Category: Politics

Every time I look in the mirror, I ask myself two things. One, can I really be losing hair this quickly? Two, am I having a breakdown? The answer to the first question is an unequivocal “yes”. One of the great mysteries of life is just where has it gone to though? My hair doesn’t come out in huge clumps and gather round the plughole when I shower. Nor does there seem to have been a mass follicle ejection onto my bed sheets at night. Quite frankly it’s akin to the conundrum of just where the fuck do my socks disappear to when I put them in the washing machine? A pair goes in but just one comes out.

Those that know me might arrive at the answer to the second question somewhat quicker than I have. I suppose by most people’s reckoning, I am a fruitcake. For example, and contrary to popular belief, I don’t accept that the 9/11 terror attacks and subsequent stand down of the most sophisticated air force in the world was masterminded by a man in a cave. Likewise, I am certain that elections are nothing other than an illusion of choice and of freedom – a Punch and Judy show, if you will. I also suspect that the cure for many modern diseases are being deliberately suppressed, I am certain that people are being systematically dumbed down by all manner of means and every inch of my being feels that extra-terrestrials continue to visit this planet for benevolent and malevolent means. Quite frankly, that doesn’t even scratch the surface of what I believe or don’t believe. To me, it seems that most people are willing to accept pretty much anything they’re told, especially if it is consensus and even more so, if the media says it’s so. Given that the media is, by and large, controlled by the very same people who control big business, banks who create money out of thin air and the governments who we falsely perceive to hold power, then this is really quite frightening.

You know what. I am not crazy. The headache I have right now is rooted in exasperation. I cannot for the life of me understand why more people do not question everything. Right now, many every day people think that President Bashar al-Assad has unquestionably gassed his own people. This, in spite of admissions from the “rebels” that the attack was a result of their mishandling of chemical weapons. And just who are these rebels anyway? Al-Qaeda, by all accounts. Most people seem to believe that Al Qaeda is a terrorist group responsible for a great many atrocities, chief among them, 9/11. However, there’s plenty of evidence to suggest that Al Qaeda is, in fact, a creation of the West. Robin Cook, the now deceased former UK foreign secretary, once revealed its true origins and then conveniently met his maker shortly after, just as many others who have had the misfortune to say something “different” have also.

“Bin Laden was, though, a product of a monumental miscalculation by Western security agencies. Throughout the 80s he was armed by the CIA and funded by the Saudis to wage jihad against the Russian occupation of Afghanistan. Al Qaeda, literally “the database”, was originally the computer file of the thousands of mujahideen who were recruited and trained with help from the CIA to defeat the Russians”.

Obama’s photo slide show of Syria’s sarin gas victims is no proof of Assad’s culpability either. And if he’s so keen to show photos, where are those that show Bin Laden’s dead body? Apparently, the administration won’t release these “very graphic” images as people might find them disturbing. Aren’t the photos of the sarin gas victims similarly disturbing? Could it be that Bin Laden actually copped it way back when, just as Benazir Bhutto once let slip? She was assassinated one month after making these revelations. Mr Cook also died in the Scottish highlands roughly one month after his CIA/Al Qaeda statement.

Anyway, I’d like to know why there was no photo slide show when Palestinian children were burned to death by white phosphorous shells fired on Gaza residential areas by Jewish soldiers. Why is it okay for Israel to possess nuclear weapons and not Iran? Why did people engage in mass protests when South Africa was an apartheid state but sit idly by when the state of Palestine faced (and continues to face) even harsher realities? Why don’t they turn the channel tunnel into a giant bowling alley? It would make more sense than most political decisions.

This is why I have no hair. I have no hair for I despair and all I want is the truth. Luckily for me, the missus is also a nutter and encouraged me to write this down. Now where’s my turquoise tracksuit?….

I’ve had some rather strange dreams of late. A few days ago I managed to wake myself by growling for a short while and then yelling “fuck off”. I seem to recall that some kind of ghostly apparition was strangling me and temporarily rendered me incapable of clear speech, hence the incoherent noise prior to the cursing. Although I have recently befriended an abandoned dog called Orejas – with whom I can practice my Spanish without fear of ridicule – I have not got rabies in spite of what the aforementioned behaviour might indicate. After that, I was back to a familiar theme and once again dreamt about my teeth. Unusually, they didn’t fall out in this one but a dentist equipped with one of those meat slicing machines supermarkets use on gammon joints did take off my top lip. He then reattached it, slightly higher than before, so as to give me a Bugs Bunny like smile. Willem Dafoe made an appearance in my next dream and by all accounts, made a great deal of money stealing one of my business ideas by successfully pitching it on the Dragon’s Den, the bastard. If only I knew what that business idea was – maybe then I wouldn’t feel compelled to write this crap down.

