This is a peice done by our own Jezza Clarkson. Its: -
A) Funny
B) Extremely Inflammatory
C) Partly (I.E, the bits about Britain) very VERY true.
Here you go:-
Looking forward to reading Jeremy Clarkson's column in the Sunday
Times? You won't get a chance to now because they pulled it after the
lefties sniffled. Moderately insulting to a broad range of countries
it is true but what was anyone expecting in an article by Clarkson?
Anyway to prove a point a web site called "The Bear" reproduced the
article in full, here it is, pass it on:
"Get me a rope before Mandelson wipes us all out"
Jeremy Clarkson
for the Sunday Times
"I've given the matter a great deal of thought all week, and I'm
afraid I've decided that it's no good putting Peter Mandelson in a
prison. I'm afraid he will have to be tied to the front of a van and
driven round the country until he isn't alive any more.
He announced last week that middle-class children will simply not be
allowed into the country's top universities even if they have 4,000
A-levels, because all the places will be taken by Albanians and
guillemots and whatever other stupid bandwagon the conniving idiot
has leapt
I hate Peter Mandelson. I hate his fondness for extremely pale blue
jeans and I hate that preposterous moustache he used to sport in the
days when he didn't bother trying to cover up his left-wing
fanaticism. I hate the way he quite literally lords it over us even
though he's resigned in disgrace twice, and now holds an important
decision-making job for which he was not elected. Mostly, though, I
hate him because his one-man war on the bright and the witty and the
successful means that half my friends now seem to be taking leave of
their senses.
There's talk of emigration in the air. It's everywhere I go. Parties.
Work. In the supermarket. My daughter is working herself half to
death to get good grades at GSCE and can't see the point because she
won't be going to university, because she doesn't have a beak or
flippers or a qualification in washing windscreens at the lights. She
wonders, often, why we don't live in America.
Then you have the chaps and chapesses who can't stand the constant
raids on their wallets and their privacy. They can't understand why
they are taxed at 50% on their income and then taxed again for
driving into the nation's capital. They can't understand what
happened to the hunt for the weapons of mass destruction. They can't
understand anything. They see the Highway Wombles in those brand new
4x4s that they paid for, and they see the M4 bus lane and they see
the speed cameras and the community support officers and they see the
Albanians stealing their wheelbarrows and nothing can be done because
it's racist.
And they see Alistair Darling handing over £4,350 of their money to
not sort out the banking crisis that he doesn't understand because
he's a small-town solicitor, and they see the stupid war on drugs and
the war on drink and the war on smoking and the war on hunting and
the war on fun and the war on scientists and the obsession with the
climate and the price of train fares soaring past £1,000 and the
Guardian power-brokers getting uppity about one shot baboon and not
uppity at all about all the dead soldiers in Afghanistan, and how
they got rid of Blair only to find the lying twerp is now going to
come back even more powerful than ever, and they think, "I've had
enough of this. I'm off."
It's a lovely idea, to get out of this stupid, Fairtrade,
Brown-stained, Mandelson-skewed, equal-opportunities, multicultural,
carbon-neutral, trendily left, regionally assembled, big-government,
trilingual, mosque-drenched, all-the-pigs-are-equal,
property-is-theft hellhole and set up shop somewhere else. But where?
You can't go to France because you need to complete 17 forms in
triplicate every time you want to build a greenhouse, and you can't
go to Switzerland because you will be reported to your neighbours by
the police and subsequently shot in the head if you don't sweep your
lawn properly, and you can't go to Italy because you'll soon tire of
waking up in the morning to find a horse's head in your bed because
you forgot to give a man called Don a bundle of used notes for
"organising" a plumber.
You can't go to Australia because it's full of things that will eat
you, you can't go to New Zealand because they don't accept anyone who
is more than 40 and you can't go to Monte Carlo because they don't
accept anyone who has less than 40 mill. And you can't go to Spain
because you're not called Del and you weren't involved in the
Walthamstow blag. And you can't go to Germany ... because you just
can't.
The Caribbean sounds tempting, but there is no work, which means that
one day, whether you like it or not, you'll end up like all the other
expats, with a nose like a burst beetroot, wondering if it's okay to
have a small sharpener at 10 in the morning. And, as I keep
explaining to my daughter, we can't go to America because if you
catch a cold over there, the health system is designed in such a way
that you end up without a house. Or dead.
Canada's full of people pretending to be French, South Africa's too
risky, Russia's worse and everywhere else is too full of snow, too
full of flies or too full of people who want to cut your head off on
the internet. So you can dream all you like about upping sticks and
moving to a country that doesn't help itself to half of everything
you earn and then spend the money it gets on bus lanes and
advertisements about the dangers of salt. But wherever you go you'll
wind up an alcoholic or dead or bored or in a cellar, in an orange
jumpsuit, gently wetting yourself on the web. All of these things are
worse than being persecuted for eating a sandwich at the wheel.
I see no reason to be miserable. Yes, Britain now is worse than it's
been for decades, but the lunatics who've made it so ghastly are on
their way out. Soon, they will be back in Hackney with their South
African nuclear-free peace polenta. And instead the show will be run
by a bloke whose dad has a wallpaper shop and possibly, terrifyingly,
a twerp in Belgium whose fruitless game of hunt-the-WMD has netted
him £15m on the lecture circuit.
So actually I do see a reason to be miserable. Which is why I think
it's a good idea to tie Peter Mandelson to a van. Such an act would
be cruel and barbaric and inhuman. But it would at least cheer
everyone up a bit in the meantime."</SPAN><?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com
fficeffice" /><o></o>
Nice one Jezza. I HATE Mandelson!
