Frack off Cameron you Runt!

With all the accumulated wisdom of a second-hand car salesman and the backstreet poetry of a snake oil salesman, Dai Cameron has accused opponents of fracking as “irrational,” labeling them “religiously opposed” to the new technique.

Well our prime plum would, wouldn’t he? Like Judas of old he’s held out his grasping clammy hand and had it crossed with the 30 pieces of silver. The ‘leader’ of the UK now lies safely tucked away in the grubby pockets of Mr Multinational and what’s more because he’s allowed the lure of money befuddle his senses and corrupt his conscious, he wants the rest of the UK to bend over and swallow too - like obedient little troopers.  

The Telegraph recently reported that Cameron snarled, “Many opponents of gas fracking are “irrational” and simply “can’t bear the thought of another carbon-based fuel.”

The multinational’s mouthpiece added that fracking is a “real opportunity” for Britain and that it could solve our gas needs for decades to come.

Dippy Dave warned that people refusing to back the process despite being presented with evidence that it is safe are not being “helpful”.

Appearing before the Commons Liaison Committee, Cool-hand Cameron also said that he is in favour of “cash payments to householders” disturbed by the drilling of wells near their homes.

Ministers have said that local communities will be allowed to keep tax generated by fracking and

Dai boy added that there would be "a serious amount of money" going into communities which accept shale gas wells, though it had not yet been decided how it should be split between county, district and parish councils.

However, he also said that the Government is also considering “whether, because of the disturbance in the early part of a well being dug, there should be cash payments to householders and I'm quite in favour of that... Actually saying to people 'there's going to be this small well drilling for shale gas and in order to make up for any inconvenience here is a cash payment'.”

In others words is a BRIBE! It sounds like the sort of thing the Mafia would do after accidentally shooting up someone’s shop in a gangland execution, “Sorry for any inconvenience. Here’s some cash for your troubles. Now don’t be a wise guy and keep your mouth shut. You aint seen nothing Gabeesh?” 

The fact that Cameron has resorted to bribery reveals how unpalatable the very idea of the hideously named ‘fracking’ is to our communities and just how much his paymasters must be cracking the whip. 

Diabolical David has gone on  record as saying some of the “myths” about the negative impact of fracking had not been borne out by experience in the US.”

Haven’t they? You’ve only got to google, “Water contamination in the USA caused by fracking” to see what a nonsense this is. 

Take a look at the above picture. It’s reminiscent of Blake’s “dark, satanic mills in this green and pleasant land” isn’t it? It’s actually a bird’s eye view of fracking in Texas. One thing for sure, it’s not pretty JR. Fracking ‘pads’ multiply faster than bunnies in spring.  And soon that could be the UK if Cameron and France get their way.

Why France? Because when fracking gets its teeth sunk into Britain the lion’s share of the profits will go into the coffers of huge French multinational -Total. Which is hugely ironic because France have actually banned fracking, but dastardly Dave sees no problem in allowing a French company who have been prevented from tearing up their own garden to come and rip ours to shreds. 

Follow the money trail and the truth is obvious. Fracking is just another fossil fuel and it’s hugely popular with the Westminister government, because so many of its members have close links to the fossil fuel industry. 

Fracking is just the sort of narrow-minded shorternism that appeals to old fossils everywhere. We live in an age where renewable energy farms, be they wind, solar, or tide our leading the way in an awfully slow but very real energy revolution.

Yet although there’s benefits for us all in such schemes, it just don’t promise the big bucks like pillaging and polluting our earth does. 

So it’s fracking all the way for David and the boys as they switch on the lights and burn baby burn!

Three Wolves, One Moon, and an Immortal Fashion Statement

The True Story Behind the Classic T-Shirt 

As a man who has danced with the devil, wrestled with pigs, rode a white swan, surfed the lightning and conquered the seventh torment, I was once granted the rare honour of sitting at Odin’s left hand side in the Halls of Valhalla.

There amongst many noble Viking warriors and Norse Gods of old, I quaffed much ale, gorged on much goose fat, and liberally tore into the rump of many a butchered bull. 

In the wake of much playful male-bonding when I nigh on tore that pussy Thor’s arm off in a spot of non-competitive arm-wrestling, it was time for the gathered assembled to cease their endless fighting and boasting, and gather around the flicker of flame and heat of hearth for a tale as old as the hills, as endless as the night and as fierce as a cider hangover.

It was a tale whose elemental  words were conjoured from the earth, forged in fire and written on the wind. Such was its raw and unbounded power this tale could make medicine ill, bring a brick to tears, dry up both sea and river, and cause the sky to fall. It was of course the tale of the wisest, greatest and best dressed warrior of them all - “Three Wolves and One Moon.” 

And now my dear, dear fellow followers of high-style and setters of fashion, it is my pleasure, nay honour, nay duty, nay birthright, to tell you in turn the tale of how this brave warrior bastard with all the generosity of a caring, but not in the least bit slightly feminine, God, came to sacrifice himself for the good of future generations. 

Without further ado, fellow brothers of sword and shield, and disciples of a new dawn, I give you the story of “Three Wolves and One Moon.” 

Once upon a time when the land was young and the moon was but a young maiden sitting pretty in the sky. there lived a young buck called Graham. Now Graham came from a proud and noble clan called the “Teeeeee Shuurts.” The name of this warrior tribe originated for the blood-curdling war-cry that would spill from their lips like the blood of their enemies when they charged into battle - “Teeeeee Shuurts.” Which when translated into the modern tongue means “Free Man!” 

