The Konnolsky Files

A Poem for George

Fri, 19 Oct 2012 14:51:00 -0400

Hello! Here in Smolensk butcher shop, local egghead has compose poem to commemorate what happen today to George Osborne.

The Night Mare

(After WH Auden » http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6H3jGjmPWX4)

This is the Night Mare. SPAD pays. (My order.)
Taking his change and then all aboard her.
First class for the rich, second for the poor,
We’ll sit with the bankers, not the churls next door.
Wave bye to Wilmslow, where Tatton’s mine,
(The Hamiltons misplaced her, but now its fine.)
No cotton mills, its more land rover,
Nouveau riche wet dream, pigs in the clover.
Snorting haughtily as press passes,
Finding seats for their pleb arses.

We turn our heads, look through the coaches,
Search for our tickets as he approaches.
Press dogs pay their fares on board;
They lack a SPAD who serves his lord.
Tickets checked and passes, none are fakes,
Then Ramesh hands him mine. Train gently shakes.

Guard straightens, he eyes some fun.
“Wrong ticket, sunshine, this is First!”
Towards us crane necks, seeking out my name and shame.
The guard checks ticket apparatus, he shakes his head.
Set on his dark brow lie gigantic headlines.
All Euston waits for me:
With the long lens, beside the platform, throng hacks.
I am the news.

Press woman tweets. “No!” says Ramesh.
“Better is he than some churl, my dear sir.
In First to stay’s his inclination,
Go inspect the mob, who lead not the nation.”
An application, an explanation,
A loyal servant’s declaration.
But gossip, gossip on all news stations,
News circumstantial, the latest scandal,
“Betters with tickets,” guard snaps “Do reside here.
Better shift places.” Scowling in fury,
“Let us from Wilmslow, good sir,” I ask,
“Let us to Euston stay here in First Class.
Let us, condole us, I’m high born not low blood.”
“No.” The press will tease – my obsequies,
Written in paper of every hue,
The pink, the yellow, the red and the blue,
The tabloid, so catty, the broadsheet, deploring.
But hold - my official! And my heart’s now soaring.
Clever. “Ram’s fault all along.
He paid and he stinted and so got it wrong.”

Guard says, “Excess to pay.”
Paying, my terrified SPAD blunders
For his mobile phone to call the car to Euston to meet us.
Away through workmen’s entrance, like proles, in text-book irony,
Away from press pack ravening,
To continue my schemes.
SPAD goes home soon and dreads his emails,
For soon he’ll hear his inbox chime:
“Scapegoat’s not you, Ramesh. Mitchell’s toast!”
And thus I’ll work so Ticketgate’s forgotten.

How much is a yak worth?

Thu, 18 Oct 2012 16:26:00 -0400

Hello! Here in Smolensk butcher shop, we think today about time when local oligarch Big Oleg try set local yak meat market.

You see, when we was all control by communism, there was one yak supplier in city: Marxist-Leninist Yak Meat for Proletarian Joy Combine of Smolensk. Yak price subsidise. Then, after fall of USSR, yak industry was privatise and fall into hands of oligarch Big Alkan. He rename it the Corporatist Yak Interest for Extraction of Monopoly Profits. Yak price still identical at each and every butcher shop. But it higher. In fact, it soar. Thanks in part to withdraw of subsidy. But also because Alkan need buy new 15m gold statue of himself for town square. Then, after gang war, Big Oleg run Alkan out of town and take over yak concern. Oleg try different approach. Though he stay monopoly yak supplier, he let each butcher shop outlet decide on yak retail price. As long as he get his tribute money from shops, he think some freedom in price is keep us sharp, make sure no one get too powerful, and lead to innovative yak product. Like my assistant Yuri delicious yak testes flan.

Result is plenty range of pricing. But you say, surely price of yak is price of yak, Pavel. When I buy yak steak in your shop, or yak pie, or yak lard (if I doing fry up or need something rub on sore knee), yak is yak and price is price. Haha! We butcher in Smolensk plenty cunning. We make size up of customer when they is come in and price according. Now some butcher use this for big exploitation. Grisha “Spare Ribs” Ramovsky, for example. Poorer you is, more he ask you pay. And he very big on use system of defer payment with interest impose. Compound interest. Buying small yak chop in his shop sometimes cost people their home. By contrast, he is not charge big shot and business people anything for his produce, in hope they treat him well.