Graham.
<o></o>
A) Funny
B) Extremely Inflammatory
C) Partly (I.E, the bits about Britain) very VERY true.
Here you go:-
Looking forward to reading Jeremy Clarkson's column in the Sunday
Times? You won't get a chance to now because they pulled it after the
lefties sniffled. Moderately insulting to a broad range of countries
it is true but what was anyone expecting in an article by Clarkson?
Anyway to prove a point a web site called "The Bear" reproduced the
article in full, here it is, pass it on:
"Get me a rope before Mandelson wipes us all out"
Jeremy Clarkson
for the Sunday Times
"I've given the matter a great deal of thought all week, and I'm
afraid I've decided that it's no good putting Peter Mandelson in a
prison. I'm afraid he will have to be tied to the front of a van and
driven round the country until he isn't alive any more.
He announced last week that middle-class children will simply not be
allowed into the country's top universities even if they have 4,000
A-levels, because all the places will be taken by Albanians and
guillemots and whatever other stupid bandwagon the conniving idiot
has leapt
I hate Peter Mandelson. I hate his fondness for extremely pale blue
jeans and I hate that preposterous moustache he used to sport in the
days when he didn't bother trying to cover up his left-wing
fanaticism. I hate the way he quite literally lords it over us even
though he's resigned in disgrace twice, and now holds an important
decision-making job for which he was not elected. Mostly, though, I
hate him because his one-man war on the bright and the witty and the
successful means that half my friends now seem to be taking leave of
their senses.
There's talk of emigration in the air. It's everywhere I go. Parties.
Work. In the supermarket. My daughter is working herself half to
death to get good grades at GSCE and can't see the point because she
won't be going to university, because she doesn't have a beak or
flippers or a qualification in washing windscreens at the lights. She
wonders, often, why we don't live in America.
Then you have the chaps and chapesses who can't stand the constant
raids on their wallets and their privacy. They can't understand why
they are taxed at 50% on their income and then taxed again for
driving into the nation's capital. They can't understand what
happened to the hunt for the weapons of mass destruction. They can't
understand anything. They see the Highway Wombles in those brand new
4x4s that they paid for, and they see the M4 bus lane and they see
the speed cameras and the community support officers and they see the
Albanians stealing their wheelbarrows and nothing can be done because
it's racist.
And they see Alistair Darling handing over £4,350 of their money to
not sort out the banking crisis that he doesn't understand because
he's a small-town solicitor, and they see the stupid war on drugs and
the war on drink and the war on smoking and the war on hunting and
the war on fun and the war on scientists and the obsession with the
climate and the price of train fares soaring past £1,000 and the
Guardian power-brokers getting uppity about one shot baboon and not
uppity at all about all the dead soldiers in Afghanistan, and how
they got rid of Blair only to find the lying twerp is now going to
come back even more powerful than ever, and they think, "I've had
enough of this. I'm off."
It's a lovely idea, to get out of this stupid, Fairtrade,
Brown-stained, Mandelson-skewed, equal-opportunities, multicultural,
carbon-neutral, trendily left, regionally assembled, big-government,
trilingual, mosque-drenched, all-the-pigs-are-equal,
property-is-theft hellhole and set up shop somewhere else. But where?
You can't go to France because you need to complete 17 forms in
triplicate every time you want to build a greenhouse, and you can't
go to Switzerland because you will be reported to your neighbours by
the police and subsequently shot in the head if you don't sweep your
lawn properly, and you can't go to Italy because you'll soon tire of
waking up in the morning to find a horse's head in your bed because
you forgot to give a man called Don a bundle of used notes for
"organising" a plumber.
You can't go to Australia because it's full of things that will eat
you, you can't go to New Zealand because they don't accept anyone who
is more than 40 and you can't go to Monte Carlo because they don't
accept anyone who has less than 40 mill. And you can't go to Spain
because you're not called Del and you weren't involved in the
Walthamstow blag. And you can't go to Germany ... because you just
can't.
The Caribbean sounds tempting, but there is no work, which means that
one day, whether you like it or not, you'll end up like all the other
expats, with a nose like a burst beetroot, wondering if it's okay to
have a small sharpener at 10 in the morning. And, as I keep
explaining to my daughter, we can't go to America because if you
catch a cold over there, the health system is designed in such a way
that you end up without a house. Or dead.
Canada's full of people pretending to be French, South Africa's too
risky, Russia's worse and everywhere else is too full of snow, too
full of flies or too full of people who want to cut your head off on
the internet. So you can dream all you like about upping sticks and
moving to a country that doesn't help itself to half of everything
you earn and then spend the money it gets on bus lanes and
advertisements about the dangers of salt. But wherever you go you'll
wind up an alcoholic or dead or bored or in a cellar, in an orange
jumpsuit, gently wetting yourself on the web. All of these things are
worse than being persecuted for eating a sandwich at the wheel.
I see no reason to be miserable. Yes, Britain now is worse than it's
been for decades, but the lunatics who've made it so ghastly are on
their way out. Soon, they will be back in Hackney with their South
African nuclear-free peace polenta. And instead the show will be run
by a bloke whose dad has a wallpaper shop and possibly, terrifyingly,
a twerp in Belgium whose fruitless game of hunt-the-WMD has netted
him £15m on the lecture circuit.
So actually I do see a reason to be miserable. Which is why I think
it's a good idea to tie Peter Mandelson to a van. Such an act would
be cruel and barbaric and inhuman. But it would at least cheer
everyone up a bit in the meantime."</SPAN><?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com
fficeffice" /><o></o>Nice one Jezza. I HATE Mandelson!
Graham.
<o
></o>