Now upon coming a full grown warrior governed by the dictates of cold steel and male pride, Graham, as was customary for the tribe of ““Teeeeee Shuurts,” was given his own war crest and new name, chosen specifically for him by the village elders who through their daily consumption of funky fungi, spoke to diving beings for guidance on a daily basis. 

Following a tribal ceremony where Graham had to drink his own body weight in alcohol, impregnate at least three women, and win ten bouts of  bar-knuckle boxing against the hardest bastards in his commune, Graham was no more.

Like a Phoenix from the ashes, in the place of the bloodied, bruised and befuddled mortal that once was Graham, there arose a legendary warrior chief who was said to be half-man, half-god, and all mad bastard. His name was “Three Wolves and One Moon” and the sight alone of his battle standard, which portrayed three furry beasts howling in untamed unison at the moon was enough to turn his enemies’ resolve to mush, legs to jelly, and bowels to liquid. 

Over many years “Three Wolves and One Moon” became the most ferocious, yet fair warrior to ever wield an axe and sever an artery. All the men wanted to be him and all the women wanted to be with him, such was the mythical renown and magnetic animalistic allure of the warrior they once called “Three Wolves and One Moon.”

In fact, so admired was “Wolfie,” as only his closest brother in arms called him, that the tribe of “Teeeeee Shuurts” abandoned their long tradition of individual warrior crests and to a man they all adopted the “Three Wolves and One Moon” battle standard as their own. It was said that when a warrior fought under “Wolfie’s” standard their might and skill in battle would be that of ten men and their renown with the ladies would be off the scale. 

After a lifetime spent fighting, loving, drinking and ruling like a boss, “Three Wolves and One Moon” was thinking of stepping down and letting a younger man have a shot at the title when a grave and deadly threat to the freedom and way of life that the tribe of “Teeeeee Shuurts” had enjoyed for centuries reared its authoritarian head. 

From the East a new danger appeared in the form of a tribe that called itself, “The Sooots and Tys.” Which in the modern tongue translates as “The men of conformity.” Great was their number and disciplined were the ranks of the “Sooots and Tys.”who appeared as if out of nowhere like a big girly gang of well-dressed and well-heeled metrosexuals. These well groomed and strangely garbed monstrosities had but three mission statements - to always remain clean-shaven, apply liberal amounts of perfume, and above all put an end to the rule of that hairy good for nothing “Three Wolves and One Moon” and wipe the “Teeeeee Shuurts” off the face of the planet like a bad case of acne. 

Sadly, and despite fighting valiantly with all the vigor and athleticism of well-fed canines, the “Teeeeee Shuurts” were no match for the forces of “The Sooots and Tys” who outnumbered them at least by ten thousand to one. Battle after battle was fought in scenes that made the film ‘300’ look like a teddy bear’s picnic, but all to no avail, nothing it seemed could hold the unrelenting tide of “The men of conformity” at bay. 

With an army of over 100 thousand strong snapping at his heels, and with only two surviving warriors left from his once great tribe of “Teeeeee Shuurts”, “Three Wolves and One Moon” decided enough was enough and said to his two trusty lieutenants, ‘Brave Al’ and ‘Little Wayne’, “Enough! No more running me bonny boyos. It’s time to make our stand and fall like real men in one last glorious bout of carnage and guts or be damned as cowards for eternity.” 

With a mighty roar that made the ocean shudder “Three Wolves and One Moon” pulled out his sword and frothing at the mouth like a rabid dog, looked the hordes of advancing “Sooots and Tys” square in the eye and snarled, “Come and have a go if you think you’re hard enough you big bunch of perfumed ponces.” 

First to fall in the horror and bloodshed that followed was ‘Little Wayne’ but not before a good twenty thousand of the enemy’s number had tasted his steel up them. Like a courageous pin cushion ‘Brave Al’ fought on despite being pricked from head to toe with at least 218 of the enemies’ shafts. With 48 thousand, five hundred and sixty two “Sooots and Tys” slain, ‘Brave Al’s’ strength finally deserted him when arrow number 219 penetrated him and thus rendered the very last of “Three Wolves and One Moon’s” legendary band of warriors unable to hold his sword aloft and fight on in honour of his noble chieftain. 

Screaming like a vengeful god caught in an inconsolable hormonal rage, “Three Wolves and One Moon” went into a terrible battle frenzy, and knowing he was the last of his kind, fought with all the cunning and awareness of a cornered rat. Before the night had bruised the sky that day, the battle field was filled with 99.882 thousand corpses. Needless to say, “Three Wolves and One Moon” wasn’t one of them. 

This proud and slightly psychopathic warrior of whom I speak had managed to depart the field of battle, heavily wounded but alive. Yet no man, warrior or wizard,  cannot escape their destiny and knowing his time was rapidly coming to an end “Three Wolves and One Moon” crawled on his hands and knees like a pitiful zombie to where he did not know, he just felt compelled by a strange urge to keep crawling.

With the very life-force seeping from his bones and sweating out through his pores, “Three Wolves and One Moon” reached an ancient woodland where he cried tears of lament with the instinctive knowledge that he was the last of his breed and that in the distant future, future generations of men would become more weaker, less manly, less aesthetically aware, and more emotional needy than his own - just like the “Sooots and Tys”

Yet it slowly dawned on “Three Wolves and One Moon”, that there was a way to ensure the customs, traditions, attributes, and code of conduct that the “Teeeeee Shuurts” held so dear could be kept alive for future generations.

With grim regret that he would not that night dine in the halls of Valhalla with his warriors and drink fortified wine from the skulls of his enemies, but with all the grim resolve of a dying and vengeful bull,  “Three Wolves and One Moon” as is the right of any dying warrior summoned Odin to his side. 

