is at last see the error of its ways and is return to the proper, god-given traditions of austerity, obedience, poverty, piety and emigration. Is devoutly to be hoped that also they include chastity in their regained virtues, but I am not hold out much hope. Before I move to Ireland, I had ask friends how much action I was likely to get from the Irish ladies, and they was tell me in no uncertain terms, "Fuck all, Manuel." But they were big liars. In all my time there, I got fuck nothing. Which is not to say that Irish ladies these days are not degenerate filthbags. Only that they combine this with a sense of respect for hairy devout Spanish gentlemen of diminutive stature and Falangist self-discipline. I could sense it when I was talk to them through the letter box.

I shall be spend the afternoon today truly well wrap up in my private chapel in my basement making prayers that the good people of Ireland get the budget they need to take them back into the Dark Ages. Some of them will moan, of course, but that is part of the Irish charm. Is the sort of delightful suffering which is what make them the land of such good writers, such as the Irvine Welch (who is not Welch at all!), Priscilla Ahern, ABC Pierre, Len Deighton, and John Simpson. Remember that all the rubbish ones, like the James Joyce, Iain Banks, and Lemuel Beckett, was jump ship when the going get rough, proving that they are decadent moddle-coddled Modernist communists who cannot even string two words together without the middle one being "cock."

I am digress. Won't you join me in prayer this afternoon for Ireland? We are all in this together, after all. And it give me no comfort to say this from my verandah 1,000 miles away.

Besos

Manuel

He Cometh Like a Thief in a Knight!

noreply@blogger.com (Manuel Estimulo) — Wed, 24 Nov 2010 12:21:00 +0000

Some of My Best Friends are Male Prostitutes

The ancient Chinese use to have an ancient Chinese blessing, which was go like this: May you be in the Interesting Times. The Interesting Times was the first ever invented daily newspaper, based in Beijing, which then was called Peking, and before that Constantinople. It was consider to be a height of good fortune to appear in the paper in those days, because there was not no paparazzi (the emperor had them all hung, drawn and quartered, then the drawings was put in the paper) and therefore there was not the celebrity culture and people saying "Ooh, hasn't she got big feet," or "That Lady Wei have let herself go a bit." Thus everyone who appear in the Interesting Times was treat with respect or awe. Or respect.

We are therefore you should think blessed ourselves for being in the Interesting Times. Not in the literal sense of having time-travelled back, like Doctor Hu, but in the metaphorical sense of having lots of interesting things happen around us. Only in the past this week, for instants, we are having the big mine esplosion in New Zealand, in their competition with Chile; the big implosion of the economy in lovely pissing Ireland which may yet cause the whole of Europe to sink beneath the waves; the unclear war between the North Korea and the South Korea; the stunning fight to the death between that white tiger and Wendy Craig in the Harrowgate Tesco's car park; the annunciation of the royal wedding between Prince William from England and Princess Kate from Middleton; the general strike by the lazy, indigent Portugueses; the hilarious torturing of Penelope Keith on I'm a Celeriac, Eat Me Out of Here; and also John Travolta and Kelly Preston's new replacement son. Is all, I am sure you agree, incredibly interesting, and would provide me with a total complete range of topics on which to blogpost about fascism.

However, there is only ONE STORY this week that is really worth commenting on, and that is because it is the one story that truly presages the end of civilization as we are know it and which PROVE DEFINITIVELY my contention that the Throne of Saint Peter is being now occupy by a FALSE POPE, a USURPER whose plan is to bring into discreditacy the one true church by introducing illegal, immoral, liberal, evil, sinful atheist communist policies, all under the guise of being a wise, level-headed, disciplined, sensible right-wing hero.

Yes, the usurper Bendedict this week made the declaration in a book about to be publish that it is acceptable for male prostitutes, also known as jingolos, to use condnoms.

The very act of typing such blasphemy have just cause my little finger to drop off.