And all butcher do some version this.

Me? Well, oh, well…despite Yuri stare at me like I is big idiot, I little bit soft on this. If customer poor, like Baba Malinka, who only survive last winter by eat her own bed, then…I know I suppose be good capitalist, disappointed Anglo-Saxon shop-keeper reader. And I is great fan of your model. Believe me, they not get best yak. And when Yuri serve them I not sure it yak at all. Especially since he get completely on top our rodent problem, like he Pink Panther of Hamburg (but with Kalashnikov, not flute). And of course Oleg must never find out I make gamble with his cut of profit. Or he get rid me. Very literal. So I compensate. If customer is middle type of person, they get charge my market rate. I calculate this with use of Konnolsky Rule, by take what I think yak is worth and multiply by 72 thousand. This lead to mean price of about 10 roubles per kilo. And rich? They pay plenty. One year, after I fail charge anyone who look at me all sad for best part of month, there 530 000 rouble hole in accounts. So when Oleg come inspect them, I charge him 600 000 for single one of Yuri special hot yakwich.

And unlike some butcher I pretty welcome about who can be in shop. Now as you know I live on premises, like most our butcher. And some treat shop like their home and only their home. Grisha, for instance, got shoot on sight policy for vegetarians. But my view is that business is part of world and must conform to business regulation. And since there no regulation in Russia, I follow model of my favourite country. UK. So I serve everyone, whatever eating preference, colour, creed or sexuality business. Everyone. Even if they play for hated Irkutsk Kosmos Sunday League of Football team. (Though sometime I give them the heavily irradiated stuff we keep in toilet to hide Oleg plutonium stash.) We even let famous UK fascist in shop one time. Nick something. He come in and we recognise from UK papers. He order yak and I say we surprise he not vegetarian since You Know Who was, but he say vegetarianism is eating disorder. Then, like so many new customer help himself to vodka we keep on counter, and start talk about how good thing about Russians is how much we hate gays people, which make Yuri plenty uncomfortable, for obvious reason. So I say something about how actually psychologist believe there is sexuality spectrum and it very rare for person be right at one end or other, even if they neo-Nazi. And he get angry at first, then more and more drunk, and eventually quite sociable. He even start make friendly smile at Yuri, who continue explain about spectrum business, and soon he ask us if we want go back to his B&B. We could play the Ernst Rohm SA discipline game, he say. He got costume. But we decline polite. So he go mad, say we big heterophobics, threaten tweet our shop address – impotent threat; I do that already: Konnolsky’s, Central Square, Smolensk – and try smash our window. But instead he miss, slide out of shop, stumble across Square, before fall down in pool his own vomit. He still there.

Anyway, I am digression. So there many yak price. And eventually this is make local newspaper headline. Customer complain of unfairness, confusing prices and bad quality service. There threat of Federal investigation. Oleg decide get grip. “In six month time, I going impose new rule. You must offer customer lowest price for yak.”

Next day, Grisha call meeting at his place of all Smolensk yak butchers. Atmosphere tense. Something must be do. For it clear lowest price for yak going cost us big money. Especially those, like Grisha, who hide some their excess profits even from Oleg. So we decide try rig price around something we can agree is fair. Vladi “Lights Fingers” Lensky, the lung thief, ask “What is fair price for yak?” We all look each other. No one know. There big discussion about land prices, feed, and stuff. But yak such staple, such Smolensk necessity, we been just set price we think right for long time. Then Timofey “Tripe” Tomsky come up with plan. “Over next six month, let us inflate minimum prices, so they same as our maximum price now, and double current maximum price. Then, when Oleg force us offer lowest price, people think we do them favour.”

So we implement plan. Of course I still try help out some my poor customer, but now almost everyone get charge my old plutocrat rate, and plutocrat get charge double. Result. Hyperinflation in yak price. People needing bring vans full of money to our shop to pay for bag of livers. By end of six month, when Oleg people calculate minimum price of yak to fix tariff, kilo is retail in Smolensk at 27 million roubles. More calls for Kremlin investigate. Demand for yak subsidies for poor, yak kitchens, even renationalisation.