The great Norse god appeared immediately and said in a voice like rotting bark, “What ails thee lad.” To which “Three Wolves and One Moon” replied, “Oh great Odin father, I am the last of my kind and I fear for future generations of men. As such I will forsake by right to feast and fight for all eternity in Valhalla, if you will but grant me the power to distill my very essence into a select range of insanely mythical, hugely significant, criminally potent, seductively barbaric, terribly stylish and outrageously beautiful garments that will be available for every real man with a set of iron-clad balls to buy for a very affordable price.” 

Odin looked strangely at “Three Wolves and One Moon” for approximately 37 seconds with his solitary bloodshot and watery eye, before replying in a voice that was reminiscent of the ripple of the ocean’s waves or the frying of bacon and sighed,” Consider it done soft lad.” 

And with a simple click of Odin’s fingers, “Three Wolves and One Moon” was magically transformed into a limited range of designer t-shirts whose strong visual design and dynamic was such that it was guaranteed to only appeal to a certain type of man. 

And from that day until now, men all over the world, who instinctively recognise the warrior greatness of the  “Three Wolves and One Moon” t-shirt have worn them with pride and felt the life-changing qualities that are inherent to the garment. An item of clothing which infuses the wearer with a little bit of the qualities that made the man, warrior, legend, that was  “Three Wolves and One Moon” so great.

So if you are still hesitant to purchase one of these fantastic t-shirts, because you have doubts that you are not really worthy and perhaps a little too feminine to harness and wield the full force testosterone rush that pulling on one of these garments gives you, then this is not the t-shirt for you my friend. 

However, if you desire to roar like a lion, run like a bull and unleash the warrior within whilst transforming yourself into a man god, then it’s high time to fulfill your destiny and become the child of the wolf and man of the moon that nature intended.

Immortality is only a click away. It’s yours. Now take it! 

12 starsigns! One You! Behold Your Destiny Fools!

Dee truth shall set ye free!

The future is a funny thing, as soon as you think you’ve got your hands on it, it turns with a wink of an eye into a present you just can’t unwrap. What’s more, before you know it, it turns its back on you, dumps you without a second thought and struts away like a slightly psychopathic mistress into the past. 

Yet the terrible and tyrannical hand of time is but an affliction for us mere mortals to contend with, for demi-gods and super-heroes such as the Epiphany Inferno’s part-time, semi-professional astrologer - Earl Elderflower, time is but a plaything they can travel through like a hot knife through butter. 

Join this half-crazed mad sage as laughs in the face of destiny, tears a new hole in the cosmos and peers inside to see exactly what the month of January has in store for you. 

Aries - Life could be a dream oh fiery Aries, if only you would swallow your pride and take a reliable cure for the insomnia that has plagued you for many a moon now. These sleepless nights will just not do my little horned ram. Tiredness is taking its toll, making your appearance haggard, your mood dark, your temper short and your tolerance levels nonexistent. I’m afraid you’re all shagged out my restless darling and a little more sleep and a little less stimulation is the best thing for you this coming month.  

Taurus - You do not suffer fools gladly Taurus, instead, you welcome them with open arms as they gleefully stab you without mercy and without remorse in your half-witted and naive little back.  A few choice words and a charming smile from a mysterious Russian who used to work for the KGB will have you all of a flutter in McDonalds this month, as he kindly offers to pay for your Big Mac meal. Yet think you air-headed fool, where do his real intentions lay? 

Gemini - It’s Friday night and the lights are low and unfortunately so too are you Gemini. But have you really nowhere to go? For God’s sake pull yourself together, put on your dancing shoes and paint the town red. You’ll wake up in the morning like a bear with a sore head with no memory of the night before and a healthy dose of self-loathing to boot, but at least you’ll have the satisfaction of knowing that for one evening at least you really did try and set the night on fire.

Cancer - Mary had a little lamb its fleece was white as snow. And what did you do Cancer? You put it in the oven and ate it with a few choice new potatoes and a sprinkling of parsley. Shame on you, you rampant carnivore. In all seriousness however, this month those born under the sign of the crab are guilty of trying to put a little too much on their plate. Your eyes are bigger than your stomach dear, so I suggest you question what it is you truly desire before you stuff yourself silly.

Leo - The times they are a’ changing proud Leo, but your wardrobe sadly isn’t. In this post-modern age we are all fond of a bit of retro clothing dear, but that faded floral frock and green Wellington's I saw you parading around Waitrose in last Tuesday just won’t wash I’m afraid. Fashion is a passion Leo and to feel like a million dollars you’ve got to look the part. I suggest you dress to impress if you’re really serious about getting your clammy little hands on you know who. 

Virgo - I’m not going to pussyfoot around the bush with you this month Virgo because you’re worth more than that. As my old friend and regular drinking buddy Mr T once said to me, “Shape up sucker! The kid-gloves are off and it’s time to get real.” Is there a certain judgmental someone in your life who is draining all the energy out of you like a monstorous leech? Well maybe, just maybe, it’s time be who you really are, even if it is a six-footed, muscle-bound drag queen with a penchant for little Prada dresses. 

Libra - This month you feel like you’re walking on water and floating on air my likable Libra. Well bully for you, because in the throes of self-indulgent ecstasy have you ever stopped to consider that some of us are being metaphorically dragged across broken glass and drowning in sorrow. No? Well just maybe you should. Of late your selfish streak has not gone unnoticed my dear and people are starting to talk. Beware this month of a lottery syndicate who seek to exclude you from their big win and bring you down to earth with a bump.