Si! That is how much of an abomnination this new ruling truly is. And what justification does the Usurper give for this ruling? He is say that if a male prostitute is using a condnom to prevent the spread of HIV, then this may signify the beginning of a realization that sex is an act that involve something more than the eschange of money and bodily fluids. It is no longer just about the men having an orgasm and the women having a nice lie down. No. It is the start of the realization that sex is a meaningful social activity that take place between one and up to six people and therefore entails responsibilities to those other peoples, such as cleaning down the leather couch afterwards, vacuuming, and bleaching the anus.

Have you ever heard such ludicrant hoarse manure in all your god-given daze? Since when was stopping people from getting the HIV from a prostitute a good thing? Everyone knows that this is the price they are espect to pay for the sex outside of marriage. If they was not having the sex in the first place with a prostitute, they would not be getting the HIV.

What is even more worrying, however, is the logical estension of this argument that the Usurper Bendedict is making. If it is acceptable to use the condnoms for non-prophylactic purposes such as this, then it follow also that there may be other circumstance where condnoms may also be use to prevent the transfer of HIV and where there is no danger whatsoever in the first place of reproduction, i.e., namely, such as the anal sex between a male homosexual prostitute and his male clients. In other word, what the Usurper Pope has done here is to produce a somdomite's charter encouraging anal sex between men for money!

My thumb have just fallen off.

At what point will realize the people of the Holy Roman Catholic Church that they are being rule over by a fake, a charletan, a chiseler, an imposter, a swimbler, a spinx, and a cock? Surely now any authority that the Church has have had over its minions have been blown forever, like the head of an inflatable doll in a public school khazi. Jesus must be spinning in his grave.

Of course, the ancient Chinese also were having another ancient Chinese blessing, which was go like this: This two shall pass. The origin of this saying is lost in time but have something to do I think with a pair of the empress's love balls that went missing. Anyway, the point is that eventually everything comes out in the end. That is the thought with which we must arseole ourselves.

UK DK @ CP HQ: PCPs

noreply@blogger.com (Manuel Estimulo) — Fri, 12 Nov 2010 08:36:00 +0000

Even their interior designer does not think much of the Tories!!

I have no doubt that you share my bone-shivering outrage and anger and also fist-clenching teeth-grinding mouth-foaming hair-splitting frustration at the failures of the police in both Ireland and England to kill any atheist communist students over the past 20 years or so. It has not been like they have needed a reason. The last dead student I can think of was the Blair Peach, who they made a film about, The Blair Peach Project, but since then not a single student has even been hanged. And now, this week, we have seen where it all ends up. With mass carnage and destruction of property, which, let me remind you, is much more costly and valuable than people: One fire estinguisher lobbed from the top of a building costs £600 to replace. That is the price of at least four students' lives, or one policeman, or seventeen taxi drivers, or a handjob off Duncan Iain Smith. And this is ironic, because if Duncan Iain Smith hadn't been so busy making money all his life, he could have gone to the University of Joined Up Thinking, where he would have realize the illogic of his policies and then have close down all universities so there would not be students at all and we would not have them throwing fire estinguishers off buildings. The world truly does revolve in circles, doesn't it? But not around the Sun.

The problem as I see it, and therefore as it truly is, is that for 30 years the governments of Europe has been widening the access of universities to all and sundries, including the working classes, who would otherwise be on the dole unemployed, which would have meant them sleeping in until 11 o'clock, sitting on the sofa all day, smoking roll-ups, and watching TV, without making any useful contribution to society and being paid to do it, all of which add up to major negative PR for the government. So instead the governments decide to send them all to college, which was cheaper, provide jobs also for teachers of art history, philosophy, Business, Music, smoking roll-ups, and so on, getting both students and teachers off the settee/dole, reducing thereby negative PR, and also making it look like society was investing in the future, because as everyone knows, education is the key to making society competitive, to compete with foreing other countries in the global marketplace, even though they have no education systems abroad, only prisons and maquiladoras, which is the Spanish word for Italian hat. of course, this policy was all very well and good while we was able to espand the deficits and buy cheaply from slaves, but when the economy went bellies up all of a sudden, the governments panicked and decide they must cut everything everywhere, including dole, pensions, education, and so on, without no understanding of how the jigsaw fit together or how one back hand shakes with the other.