Eventually, Oleg back down. He withdraw threat of regulate price in exchange for some of more extreme player like Grisha reduce his APR for “buy now pay later” yak to more modest 765% for poorest citizens. Prices settle to tiny bit better than were before. Oleg buy off journalists. Bad headlines stop. And Yuri and me go back to old formula.

“What is yak worth, boss?” Yuri ask one day.

“I dunno Yuri,” I say. “For rich it is nothing. Worthless. Like anything. For poor, it is life. Priceless.”

“Hm,” he grunt. “Yours definitely is.”

“Sh,” I say. “Don’t tell Oleg.”

Volga News: Charles' Letters (continued)

Wed, 17 Oct 2012 16:38:00 -0400

Hello! Here in Smolensk butcher shop, we read in UK Guardian that Prince Charles correspond with Tessa Jowell over New Deal. Well, Mr Russabbottbridger, once again Volga News ahead of you! After its first leak of Charles letters > http://konnolsky.tumblr.com/post/33721926749/volga-news-leaks-charles-letters it has today publish further selection of correspondence. I reproduce below.

Letter 1

Dear Tessa,

I hope this finds you well. So nice to have our chat the other day. How’s that husband of yours? Still knocking about with that ghastly jumped up oik Berlusconi?

Anyway, I wanted to follow up our talk about this New Deal whatsit. Couldn’t agree more about getting our young people to do something useful with their lives. Far too many of them grow up with a completely inappropriate sense of entitlement, sitting around as though the world owes them a living, expecting to be waited on hand of foot. Yet there’s nothing like real hard labour for giving people dignity and purpose. I love the glow and sense of achievement I get as I work up a sweat playing a few chukkas or giving the mare a rub down. (Camilla says hello, by the way.)

So my government – well, the Mater’s government – is quite right to make getting these young people into work a top priority. Now I’m sure you won’t mind me making some suggestions for the sorts of things these chaps and chapesses should be doing.

People write such awful tosh about education being the route to happiness, wealth and satisfaction. Well, speaking personally, I just don’t see it. I went to bally Trinity College Cambridge. And did it make the slightest difference to my material wellbeing? No. So what I hope you might think about is giving these boys and girls some real practical skills. Craftsmanship. And, despite what everyone says, it is my firm belief that cities are not the future. So I hope some of this New Deal will be Traditional Deal. Old Deal if you like. But also the Future’s Deal. The Future’s Old New Deal. FOND we can call it. That sounds nice. And let’s include among the crafts the “kids” learn things that will really equip them for where Britain’s destiny lies. The countryside.

Of course, I’d like young people to get to grips with the sorts of skills we are starting to lack but which could have a great future. Fox hunting. Grouse shooting. That sort of thing. But I’m well aware that doesn’t go down too well with some of your comrades. However I am sure they can have no objection to good honest hedging and stonewalling. Especially as that’s what you political types do isn’t it, you know, when Paxman’s got you cornered, hedging and stonewalling? Just my little joke. Cam liked it. But it’s late and she’s got a couple of brandies down.

In fact, one could put some of the young scamps to work right away. As you know, despite what The Guardian says, it’s not always easy to make the Duchy turn a handsome enough profit to allow one to carry out the sorts of duties one knows are vital to British interests. Like extra trips to Dubai. (Getting more and more expensive, especially if you want to see a few of the sheiks and talk business at the races.) So could some of your youngsters come and do some work for me? I understand there are tax break thingies and we really could do with some of those. It’s all got tougher since the Mater’s horrible annus. Anyway, we’ve got several dry stone walls that need doing, hedges that need planting, and there’s always no end of mucking out. Especially after Harry and his friends have been round.

Anyway, just a thought.

As ever,

Charles

Letter 2

My dear Tessa,

What a pleasure to write to you again after so long. But how sorry I am about your husband. Can’t say we didn’t warn you.

Anyway, thanks awfully for the use of the young people. Tremendous stuff. And yes I do agree it is in everyone’s interests that we keep this between ourselves. Press might get the wrong end of the stick. But it’s been marvellous. Not all of them are exactly as – how can one put this, no Cams I don’t mean deferential – erm, well, they’re rough diamonds. And yes a few things have gone missing. But the new wing is coming on an absolute treat and the Duchy’s books have never looked better.