Scorpio -  It’s like a jungle our their Scorpio, except the beasts are even uglier. Yet you cannot hide yourself away in royal seclusion forever dear. It’s been three days of solitude now and the voices in your head are becoming a little too real aren’t they sweetheart. Perhaps today is the day to draw back the curtains and let the world in. My advice to you this month would be to empty the ashtrays, pour what’s left in the bottles down the sink, take out the trash, do the dishes, greet the dawn and start anew. 

Sagittarius - What a crooked web you weave Sagittarius. Yet like an ancient and bloated spider who has gorged themselves senseless on the blood of helpless lifeforms, you have become nauseous of all the plotting, backstabbing and political intrigue that you once considered your forte. Perhaps It’s time to do away with all the Machiavellian manipulation and opt for the simple life lovey. There is a primitive joy to be found in being as straightforward and direct as an uncultivated savage from the primordial swamp -  even if it does mean being blacklisted from everyone’s social calendar. 

Capricorn - It seems doom and gloom accompany you everywhere like two old friends at times doesn’t it Capricorn? Well cheer up you stroppy mare because this month you might just win big on the gee gees. But to win big you have to bet big. Now is not the time for prudence you old goat. Splash the cash and invest the rest on the gamble of a lifetime and maybe this time next week you’ll be a lot richer, sitting beside the pool in some sun-kissed exotic location and moaning about the heat. 

Aquarius - Poor Aquarius, an unfortunate drunken incident in a chinese restaurant has left you squirming in embarrassment and broken up in a million different pieces this month, hasn’t it? But please stop tormenting yourself by replaying those mental images of yourself naked and drunk, whilst dancing on that table and singing. We’ve all seen the video on You Tube dear and yes, while there is an awful lot to be perpetually squeamish and shamed into silence about, it’s very much a case of c’est la vie! Get over it and move on you drunken cow. 

Pisces - Dear me Pisces it seem the word ‘Recession’ is not in your vocabulary. You’ve maxed your credit cards, overdrawn your overdraft and basically thrown all caution to the wind. Yet be warned my little fish, the devil always collects and that huge plasma screen, distressed leather sofa, and state of the art sunbed you frivolously purchased in a split-second of wild abandon will come back to bite you on the butt this month. Do not fret too much though dear, once everything has been repossessed you will still be left with a bright orange glow from the excessive use of that sunbed which will shortly be in the caring hands of the bailiffs. 

Remember! It’s never over until the fat lady sings. See all you mystical bastards next month for another generous slice of realer than real astrology. 

Nine Skeletons in the Royal Family’s Closet

With the birth of baby George and the world’s obsession with Kate Middleton, the British monarchy is currently riding on a wave of overwhelming popularity. Yet like any family, the regal clan possess quite a few skeletons in their closet which have been ushered discretely away from prying eyes by a crack team of PR masterminds. In the name of Queen and country, let’s have a butchers at nine things about the Windsor firm one probably doesn’t know. 

Show me the Money!

If you can call the royal family one thing, you can call them rich. How rich, no-one really knows because their finances are exempt from public scrutiny, courtesy of a controversial legal reform which grants them absolute protection from the Freedom of Information Act. According to Buckingham Palace, the royal family only costs the British taxpayer £40 million a year to maintain. Which means every person has to shell out about 52p a year for the privilege of being a subject. Yet beyond that the water is muddied somewhat, as the Independent reported in January 2011, “Sweeping changes to the Freedom of Information Act will reverse advances which had briefly shone a light on the royal finances – including an attempt by the Queen to use a state poverty fund to heat Buckingham Palace – and which had threatened to force the disclosure of the Prince of Wales's prolific correspondence with ministers. Lobbying and correspondence from junior staff working for the royal household and Prince Charles will now be held back from disclosure. 

“Buckingham Palace confirmed that it had consulted with the Coalition Government over the change in the law. The Government buried the plan for "added protection" for the royal family in the small print of plans called "opening up public bodies to public scrutiny". 

Ian Davidson, a former member of Parliament's Public Accounts Committee (PAC), told the Independent, "I'm astonished that the Government should find time to seek to cover up royal finances. When I was on the PAC what we wanted was more disclosure not less.

"Every time we examined royal finances we found extravagance and indulgence as well as abuse of expenses by junior royals. Everywhere we looked, there were savings to be made for the Government. This sends the wrong message about public disclosure and accountability." 

Buckingham Palace begged to differ and argued that the change to the law was necessary because the Freedom of Information Act had failed to protect the constitutional position of the monarch and the heir to the throne. So in future when Prince Andrew fancies helping himself to £123.731 of the public purse to finance a 11 day trip to the Far East, the British taxpayer just won’t know about it. 

Our Name is? 

Historically, any royal family are meant to be the living embodiment of the country they represent. In medieval times, the King and the land he ruled were said to be one. So it must be a tad disappointing for fervent traditionalists to acknowledge that the British royal family actually have German origins and the name ‘Windsor’ doesn’t have its genesis in the mythical mists of time. Since the time of Queen Victoria, the Royals went by the surname of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha. Which is a bit of a teutonic mouthful to say the least. Anyway, to cut a long story short, on July 17, 1917, King George V suddenly declared that the royal family had a new surname - Windsor. Obviously you cannot get much more Anglo-Saxon than that, but why did old George do it? The simple answer is public and political pressure forced the King to distance himself and his family as far as possible from his mother country - Deutschland. Germany had  had been at war with Great Britain for three long years and anti-German sentiments were at an all time high. To make matters worse, the much loathed Kaiser Wilhelm II was the King’s first cousin. 