So now the Tories and Liberal Cleggs are decide to make students pay for their education with the result that those who cannot afford it will go on the dole and add instead to the unemployment queues where also are being cut the social welfare and benefits of the indolent, i.e. those too proud to become students, with therefore no net gain, numbers of unemployed having increased and numbers of students paying fees having decreased.

Protecting property and privilege. About time too! (3.50 p.m.)

But in Ireland also there was kerfuffling in the streets last week when the students try to occupy the unoccupied department of finance (which have no money anyway) and the police had to move in on horses, which as you know were invented in Spain, in order to trample all over students' rights. Also their lefts and middles. This was really a training exercise for the Gardai, who realize that everyone likes to see students getting their heads batched in and they will have no sympathy for them. It was a hole different story last year, of course, when farmers occupy the European Commission offices in Dublin. On that time, the Gardai actually made them all cups of tea and went to Brown Thomas and did their shopping for them while they were up in the capital. But this is because (1) most gardai are the children of farmers who have moved to the big city to make something of themselves, (2) everyone loves farmers, and (3) there was not the need then to get some practice in smashing heads because the government did not espect civil war. In previous occasions, the Gardai have had to travel all the way up to Mayo to practice assaulting people, and there is no urban environment in Mayo, only fields and sheep carcasses, which is not good practice for protecting the Winter Palace (if they have one in Ireland, I don't know). Thus therefore the Gardai had not had no proper live exercise in an urban environment for a good five years, when they disgraced themselves by rioting, or even longer ago when English fascists came to Lansdowne Road and receive a good kicking which even had Sinn Fein cheering the Gards on. But which was a big disgrace. I know for a fact that some Gards were weeping openly as they bringed their batons down on the heads of the poor BNPs.

But the rock-hard bald pate of a fat English social inadequate is no replacement for a seething mass of lank-haired spindly torsos sitting self-righteously in the middle of Merrion Row practicing the passive resistance with indignation and rucksacks. And this is why the obvious solution hits you between the eyes like a plastic bullet fired by a lady. Aiming at your groin: The stupid inbred idiot Tories have missed a trick here, which is paying the students to be full-time employed practice targets for the police. This is perfect! Think about it. It would turn the students into useful members of society, keep them off the unemployment rolls, it would also save the costs of sending them to university, and it would simletaneously give the police a chance to practice their repression techniques for the forthcoming civil war, when they will need them to use against proper people such as pensioners, servants, farmers, union malcontents, office workers/drones, and women. It also means the government does not have to resort to the army to do the job properly, when they should be off abroad killing foreingers and keeping the peace there.

I notice, inthedentally, that a lot of people are commemorating the Poppy Day over there in British Isles. Of course, we in Spain have no such nonsense, since we were not stupid enough to get involved in the World Wars in the first place. Beside the which, we was learn long before the rest of Europe the importance of having a volunteer army of professional killers rather than a conscript army made up of insubords and hoi pollois. What are you doing when you train the working classes how to use weapons if not producing your own esecutioners? Far better to have an army loyal to the state, with an officer class entirely from your ruling families, willing to come home if need be to brake the strikes, teach the unions a lesson, and govern benighnly, like the way Franco did. It took Great Britain two world wars and several labour governments to realize this. And the price they had to pay for that was the massive welfare state, with education and health for everyone, regardless of their class, health or stupidity. Is precisely which is what has got them into this mess in the first place!

I am only saying.