Now I know it’s not your area any more, but I wondered if you could pull a few strings and get us one or two extra bodies. You see, we’ve got some quite serious carpentry needs. Book shelves. Staircases. Could do with someone doing something with that old deal table. Come to think of it, that would make it a New Deal table. Or a New Deal deal table. Or a New Deal old made as good as new deal table. Cams is laughing again, bless her. Oh, and she’s putting in a request. Tells me she needs a new cigarette lighter. The last one contracted emphysema and some of these young scoundrels are well qualified in that area.

Anyway, no pressure.

As ever,

Charles

Letter 3

My dear Tessa,

Congratulations! What wonderful news! In London! The Olympics! And so pleased that you, my old friend, will have such an important part to play. Ah so many thoughts. Are you the person to talk to about tickets? Not for me of course, but there are one or two members of the extended Saudi Royal family that we always like to see have a good time when they’re over here. Only time they can get a proper drink, poor fellows!

Yes so many ideas. Got to connect it to Britain’s cultural heritage. Must make sure the ceremonies highlight all our monarchs. All our kings. Especially the kings.

By the way. One early thought. Don’t tell the Mater yet. But wondered if we could surprise her. Maybe get her to do something a bit different for the Opening. Something a bit daring. You know, perhaps parachuting into the arena. For real. From a great height. Would be spectacular. And I know she did something like that in the War, so nothing could go wrong.

Can’t promise, but might be a Damehood in it…

Over to you.

As ever,

Volga News Leaks Charles' Letters

Tue, 16 Oct 2012 15:44:00 -0400

Hello! Here in Smolensk butcher shop, we sad for British friends who prevent by Attorney General from see letters from Prince Charles to ministers. But, our local paper Volga News has leak small selection of correspondence. So we happy help you out by reproduce. Please see below.

Letter 1

Dear Minister,

I sincerely hope this finds you in the finest possible fettle. Now, I won’t beat about the bush, not least as it’s not the Glorious Twelfth yet – and anyway, someone does the beating for me – no, I’ll get to the point. Rogers’ Chelsea Barracks design. Unacceptable. Not at all what one wants to see when one is walking, well driving, well, being driven, through one’s kingdom – that is to say, what will be one’s kingdom when the Mater finally, you know, thingies off her mortal doo-dah.

Sure you’ll see sense on this one and help me convince the Qataris to drop the silly plan.

Yours – well, not really yours, mine if anything,

Charles

PS: I see your department is now buying rather fewer Duchy Original Ginger Snaps than before. Now I know the last time you bought our biscuits in bulk, as opposed to one of the many low grade commercial GM-riddled carcinogenic alternatives, you inflated your procurement budget by 75%. But money isn’t everything….

Letter 2

Dear Minister,

I am grateful for your reply. Now, I am fully aware of the need for affordable housing in London. No concern is dearer to one’s heart than the comfortable housing of one’s people in accommodation suited to their station. So I have come up with an alternative. The Barracks site could be redeveloped along lines suggested by a certain architectural charity – one which, coincidentally, I am patron of. (See enclosed plan.) The style they suggest is Georgian, a suitably regal time. A time of kings. Sort of thing you can still see in Bath. And I know from friends of Camilla’s that a Bath apartment can be had at an absolute snip, certainly when compared with some of the places we’ve been investing in lately. Ah, one sometimes wonders what one is going to do with all this stuff, but then one remembers one’s responsibilities and resigns oneself to the passive acceptance that property management is a princely and ultimately a kingly duty.

Do see what you can do.

Charles

PS: Your reply doesn’t mention the biscuits. Come on. Have a nibble, there’s a good chap.