On the Royal Firm website Mimi Moore writes, “In the nationalistic climate of World War I, this Germanic name was causing the royal family and the government a bit of trouble. In April 1917, King George V received a report that a series of shocking letters had been received by No. 10 Downing Street, asking how the Prime Minister could expect to defeat Germany when the Sovereign he served and the Sovereign’s relations were all Germans? At the same time, the King was coping with violent public unrest over high unemployment and living conditions, increasingly fueled by militant labor unions and socialists. The royal family faced rising criticism over their German ancestry, such as the editorial in The Times by author H.G. Wells, who remarked on the King’s “alien and uninspired court”.  The King furiously and memorably responded, “I may be dull, but I’ll be damned if I’m an alien.” Public pressure became so intense that George was forced to remove the ancient ancestral banners of his German ancestors from St. George’s chapel at Windsor Castle. The furor also forced several of the King’s relatives to resign from their official posts due to their German lineage, despite many years of distinguished service. As a final blow, George received news in March 1917 that his cousin Nicholas II had been forced to abdicate due to disastrous events on the Russian front and the rise of the Bolsheviks to power. The abdication, followed by the news in July 1918 of the massacre of the Russian royal family, sent the King and British royals into a panic. Faced with attacks from all sides, the King and Prime Minister David Lloyd George met to formulate a strategy. During this time of national despondency and unrest, the Prime Minister came up with a plan for the monarchy that would help raise the morale of the nation. By shedding their ancient German identities, the royal family could declare their loyalty and devotion to the nation in one of the most powerful ways possible: by changing their name.” With a deft sleight of hand, potentially unruly mobs baying for royal blood were transformed into hordes of flag waving subjects. The final sting in this particular ‘tale’ is that research into the Royal Archives later revealed that both the last will and testament of Kind Edward VIII and his father George V, were still signed off with the Saxe-Coburg-Gotha surname.  

Hitler and the King 

The Queen’s husband, Prince Philip Mountbatten is often referred to in more plebeian quarters as ‘Phil the Greek’. Which is ironic because although he was born on Corfu, he has a lot more German than Greek blood running through his veins and hails from the House of, wait for it, Schleswig-Holstein-Sonderburg-Glucksburg. In fact the name Mountbatten is a name the young Philip Bettenberg adopted because when he become a naturalized British subject he wanted an Anglicized version of his mother’s maiden name.  Incidentally, Philip’s sister Sophie was married to SS Colonel and aide to Heinrich Himmler, Prince Christoph of Hesse, the basis perhaps of Mohamed Al Fayed’s wild allegations about Prince Phillip. However It’s always worth remembering in such instances that Prince Philip’s mother, who became a Greek Orthodox nun, once sheltered a Jewish family in occupied Athens. 

It was in fact King Edward VIII whose Nazi connections have proved most problematic to the House of Windsor. Edward and his lady love Wallis Simpson seemed besotted with Nazism and even went as far to meet up and have a cosy chat with old Adolph himself and enjoy a personal guided tour of an actual concentration camp. Of course this was all before the outbreak of the Second World War, but even so, many Brits thought their King was far too sympathetic towards what was in effect was his ‘mother land’. As far as Hitler was concerned when King Edward abdicated to marry his American divorcee, it was disastrous because with Eddie on the throne, the Fuhrer had high hopes for a strong alliance between Germany and Britain. Instead, with the UK under the rule of  King George VI, Hitler got war. The Duke of Windsor would share Hitler’s lament and during his years in exile during the war he reportedly said, “It would be a tragic thing for the world if Hitler was overthrown," But when in a more positive state of mind the Duke allegedly told a friend, "After the war is over and Hitler will crush the Americans...We'll take over...They (the British) don't want me as their King, but I'll be back as their leader." 

Royal Vampires 

Now while many staunch Republicans may claim in a metaphorical sense that the royal family are nothiing but a bunch of bloodsucking parasites, who but the most fervent and fevered anti-monarchist would dare to suggest they were somehow related to the real-life diabolical villain who inspired the creation of Bram Stoker’s Dracula? Vlad III, Prince of Wallachia more commonly known as Vlad the Impaler wasn’t a nice guy. In fact he was a psychopath who enjoyed impaling people on spikes and drinking the blood and eating the flesh of his enemies. The Romanian party prince’s other hobbies included decapitation, gouging people’s eyes out and having them boiled and skinned alive. So it leaves somewhat of an unsavory taste in one’s mouth to discover that the Romanian Tourist Board is busy promoting the alleged family ties between the British royal family and the Transylvanian tyrant in a bid to boost tourism to the area. Apparently Vlad the cad was related to Queen Mary, consort of George V, - Prince Charles’ great grandfather. And rather than play down his connections to the bloody and brutal slayer, in a 2011 documentary about the Carpathian mountains, Prince Charles made humorous references to ‘Grandpa Dracula’ and quipped, “'The genealogy shows I am descended from Vlad the Impaler, so I do have a bit of a stake in the country.”

The Prince and the Pervert

If the old adage that you can judge a man by the company he keeps rings true, then Prince Andrew didn’t do himself any favors by hanging out with billionaire paedophile Jeffrey Epstein before and after he had been convicted for offences against under-age girls. According to the Daily Mail, “Billionaire Epstein was jailed for 18 months in 2008 after admitting soliciting an under-aged girl for prostitution. He is alleged to have used his fleet of private aircraft to traffic under-aged girls around the world for sex. Entries in Epstein’s aircraft’s flight log reveal he regularly flew alone with Virginia Roberts, who has claimed she was used as a 'sex slave' by Epstein from the age of 15.” Epstein and Prince Andrew had been pals since the early 1990s but after the billionaire was convicted for soliciting prostitution from under-age girls, you’d have thought the Prince for the sake of PR alone would have given him a wide berth. Not so, the two were snapped walking together on a friendly stroll in New York’s Central Park in February 2011, and in March of that year, much to the Queen’s dismay, the Prince gave his pal permission to land his private jet at a RAF base so he could visit him at Sandringham. Yet apparently it’s all ok with Prime Minister David Cameron who waded into the debate like a staunch sycophant and told reporters, “He (Andy) was doing an 'important job' as a UK trade envoy.