On my recent trip to Panama, I unfortunately chipped a tooth and am therefore in need of a filling. The second dream did, therefore, have a purpose – it reminded me that I needed to pay a dentist a visit. Whilst I was impressed with the prices at “Multident” (fiver for a consultation and then same again for an X-ray), I was suitably more impressed by the cut of the dentist’s jib. After the standard small talk about the Premier League which almost always follows me revealing that I am English, he moved on to politics – my next favourite subject. Unaware that Blair had been replaced by Cameron, he attempted to redeem himself with talk of Thatcher. Redeem himself he did and spectacularly. With no hint of camaraderie or loyalty to his South American neighbours, he informed me that he thought Thatcher was a good prime minister, but not for the Argentinians, before bursting into a fit of laughter. Most people I have spoken to here politely question Britain’s claim to the Falkland’s so to hear something like this was quite frankly, brilliant.

“Thatcher – buena presidente pero no para los Argentinos”

I am now seriously considering giving the man some more business and entrusting him with the removal and replacement of my silver fillings. Why the British Dental Association still think it is acceptable to put mercury into people’s mouths is beyond me. Break a CFL light bulb containing mercury and you need to embark upon a laborious clean-up process after evacuating the house for a while according to government guidelines. However, it’s fine to stick this crap in your gob for a lifetime – something which an increasing number of respected dentists and toxicology experts throughout the world now refute.

I suppose I should enlighten my burgeoning readership about the trip to Panama given that it was my first excursion out of Peru. To be honest, I went because I needed to leave the country and come back in order to renew my visa and return once again to legal immigrant status. However, I’ve also always wanted to have a look at the Panama Canal, do a bit of tax free shopping in Zona Libre and visit picture-perfect Caribbean islands like San Blas (see below).


Except I didn’t get to San Blas. Instead, my “organised” tour had me journey through the Panamanian jungle in a 4×4 for three hours with some typically excitable Americans to wait two more hours for a boat to take me to the island of Coco Blanco. The boat didn’t arrive and nobody seemed to care so I then travelled back through the jungle – this time with some car sick Americans – and back to Panama City where I proceeded to spend my refund money getting hammered while enduring the agony of sunburnt shoulders. During this wonderful trip, which was presumably organised by Frank Spencer and Mr. Bean, I also witnessed some insufferable, arrogant Israelis tell the native Cuna Indians their flag was offensive. I have inserted a picture of this flag below and although I’ll let you draw your own conclusions, I am expecting these dickheads to campaign for the eradication of the backwards swastika from the Hindu and Buddhist religions next.


The disorganisation I outlined above is actually not confined to the Panamanians. It seems to permeate Peru and apparently, the rest of South America too. As such, it is advisable that if you want to go ahead with the seemingly simple task of purchasing or returning goods in a shop here, you do so only before getting the once over from your doc. Anyone with a dicky ticker or a low patience threshold is liable to keel over/commit an atrocity if faced with some of the obstacles I have faced. I won’t go into detail for if I do, the bottle of Bombay Sapphire I recently procured will be decimated in an instant.

While disorganisation is rampant (unfortunately), so too is national pride (fortunately). Unlike in Britain where it is now a criminal offence to be English and celebrate St. George’s Day, Peruvians rejoice in their heritage. House after house, shop after shop and vehicle after vehicle are all now proudly displaying the Peruvian flag in anticipation of their independence day on July 28th. I salute this annual show of patriotism with an envious eye. Sadly, my compatriots only seem to get excited when an extremely privileged royal family pop out a sprog that will spend its entire life on benefits – much like great swathes of Labour voters.