Letter 3

Dear [future] Subject,

Don’t get cocky with me! How dare you give me a lesson on the history of architecture! How dare you bring to my attention that Bath was described by Tobias Smollett at the time of its Georgian renovation as “contrived without judgment, executed without solidity, and stuck together with so little regard to plan and propriety”! How dare you suggest that in rejecting Roger’s latest carbuncle I am being exactly the same kind of reactionary NIMBY now as Smollett was then! The backyard in question is England, and England is my backyard, or will be. Not that I have a backyard. What is one exactly? Let’s say garden. England is my garden. Will be my kingdom. So I have every right to complain about what ignorant philistines want to dump inside the Capability Brown manicured hedgerows of my garden kingdom! And your point that things that seem modern and offensive eventually become loved when they have aged is of no use to me. Much as I have seen many things become old and loved, very old and very loved (and very enduring and seemingly everlasting), I shall not live to see Rogers’ Chelsea Barracks redevelopment held up to some future whippersnapping architect as a model of classical decorum. And so, in the manner of all right-thinking people, I am proposing a design based on the once loathed and now beloved. And count yourself lucky, you fellow-traveller of modernist vandalism. Our first design was essentially a mock up of the Parthenon, only abandoned owing to the challenges of heating such an open plan – though I defy anyone, even the most ardent and socialist devotee of concrete, to say that timeless design would have been out of place anywhere, especially so few miles from its natural home, the British Museum.

And if, as you point out, the affordable housing question does become a problem because of my Georgian proposals, then let me remind you that my Principality is Wales. Surely there are mining towns and villages – and perhaps even some of the mine shafts themselves – that could be redeveloped effectively for those so poor and unfortunate as to be unable to afford a mock neo-Georgian apartment in Chelsea.

Do it.

Charles

PS: Biscuits?!

Letter 4

Vassal,

When I am come into my throne of state, beloved of my subjects, I will give thought to what was lost with the death of my great namesake Charles I, and will consult with the realm on this point: whom do they trust more, me or you? And though my sovereignty will no longer – so it is alleged – come from beyond this earth, nevertheless since vox populi, vox dei then the support of the people for me, a fixture in their lives, as opposed to you, a here today and dead tomorrow minister, will suffice for what on this issue we can call the position of finality. Of absolute finality.

Or to put it another way,

Bin the fucking plans, recreant!

AND BUY THE FUCKING BISCUITS!

Letter 5

My dear Minister,

I am delighted that you have come round to my point of view and are keen to help end the Rogers scheme. With your assistance behind the scenes, I am sure my planned letter to the Qataris will get them to see sense. (Might focus their minds to send one of the Mater’s thoroughbreds or whatever kind of bauble these people like. I’ll ask Andrew.)

By the way, I have decided that one of my first acts when I take on my humble kingly responsibility will be to redevelop the Tower of London. Traditional design. Traditional purpose. Hoped you might advise me on how to make my dream a reality. After all, I’m sure you will want to be one of those people who help to plan, build and run the Tower rather than those who just visit it - for extended stays.

As ever,

Charles

PS: Delighted you’ve taken an order of the biscuits. I know they’re a bit more expensive, but they’re so much more tasty, so much more divine. Right?

Being against Votes for Women does not make me any less Liberal

Mon, 15 Oct 2012 07:29:00 -0400

Hello! Here in Smolensk butcher shop, Student Arkady has brought us letter from Times of London, 15 October 1912.

Votes for women? I already do!

Sir,

Female Suffrage is not one of those issues that conveniently divide into left and right. There are a small number of Conservatives who, despite belonging to a party whose official position is to doubt whether women are actually human, have been brow-beaten by their virago wives into tacit support for women’s votes in the interests of quieter evenings at the bridge club. And there are a number of Liberals who oppose the vote, in the teeth of their party’s admission that women are indeed some kind of addendum to homo sapiens, albeit, for some, an ill-considered and highly regrettable one, and consequent concession that women should have the right to vote, once they have achieved some kind of social and accordingly moral consequence, say at the age of 85.

One such am I.

Now it should be understood that my opposition to the machinations of Mrs Pankhurst and her associates does not stem from a fundamental repudiation of the status of women per se. In fact, I am somewhat in the van of my party on this matter. I will concede, almost without qualification, that women are indeed human, rational, possessed of developing brains and, to the best of my knowledge, probably fully sentient and conscious. My opposition springs from the very nature of voting itself.

For to vote is to choose.

It is to spare women this responsibility that I would withhold the vote from them. Men, and especially those who govern and set the limits upon what is to be debated, determining what are sound and arguable positions, and what are not, are fulfilled, their baser needs already met, in standing, in wealth, in comfort, yes, even in the satisfactions of the body. Men are experienced in the world and its affairs. Men are capable of distinguishing between their immediate desires and the greater good. Men vote accordingly with objectivity and the interests of all in plain view. Yet women, untutored in the office and responsibility of voting, unused, of course, even to the rule of their households, their inheritance, their financial affairs, and unschooled in the government of their bodies and their lusts, let alone the government of a free people, might incline towards base and selfish motives in their choices at the ballot box.