MacMajesty

When one thinks of the Queen’s culinary life, thoughts automatically turn to such refined delicacies as a grilled Dover sole, on a bed of wilted spinach, or cucumber sandwiches with the crusts cut off. A suspicious looking burger of unknown origin perched on a stale lettuce leaf, topped of by a slab of processed cheese, sprinkled with what looks like a diseased alcoholic’s blood speckled vomit, is the last thing you could imagine Her Majesty wolfing down after a night on the tiles. Yet surprisingly, ‘fast-food Liz’ as she’s known in the seedier areas of Slough, owns a drive-through McDonalds in the town. Yes! That’s Right! The Queen is Ronald McDonald’s land lady. She owns the Bath Road Retail Park in Slough which encompasses not only a drive-through McDonalds, but is also home to a B&Q superstore, and branches of Comet, JJB Sports and Mothercare. The Crown Estate purchased the site for a cool £92 million and are no doubt quids in for the foreseeable future. Although it’s highly doubtful that the Queen salivates like a playful bloodhound at the slightest scent of a Mctasty or breaks out in a cold sweat at the promise of a thick shake. 

You Can Bank on it!

How much truth there are in wild allegations of the Queen’s personal wealth is open to interpretation but it is a simple matter of fact that the Queen has established a company called the Bank of England Nominees Ltd, whose investors and investments are exempt from all public scrutiny. In practice it allows any head of state complete anonymity when buying shares. So in theory because the Queen does not have to annually declare her interests, she could be investing in arms or firms performing controversial biotech research, we just don’t know. Of course, following her coronation in 1953, the Queen didn’t pay any tax on her vast fortune until she was put under pressure do start “voluntary” doing so in 1993, but, surprise, surprise, how little or how much is still a secret. Now how about that Jack?

The Answer is Blowing in the Wind

Prince Charles has been a prime target for an awful lot of criticism during his time in the public eye and according to the Daily Mail, the Queen has also chipped in, by criticising her eldest son for employing too many servants and taking his own personal white leather toilet suit with him to public functions. 

In June, 2013, the Daily Mail criticized the Prince for speaking about the evils of ‘monstrous modern architecture’ and then spending £38 million on a hideous looking giant supermarket depot near Milton Keynes. The paper has also insinuated that Prince Charles has waged a 20-year secret campaign to make him the richest King in history (Link 19), The Independent also had a pot shot at the financial situation of the future King when they reported in 2010, “The Queen is set to become one of the wealthiest crowned heads in Europe after the future of the British monarchy was secured in a historic deal with the Government that will give the House of Windsor a share of the £210m profits from government estates relinquished by George III. The Civil List and the parliamentary system for funding the head of state are to be abolished, and from 2013, the Queen will receive her funding directly from the Crown Estate, which owns £6bn of British land and business. The deal means the Queen, and her successors, will not have to dip into her private wealth to help fund her crumbling palaces and staff wages, reducing financial concerns for Prince Charles when he ascends the throne.”

With assets covering Regent Street in London’s West End shopping area, Ascot racecourse , Windsor Great Park, and over 265,000 acres of farmland, The Crown Estate also stretches out to the 12 nautical miles which surround Britain. In other words, the Royal family owns the seabed which lies beneath 7,700 miles of the UK’s coastline and as the Daily Mail wasted no time in pointing out, “It’s no secret that the natural resources in our seabed are a goldmine that could hoist the Crown Estate’s income into the stratosphere.. That will certainly be the case if one development which Prince Charles has been pushing for with all his usual eco-enthusiasm — offshore wind farms — gets the go-ahead. Charles, a student and vociferous campaigner for renewable energy, is vehemently opposed to wind turbines being erected on land where, he says, they are a ‘horrendous blot on the landscape’. He refuses to have them on his Duchy of Cornwall estates. But he supports them being built offshore. And by a happy coincidence, any offshore wind farm will have to pay rent to the Crown Estates. At present there are 436 wind turbines around the UK’s coastline. By 2020, that number is predicted to rise to almost 7,000 and could push the Crown Estate’s present income to something approaching half a billion pounds a year — and rising.” 

It’s all Mine!

To bring us bang up to date, the Queen recently struck a deal with her eldest to divvy up the spoils of a new gold bonanza discovered in Cornwall. After an old Cornish tin mine was reopened and traces of gold found there, potentially worth millions of pounds, no time was wasted in resolving a centuries old row between the Crown Estate and Charles’s Duchy of Cornwall over who has the rights to any profits found in that particular neck of the woods. Quite naturally a deal was quickly struck to split the proceeds of any gold reserves successfully mined. As one commentator said, “It’s just like the Sopranos but with different accents.”

A Brand New Start?

Or just more of the same old bullshit? 

When a primped, preened and perfumed philanthropist like Russell Brand starts pontificating about how no-one should vote anymore and demands a revolution with all the gusto of a slightly camp Che Guevara, it’s going to raise a few Paxmanesque eyebrows. The question is, has the celebrity gangbanger taken his half-baked ideas out of the oven far too quickly? 