When I first set up this blog, the aim was to impress a global audience, all of whom would be enchanted by the unrivalled poetic beauty with which I convey my thoughts on life. My inbox was to be jam-packed with emails from editors begging me to contribute to their publications and they’d pay me a king’s ransom to do so. I’d then retire at the age of 30 and fulfil my dream of turning MultiYork (née Oadby Furnishers) into a GTA Vice City-style 80s bar, complete with casino. That life hasn’t turned out like that is a big fat travesty. The fact that I can rarely be bothered to write anything and when I do, it’s of absolutely no interest to anyone is if no statistical significance whatsoever.

The above is, of course, bollocks. However, I wanted to write it as many a time, I’ve been asked what it is that I do for a living. The opening paragraph is a perfectly succinct microcosmic example. I’m a gobshite and this gobshite hasn’t updated his blog in a while as he’s been busy being a professional gobshite in order to earn the requisite cash that will keep him away from the UK for a little longer. To return to the land of his birth at this stage would be tantamount to suicide – he cannot jeapordise his recovery from a working-in-Wellingborough-for-four-years induced breakdown just yet.

Back to writing in the first person.

I will return, one day. Maybe in 2015. That’s because in 2015, we are due to have a general election and countries magically improve the day after general elections. Or that’s what people seem to believe as they alternate their vote between two parties with a history of failure and the exact same policies, time after time. That’s right, it makes perfect sense to vote for the Tories once you’re tired of Labour rule and then switch back to Labour again when you’re sick of the Tories. If you repeat this trick ad infinitum, you can convince yourself that you live in a democracy, feel better that your country invades other countries to install similar “democracies” and gleefully denounce anyone who thinks otherwise as a fruitcake. Speaking of “fruitcakes”, I’m very pleased that UKIP has so spectacularly managed to upset the status quo with its staggering success in this week’s council elections. However, I’m sure the LibLabCon cabal will continue wreaking destruction upon my homeland making the prospect of a return less appetising than a ones-up with Diane “I’m not racist” Abbott.

Other than losing more hair and getting agitated with the brainwashed robot radicals that are a cancer on the UK, what have I been up to? In a nutshell, I’ve been enjoying life. I’m of the opinion that you’re a long time dead and while money is of course, an unavoidable necessity, human beings were simply not put on this planet to carry out a lifetime of drudgery (work). So while I have been working, I’ve been doing it as and when I want, and on my terms. Not between the hours of 9 and 5 on weekdays as so many are forced to. Instead, I’ve been bettering myself. I’m getting physically fit for the first time in years, I’ve resurrected my once semi-successful tennis “career” and I’m learning a new language – Spanish. Fair enough, the latter is proving difficult and I’m largely incapable of coherent conversation, but I’m persevering. I just cannot get my head round the need to assign genders to inanimate objects. La mesa? El sofá? What if something new is invented? Who decides whether it’s male or female and what criteria do they use? Maybe if the Spanish weren’t so busy faffing round with the dictionary, they’d never have had to cede Gibraltar to us Brits!

While I have been expanding my cultural horizons, I have not forgotten the things that make Britain great either – stupendous tea and incredible beer. Thanks to my dad’s generosity, a shipment of the finest organic tea arrived last week. If there’s ever a slight crisis, out come the teabags. Similarly, each day now begins with a good cup of tea, as it should. For St. George’s Day, I managed to procure four bottles of Abbot Ale and two dimpled pint glasses. It was a truly fantastic moment to enjoy “warm beer” once again (I’ve explained that it’s not warm, many a time, but it’s rarely understood). Maybe that’s because I explain in English, like every arrogant Englishman should. And if I’m still not understood I talk a bit louder before smashing the place up, safe in the knowledge that I tried my best.

One thing that did amuse me the other day was a chance encounter with some Germans. There I was, making my way to admire the sun set over the Pacific Ocean from a beautiful cliff top vantage point in Larcomar, when not one, but two distressed Germans accosted me. This is pretty much a summary of our exchange:

Heavily-perspiring German: “Habla Español?”

Me: “No”

Heavily-perspiring German: “Do you speak English?”

Me: “Yes”

Heavily-perspiring German: “Thank you, thank you. Where are you from?”