Besos

Manuel

Crocnodile Shoes

noreply@blogger.com (Manuel Estimulo) — Sun, 07 Nov 2010 13:17:00 +0000

Satan is my co-pilot.

The evil usurper anti-Pope Bendedict is being in Spain for the last couple of days, as if our poor beknighted country is not having enough to worry about. Yesterday he was in Santiago de Compostela, where he was give out about the "aggressive anti-clericalism" which is holding Spain in its sway, just like when it was the 1930s, when the peoples were shooting priests and disinterring the corpses of nuns from their coffins and dancing with them in the streets to show that they was not incorrupted. In also Bednedict was criticise the modern-day fashion for modernity, saying that, "Once again there is a clash of civilizations, between those who base their faith in science and so-call "facts" demonstrate by "evidence" of the senses, logic, and the discredited inductive-empirical method, and those who obey God who created the universe and knows better than everyone." In Spain, as you may already know, the atheist communist liberal government has put a stop to obligatory religious education in state schools and have also legalise the abortion on demand, just to annoy men, especially men like priests, who do not have sex with women. This is the sort of discredited modern world we live in.

Today, the Usurper Bendedict is going to Barcelona, the capital of the Catalan province of Spain, where he is espect to make a saint out of Antoni Gaudí, the man who couldn't finish building the Sagrada Família.

Is STILL not finish. But what are you espect if you use lazy fucking Catalans.

In Barcelona he is also going to condemn the abortings and the euthanasia, which is when you kill old people because Nature won't. This, says the Usurper pope, is taking God's pleasure into our own hands. Only God is allowed to kill people. Or a theological state acting in God's name - not Iran, though. The real God.

All of this pontificating would be all well and good, if it was not coming from the mouth of the discredited anti-Pope whose words fall like Onan's seed onto barren stone (unless you have carpet in your bathroom). Similarly, his crocnodile tears for a victimized church fall like dead leaves onto a soiled handkerchief. A soiled black handkerchief. With a hole in. Because it is NOT true that the people of Spain has turn its back on the One True Religion. No. They are just as spiritual and pious and devout as they always was, even when they were just pretending in order to get their children into the good schools. If the Usurper Bendedict thinks he perceives anti-church feeling, he should look to himself and his surrounding cronies and ne'er-do-wells. For it is THEY on whom the people of Spain has turned its backs to. It is the Usurper Bendedict who have brought the Catholic Church into disrepute, with his usurping and fake piety and skin-deep fascism (remember that he was only CONSCRIPTED into the Hitler Youth), none of which speak well of his character. This is why I am calling his lamentations only crocnodile tears. If he was have any self-awareness at all he would resign now and go and live in a hermitage. Like a crab.

Bringing the Church into a House of Ill-Repute

But of course, the Usurper Bendedict knows esactly what he is doing. Is not a matter of self-awareness. He is deliberately gone now to Spain to bolster the anti-Church feeling there. In beatifying a man who couldn't even build properly (next time you are in Barcelona - not that I am recommend that you go there - have a look at the Sagrada Família: Is full of holes! I have seen mental children's sandcastles on the beach after high tide that look more spiritual than that!) Bendedict is bringing the Catholic Church into further houses of ill-repute. He is making a mockerage of beatification. Even the required miracle that is necessary for making someone a saint is, on this occasion, totally ridic. It is report that a woman from Reus, Montserrat Barenys, is claiming that her sight in one eye was miraculously restore after she prayed to Gaudí for help. Barenys said she was diagnose with a perforated retina and was due to be operate on, but then she pray to Gaudí for help and suddenly was being cured.