Some time inbetween banging on about changing the world in the not so New Statesman and ripping Jeremy Paxman a new asshole, Brand has picked up the diamond encrusted baton dropped by every ‘caring and sharing’ celebrity’s spiritual forefather - Bono, and just won’t stop banging his bongo drum about just how rigged the only card game in town is. 

He’s got a point, we do live in a world governed by corruption, steeped in greed and staggering under the weight of its own bullshit. But it’s also worth remembering that it’s a world where the disease, famine, poor health, dire working/living conditions, unavailability of choice and out and out inequality which our forefathers lived with from cradle to grave, has been either eradicated altogether or vastly improved upon. 

Yes, the swine have still got their snouts in the trough, the elite still exploit, the wealthy rule the roost, and the class system still weakens and rots the guts of the UK like a vile parasite born beyond time and reason. In short, the path of the righteous man is still beset on all side by the inequities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men,”

So what’s a poor boy to do? Well, Russ the rebel reveals in his guest editor column for The New Statesman that, “Total revolution of consciousness and our entire social, political and economic system is what interests me.” Sounds grand doesn’t it, if a little bit vague, but it didn’t stop savage Utopians everywhere beating their chest and snarling, “Count me in you long-haired Commie cunt.” or words to that effect. 

The only problem with the flambouyant comedian’s cosmic revolution is, “It’s not on the ballot.” So the answer? Tell em’ how it is Russ! “I have never voted. Like most people I am utterly disenchanted by politics. Like most people I regard politicians as frauds and liars and the current political system as nothing more than a bureaucratic means for furthering the augmentation and advantages of economic elites,” barked Russell, before snapping like a well-off student high on a toxic cocktail of  Marx, Mao, and Pot, “I will never vote and I don’t think you should, either.” 

Now while it’s not a particularly palatable option to vote for “a man (David Cameron) whose face resembles a little painted egg,” and just as upsetting to vote for the spineless and unprincipled piece of stray flatulence that calls itself Nick Clegg, we’ve yet to give the other heavyweight contender in the red corner an opportunity  to roll with the punches and lift the belt. Admittedly, despite his promising pledges to hit the energy companies where it hurts,  Ed Miliband may well  turn out to be a jet engine made of jelly disguised as a chocolate teapot, but how’s a punter to known if he doesn’t chance his hand? 

Advising a nation already sedated and dosed to the eyebrows with cynicism, trivia, greed, sex, materialism, vanity and general all round thoughtfulness, to not vote because it’s a tacit act of compliance, is a big, bad crock of steaming hippy bullshit.  

Not voting is the equivalent of holding up a white flag and whimpering, “Stick a fork in my ass and turn me over man, I’m done!” It’s the worst form of submission and it’s a complete sell-out of the human race. Not voting, is like your pulling your trousers down or lifting up your skirt and whistling, “Hey, over here totalitarianism, I’m ready for my shafting.” 

The sacrifices and the struggles of groups like the Chartists and the Suffragettes gave the proletariat a tangible and very real weapon, that the powers that be went to great lengths not to relinquish. To just toss aside the fight for alternatives and resign from democratic responsibility in a display of jaded celebrity cynicism and self-serving waffle is playing right into the very hands of those men in dark corridors who strive to rule without public accountability and decide your fate for you.

The welfare state, the NHS, our education system, and all those other miraculous things we take for granted and shamelessly treat as our birthright, wouldn’t be possible without democracy and the power of the ballot box. Great change takes time, it doesn’t happen overnight, in fact, it happens so slow, you don’t even realise it.  It’s like grass growing. Grass seeds need to be nurtured with both water, sunlight and great patience before they can grow into a sweet meadow for animals to feed off, or a nice garden for the kids to play in. It’s a long and boring process but it’s really worth the effort because grass has a habit of sticking around. 

And then one day, without you even realising, a lush layer of grass has grown over what was formerly a desolate wasteland and things have got a great deal better. Only trouble is, now you can’t remember how bad it was before, so the little asshole on your shoulder whispers in your ear, “But things aren’t that great now and they can only can better,” and before you know it “You want the world and you want it now!” And then along comes some old tart with the promise of revolution, and revolution, doesn’t come with the baggage of boring nuances, reasoned debate,  and all the other complicated weights and measures that democracy carries around with it like a dusty  ball and chain. Revolutions comes screaming like a wide-eyed madman in the middle of the night with the beating heart of the righteous, the fury of injustice and all the accountability of a wild animal. 

Revolution is not like grass growing one little bit, it’s raw, it’s sexy and possesses all the wonderful theatrics and indifferent violence of a thunder storm.  It’s home is in the streets and whenever it makes an appearance, one thing is always guaranteed, rivers of blood will flow and might will make right. In its aftermath the world is not usually a better place. Corpses litter the streets and souls sicken with despair, but somewhere and somehow the grass still grows and waits patiently for someone to notice its inherent beauty again. 

A wheel revolves slowly and builds up speed, if it spins too fast, it breaks off its axl and the whole convoy is derailed. Democracy is a slow lumbering beast, but it does work, and its biggest endorsement is your vote. David Foster Wallace hit the nail squarely upon the head when he said, “If you are bored and disgusted by politics and don’t bother to vote, you are in effect voting for the entrenched Establishments of the two major parties, who please rest assured are not dumb, and who are keenly aware that it is in their interests to keep you disgusted and bored and cynical and to give you every possible psychological reason to stay at home doing one-hitters and watching MTV on primary day. By all means stay home if you want, but don’t bullshit yourself that you’re not voting. In reality, there is no such thing as not voting: you either vote by voting, or you vote by staying home and tacitly doubling the value of some Diehard’s vote.”