Me: “England”

Heavily-perspiring German: “Nice to meet you. I’m from Germany. I hope you’re not offended by what I am about to say but I need some help. Earlier today, my backpack was stolen and I lost all my documents. My passport, money, EVERYTHING. I have been to my embassy and they have managed to get me a hotel room for the night, for free, but they’re not like your embassy. They won’t give me any financial assistance. Once again, I’m sorry to have to ask you this, but would you be able to give me some money so I can get something to eat? I haven’t eaten for over 24 hours and I’m so tired. I can give you my details so that I can repay you as soon as I can”.

Me: “I’m really sorry, but I only have enough money for my taxi home and I don’t have my cash card with me. Best of luck though”.

Seconds later, another German approached.

German #2: “Do you speak English?”

Me: “No”.

As a man who talks bollocks for a living, I found this story to be highly dubious. Firstly, I’m sure German embassies don’t abandon their citizens like that. Secondly, it might have been more convincing if both weren’t wearing brand new t-shirts emblazoned with “Atlantic City Casino” in the middle of the gambling part of town. It would seem that, given the extreme panic emanating from every pore, one of them had stuck the lot on red, while the roulette ball agonisingly settled on black. Strangely, in my three months away, I’ve encountered numerous inefficient Germans. Is it Merkel’s policy to deport the inefficient minority these days? I hope so. I also hope that they replace “Deutschlandlied” with Nena’s “99 Luftballons” as their national anthem.

On the eve of the 57th quadrennial US presidential election, I am amused. Why? Because the world is about to bear witness to one of the most expensively-assembled Punch and Judy shows in living memory and very few are aware that what is taking place, is a charade. Staggeringly, in this age of unprecedented austerity, it is estimated that the total cost of the election could be just shy of $6 billion. I suppose it would be less grotesque and more palatable to me if there was any fundamental difference between the two candidates on offer. That Mr. Romney and Mr. Obama are mere puppets controlled by the real power brokers – the likes of Kissinger, the Rockefellers, Soros, Zbrinski, the Rothschilds and the rest of the shadowy wealthy Zionist elite – sits ill at ease with me. However, America stands proud and its citizens declare to anyone who’ll listen that they live in the land of the free, the land where anyone can become president (just as long as they have the backing of AIPAC). All hail the greatest democracy on earth where every four years they shuffle some shit around and let the people choose between two cheeks on the same arse.

Today, I heard Mitt Romney make a speech and amidst all the inane waffle, familiar clichés and psychobabble, he uttered the phrase “we can begin a better tomorrow, tomorrow”. Seriously, who really believes this crap? Four years ago we had Obama, the autocue president, pontificate about change. What this change was, he refused to say. But because change was perceived to be coming, people got a little excited and embraced this change without knowing what it really was. Many then realised that Obama was full of shit, like Bush was before him, like Clinton was before him and like poppa Bush was before that. Just how long does this cycle have to continue for people to realise that at no point does change ever arrive, and that the majority of election pledges go unfulfilled? As the late, great George Carlin once sarcastically said “as soon as the election is over, your country will improve immediately”. Except it won’t and if, in four years time, Romney is the incumbent president, battling for re-election against a backdrop of disaffected voters, just as Obama is now, there will be hordes of betrayed people voting for the other guy. The other guy who too will doubtless renege on his promises over another four year period. And the cycle continues, ad infinitum. Just look at “Mr. Change”, Obama, the man who was supposed to shut down the Guantanamo Bay detention centre (still open for business), repeal Bush’s tax cuts for higher incomes (tax rates extended in 2010), and sign abortion rights legislation immediately (still not enacted). If one needs just a smidgen of evidence of the degree to which presidents like Obama are controlled, one need only listen to the great man speak without the aid of a teleprompter. I’ve heard the pissheads down my local talk more sense. Such is the man’s reliance on other people’s words, he once thanked himself for appearing alongside former Irish Prime Minister, Brian Cowen. Obama had read the autocue meant for Mr. Cowen.

I wish you well America, but like us over on the other side of the pond, you’re being conned. All of this is an illusion of democracy, of freedom, of choice. Whatever the agenda is, it will be enacted, whether Romney or Obama is elected tomorrow. And to the woman, who I heard interviewed on BBC Breakfast news this morning, bemoaning the fact that Obama had broken all of his promises and would now be voting for Romney instead, I’ve got news for you. In four years time, you’ll be in exactly the same position. Just as all the people who voted for the “real change” Tories are in the UK – waiting for change that will never come. Truly, the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.