Now, far it is for me to especulate upon the motives and internal psychological mechanisations of the brains of a mad woman, but who, in their right mind, could think it would make sense that they would get their sight in one eye back by praying to a dead architect? Particularly one who could not build properly. What on earth was she imagining? Is like, for the sake of an analogy, if I had arthritis, let us say. Not bad arthritis, because in this analogy, Señora Barenys was not going total blind, only a bit blind, so let us say I have got arthritis in one leg. In my knee. And the doctors have told me that I will have to hop for the rest of my life. So I am very depress, obviously. What, then, is my logical next step? Well, it is to use my good leg. Or is to buy myself a Segway. One thing is for certain. It is NOT that I start praying to Christopher Wren to make me better! And not just because he is an Anglian, and would probly therefore intervene with Our Lord only to make sure I get osteoporosis. No. I may as well pray to Herman Melville, who at least had some sympathy with one-legged people.

Thus, the only conclusion that anyone can drawer from this sorry tail is that the Usurper Bendedict is so intent of making the Church a source of ridicule that it suits him not just to beatify a rubbish architect but to do so on the testimony of a madwoman. One with perfect eyesight, I am grant you, but a madwoman neverthenonetheless.

All the Spanish aggressive secularists are laughing today. We must make them laugh on the other sides of their face one day. This may require patience, stealth, and Stanley knives, but this embarrassment of an anti-pont is only making it increasingly necessary. However much we are going to enjoy it, we must not forget that it is he who made us do it. Also, is God's will. I can hear his voice now. Kill them. Kill them all.

Caution: Devil at Work!!

noreply@blogger.com (Manuel Estimulo) — Thu, 16 Sep 2010 13:51:00 +0000

The Usurper Bendedict: Don't worry, is just a bit of wind, queen.
Queen: Si, but I think I may have follow through, usurper.

The usurper Bendedict is on the fake papal visit to Britain this week in an attempt to butter up the Queen and Prince Phillips and divert attention away from sundry ill-doings and goings-on at the Vatican. I espect that while everyone is looking the other way, over there, at England, Vatican malefactors are secretly smuggling the Real Pope John Paul Mark Two out of his prison cell in the dungeons and moving him to a secure location while the health and safety people pay a visit. If you have not been read the papers recently, this has become all necessary following the revelations by the Vatican's chief esorcist last week that the Devil himself is working in the Vatican. Father Gabriele Amorth, who, coincidentally, has a book out, said in the paper this week that Satan actually is paying rent to the Vatican for lodging there, which has come as a total shock but not complete surprise to anyone who knows a thing about the Vatican bankers, who will take money off anyone, no questions bothered. Health and Safety presumably are concern because the devil is both living and working in the Vatican, which therefore mean the place has dual use, his residence serving as a workplace. They will have to make sure that there are safe stairs, electricity, air, a fridge, and toilet facilities which are all up to scratch and nobody can fall in or have accidents (such as like the queen in the picture above).

Of course, this is all horsing around after the bolt has stabled. If they had really want to find Satan in the Vatican, they had no need escept to look any further than the end of his noses! For it is precisely the usurper Bendedict who is the best candidate for being the antichrist, so long as you know where to look. This is why he is so keen to hang onto his skulkcap above; underneath you can clearly make out the 666 tattoo he have had on his head since the day he join the Nazi Party (Hitler was member number 555, but the membership numbers started at 500: This is a true lie). People should not be put off and dissuaded by the False Pope's impeccable credentials as a former Nazi, anti-Vatican II, traditionalist, misogynist anti-Semite. This is all just for show. He is what is known in the trades as a long sleeper. This means he lie in bed until lunchtime plotting and scheming and pretend to be who he isn't. That is who he is. And now it is all come to fruition, as the usurper Bendedict has watched over the steady decline of the One True Church into infamy and discredit so that everyone would turn away from God. It is He who have put the lust into the hearts of priests and made all those children look sexy. It is He who have from the start encourage not just the coverups, which in themself was not a bad idea, but who ensure that it was all so incompetently done that they would get find out. It was He who had the Real Pope John Paul Mark Two drugged and hallucinated to make it look like he had died so that Saint Peter's Seat was empty (Seat as in throne, not as in top-notch brand of Spanish car. Saint Peter did not drive: He had a unicycle).