It’s easy to agree with Brand when he said he want change, it’s an instinct as old as the hills, and it’s difficult to resist the urge to pin on your “smash the state” badge and shout, “Hell yeah! let’s have a fucking revolution” when he speaks so passionately about a recent visit to a rubbish dump in Kenya in along the lines of, “This was a nation made of waste with no end in sight. Domestic waste, medical waste, industrial waste formed their own perverse geography. Stinking rivers sluiced through banks of putrid trash, mountains, valleys, peaks and troughs all formed from discarded filth. An ecology based on our indifference and ignorance in the “cradle of civilisation” where our species is said to have originated. Here amid the pestilence I saw Armageddon. Here the end of the world is not a prophecy but a condition.”

But when a few weeks later, Russ finds himself at a Givenchy fashion show in Paris unable to appreciate the ‘immaculate, ‘heavenly’ and ‘gleaming sophistication on show because his mind was plagued by phantoms of the slum children of Kenya, it’s difficult to take him seriously. Especially when he writes solemnly, like a sixth-form poet with a big heart but an even bigger image, “The price of this decadence was their degradation.”

If that was not enough to turn even the most gentle souls into Holden Caulfield and shout, “Phony” at the top of their lungs, Brand digs an even deeper hole and starts pontificating in all seriousness, albeit with the self-satisfied smirk of a man who knows he’ll never go without, “The price of privilege is poverty. Profit is the most profane word we have.”

Which is quite a thing to announce when you’re a multi-millionaire who has spent a considerable time at the rock face in the craven pursuit of wealth and fame. The next time Russ gets on his soapbox and turns into Citizen Smith you may want to think on the fact that he’s currently dating the heiress Jemima Khan, who is the daughter of Anglo-French billionaire financier and tycoon Sir James Goldsmith. Khan also happens to be the Associate editor of the New Statesman and editor-at-large for Vanity Fair. Do you see a pattern emerging? There’s a club, you’re not in it, but Brand and every other multi-millionaire celebrity on the planet is. Let’s be honest, unless you win the lottery or know how to really kick a ball, it usually takes a lot of effort, cunning, ruthlessness, compromise and a questionable mindset to make a million, never mind 15 million? In this world, sticking to your principles does not usually equate with making lots of cash. In fact, not unlike dirtbag politicians, Brand and one of his best mates, ‘Wozzy’ were once paid vast amounts of public money (The BBC license fee) to act like irresponsible and sleazy twats.

But let’s be fair, everyone is entitled to have their Road to Damascus moment. Brand has seen the light realised the cult of greed and celebrity he’s so deeply  embroiled so deeply in is not very pleasant and wants change in a big way. Brand said,  “It's easy to attack me, I'm a right twerp, I'm a junkie and a cheeky monkey, I accept it, but that doesn't detract from the incontrovertible fact that we are living in a time of huge economic disparity and confronting ecological disaster.” He also said, “When I first got a few quid it was like an anesthetic that made me forget what was important but now I've woken up. I can't deny that I've done a lot of daft things while I was under the capitalist fugue.”

Yet here’s the rub, as much as Brand admits, “The people that govern us don't want an active population who are politically engaged, they want passive consumers distracted by the spectacle of which I accept I am a part.” He’s still as much part of that huge economic disparity as the politicians and businessmen he criticises. No-one’s expecting him to wave his wand conjour up a global utopia overnight, but the simple fact is when someone, and it doesn’t matter what their intent may be, eats too much of the communal pie, some poor bleeder will go without. Greed is greed no matter which way you want to dress it up. Poor man rich man, beggar man, thief, or comedian, no-one needs a million pounds in the bank, and most celebrities with their conceit ego, and never-ending greed for more fame and more wealth are pretty much, a prize product of unregulated capitalism.  Try naming any famous people under Stalin’s regime and see how far you get. What are celebrities, if not an elite band of emotionally retarded narcissists whose whole world revolves around their hugely profitable Brand? It’s not enough that they’re in your face 24-7 and have hijacked just about everything that was once the sole domain of us poor folk. Now celebrities want to be revolutionaries. You just watch them que up to follow Russell’s lead, until we end up with some sort of vapid reality show called “I’m a celebrity rebel who don’t give a fuck mister!” 

The great Aneurin Bevan spent his life championing social justice and the rights of the working people. He used to say, “Campaign in poetry, govern in prose." Because he understood all about capturing people’s imagination with heroic oratory before knuckling down and doing the grunt and groan mule work of turning a vision into a reality. Talking the talk is easy, walking the walk is the hard part. MPs like Bevan also understood that a communal society was only possible if there was personal responsibility.

It’s not responsible sit at home and let those who would deny you freedom and equality to become victorious through your apathy and idleness. Neither is it responsible for those with malicious intent to wield governmental power. So you go to war, not in the streets, but in the ballot box, by highlighting injustices, by writing letters, by penning petitions, by spreading information, by getting educated, by getting informed, by combating ignorance, by questioning everything, by standing up for yourself and battling for equal rights, civil rights, and constant improvements in our education and health systems. All this and much, much more is possible in our current democratic system. Countless unrecorded battles take place every day between individuals,  pressure groups and both local and central governments that all accumulate to make a big difference to millions of people’s lives. 

So you can sit back, and blame the government and big business for all the world’s wrongs and all that is base in human nature whilst stuffing your face with junk and watching streams of shit on the TV, or you can get up off your fat ass, finally stop with all the piss and moaning and take responsibility. But above all else, remember not to cut yourself too large a slice of the pie.