Father Gabriele Amorth is reckon that he has been involve in 70,000 cases of demonic possession during his time as the Vatican head esorcist. This must, I am imagine, include cases of mass possession, such as the crowd at the Nou Camp. Otherwise he would have been doing, in my estimation, 300 casting outs a day, and that is just one esorcist. Nonetheless, even if he can't add up, we must trust his espertise in matters pataphysical and theodoxical. If anyone knows what the Devil is look like, it will be him.

In an interview with the Italian newspaper La Repubblica, Father Amorth was saying that Satan is "pure spirit, invisible. But he manifests himself with blasphemies and afflictions in the person he possesses. He can remain hidden, or speak in different languages, transform himself or appear to be agreeable. He can speak Latin and Greek but also Norwegian and Klingon. He can appear as a 5-million-year-old man or a day-old tadpole. He could be that table over there. That microphone you are holding. This Strepsil. He likes to make fun of me. Him and lots of other people."

Si, Satan is a slippery piece of shit alright and, make no mistakes, this is why we haven't not caught him yet. What's more, when the antichrist comes, he will look like the Messiah. That is what John the Elevator tells us in the apocryphal Book of Scaring Children. However, there is always one way to be sure you have identify correctly the Beast, and that is to answer yourself the question "Cui Bono?" Whenever there is some scandal that appears to discredit the Catholic Churuch, or wherever there is some media figure acting like he is the Messiah and bringing heaven to earth, you just need to say to yourself, "Where is Bono?" And if he is there among the middle of the action, hogging the limelights (or even just having a dump in the cherrylights), you can be sure that evil is afoot. Or afeet. Have you ever not notice that we have never not seen the usurper Bendedict and Bono in the same room together? I will let you drawer your own conclusals.

Of course, if U2 perform live during the papal visit, all the above is wrong and it would mean that the hole past 58 years of my life would have been wasted. But somehow, I AM DOUBT IT VERY MUCH.

If any of my British readers is want by the way to have a go at assassinating the pope, here is his itinerary. Or if you simply want to avoid seeing U2, you can be certain they will not be at these venues. Why not kill two birds with one stone. A big stone. Or failing that, use a gun. No jury on earth will convict you. Just tell them God told you to do it. They will understand completely.

Good luck!!

Romas Go Home!!

noreply@blogger.com (Manuel Estimulo) — Thu, 02 Sep 2010 11:43:00 +0000

Where is My Fire Engine, Thieving Gypsy Lady?!

I am can only give you a roundup of the impressive fascism-on-the-march news this week, since it have all been so busy, but you should all be inspire and motivate by seeing some of the most important people in Europe FINALLY doing some moves to promote the escape goating of foreingers, gypsises, Jews, and freemasons.

The big noise in France this week was the diminutive Nicolas Sarkozy, who have had enough of the Roma encampments, with their ambiguous legality, aggressive marketing, bad news begging, cluttering the place up, making people uncomfortable in the street, and wearing burqas. Also for robbing from foreing tourists, thereby taking work from Paris's bars, bistros and hotels.

After a young Roma was shot in the street in warm blood by a gendarme recently, generations of French-born Romas was involved in rioting for several days, which prompted Sarkozy to announce that French nationality would be strip from people "of foreing origin" who make life-threatening attacks on the police, such as the Roma boy who was shot dead in his life-threatening attack, and all the other French-born foreingers. Oddly, the Catholic Church is out of step on this issue, condemning Sarkozy for his Roma-bashing, but this is presumably because this is a topic where nobody doesn't not give a shit anyway and it can let the church look like it is sidling up with the poor. In any case, Sarkozy's policy is distracting people from the shambles that was the French football team in the World Cup, the decline in the number of cheeses, and also it is the silly season, when all the Parisians decamp to their country homes like a nation of migrants, so the papers have nothing better to write about.

The Romas will not be welcome however back home in Italy, where they come from, I suspec, because Silvio Berlusconi (who you can see above protecting himself from any more flying cathedrals) is now contemplate the offer from Libyan leader Muhammad Gadaffy to stop any more Africans coming into Europe, for the reasonable price of €5 billion a week, no questions ask.

They could almost be brothers!

Gadaffy made a very valid point in his blackmail speech to Italy this week, which went:

"We don't know what will happen, what will be the reaction of the white and Christian Europeans faced with this influx of starving and ignorant Africans. We don't know if Europe will remain an advanced and united continent or if it will be destroyed, as happened with the barbarian invasions."

Which is only go to show that he has not have been here for a while. In order to assuage the starving and ignorant African Gadaffy, Berlusconi was organize for him to make another speech, this time to a room full of beautiful models, which prompt the question, Where on earth would someone like Berlusconi find beautiful models? Anyway, he was hope that it take Gadaffy's mind off the money. Unfortunely, it did. TOO MUCH! Gadaffy was so aroused by his audience of beautiful women that he was unable to contain himselve, and he tell all the ladies they should take their clothes off and put on Muslim dress instead. He then tell them that Islam ought to should be the religion of Europe and he give them free copies of the Koran, but only after he had lecture them for an hour on the freedoms enjoyed by women in Libya. Which is then prompt the question, of course, If all the women in Libya are so free, why do they want to climb into boats and come to Europe? Or is the boats only full of depressed African men who are want to escape a country where women are free? It all make no sense whatsoever. And if Islam is so great, how come its followers are starving and ignorant Africans who are want to come to white Christian Europe? Answer that, idiot Gadaffy.

He might look senile, but he have the mind of a razor blade!

Perhaps they are envying of Europeans for their freedom of speech, in which case, they should stay at home. Freedom of speech is a privilege, not a right, otherwise we would have all sorts of moronic statements in the public realm, and not just sensible comments from the church. Which is make a nice Segway to my final item of this week, the sensible comments made in Germany by Thilo Sarrazin, a member of German's Central Bank, who is have a book out this week called Germany Is Disappearing Up Its Own Hole. Sarrazin has said in previous speechings about Muslims such things as Turks are "conquering Germany in exactly the same way the Kosovars conquered Kosovo: with a higher birth rate" and also that "A large number of Arabs and Turks in Berlin have no productive function other than selling fruit and vegetables" which is probly not the most compelling of criticism, comely as it does from a man who's entire business sector is depend on unearned income. As a consequent of his comments, there was efforts to remove Sarrazin from his post for giving the game away and drawing attention to the parasitic role of banks in society, but he manage to cling on to it, realizing that without it he would be just another idiot drooling in the street about blacks:

"I, like any other employee of the Bundesbank ... have the right to express my opinion," he said, which is in totally correct but was also which draw unwanted attention to the fact that the rest of Germans do not have that right. Because they are nobodies.

This week, Sarrazin is in trouble for making the perfectly inoffensive observation that Basques and Jews all have the same genes. Which would esplain a hell of a lot. Both Basques and Jews have for a long time insist on the specificityness of their own culture and language and food and music and hats. So this is not such a controversial statement as it was at first appear. See how much already they have in common! Even though they may have what in superficial look like different languages and culture and food and music and hats, they are nevertheless identical in insisting on their specificityness. Is true! And just consider, that it is take a banker, interestingly, to spot this. And not just any old banker. A banker who has a book coming out. Who was it said fascists cannot write?!

I am hope that you will be going out this week and buy Thilo Sarazzin's important book. I have read already the humourous comments on the Internet that people are moving Tony Blair's new autobiography into the Crime Section of their bookstores. Perhaps also we should move Sarrazin's book into the Children's Section. Children need to learn that, after priests, the most reliable adults they should look to are the bankers. Trust them and obey!