Now it is plain from a number of recent publications, notably emanating from the decadent and cosmopolitan parlours of the Austro-Hungarian empire, that women, after millennia of oblivion on the matter, have started to discover that they possess bodies. Let me be clear. I am not absolutely opposed to this development and am advised by some of my peers, especially frequenters of Madam Jojo’s, that there may be collateral benefits for men. But to step from this emergent, and necessarily immature, ill-developed and partial female insight – for after all, do not most women still rely for their knowledge of their duties and position in these matters on the warm and tender lectures of their husbands upon their wedding nights, and would not most prefer it to remain so? – to step from this, I say, to a situation where women might cast their votes on matters affecting personal, congressional and familial morality, is too sudden a development. Let us prudently withhold it from the fair sex until such time as they have caught up with men on these matters - necessarily and regrettably, owing to the lateness of their awakening, many centuries hence.

Why, I recently heard a woman say that it was an unjust and unlawful intrusion upon the intercourse of persons that employers continued to discriminate against women whose practices had led to them rearing illegitimate children out of wedlock and that parliament should vote to prevent this. She then went on to speak of practices attributed to the poet Lesbia – which, to be sure, I cannot believe exist outside the realms of fancy and must regret that the conversation has haunted my dreams recurrently since with its grosser images – and even construed as “tyrannous” the prohibitions against the sodomitic practices of the ancient Greeks inscribed in our just laws. There speaks one, I thought, who has not endured the necessary training for dispassion in public life of an English public school. There all vices are tasted, then judiciously repressed in icy showers, then confined to the places they belong, the back streets, far from the gaze of all, to the protection of women’s innocency.

It is not for nothing that in our glorious history, we have placed above women (and uxorious and effeminate men) a race of male prelates to counsel on these matters. (And though I am myself no Roman, it is enviable among the Catholics that their clerisy of the good and true is one of virginal and pure men, who speak therefore on the business of the flesh without any contingent interest, lost as they are among the divine fragrances of their churches and the smiling faces of their choirboys.)

It is accordingly right, at least for the foreseeable future, that on those same rare occasions when issues of interpersonal conduct, of procreation and the flesh, intrude upon our great national business, it shall be men, sent to parliament by men, who shall determinate. For notwithstanding the growth of women’s interest in the wretched business of carnality, what grave risk there is that curiosity shall kill the cat, or rather the innocent Catherine and the luminous Kitty.

Moreover, even the humdrum and routine business of a parliament would suffer from the obtrusion of the fair ones. Let us conceive of circumstances in which the vote were conferred on a lady. And let us imagine her voting on a matter of foreign policy. She, being unversed in the subtleties of Belgian neutrality, but having modest enough literacy to read some ill-advised pamphlet, might incline her vote towards the Peace faction. This would see us overrun by the murderous Hun, whose violence would lead to acts of brutality, horror and death, and worse, rapine perpetrated on our very lady, oh so well intentioned! What a hideous consequence of miscegenated Germano-English, Saxon-Anglo-Saxon offspring she would then be left with. Too late then the ballot box! For no decision voted for through ballot boxes and enacted by parliamentarians could ever prevent the birth of this same child of violence into the world of men, to the shame of the woman and disfigurement of our people. Too late, too late, laments our now cowed and lowly stooping Amazon, too late to vote for the War faction (whose brave deployment in Flanders and in France of our unrivalled armies, with their modern militarism and glorious leadership, will see the Kaiser swiftly and almost bloodlessly routed from the field).

As even that well known advocate of women’s rights, the late lamented Lord Christopher of Contramundum, who was so much the defender of women as to aver that they should at once quit the music hall and desist from comical entertainments to avoid the opprobrium consequent upon their not being funny, yes, as even such a redoubtable defender of women as this same figure did say of exercising the vote: it could not be done “without stopping hearts and breaking bones”.

It is for this reason that I declare that should the vote ever be granted women, I will undertake to exercise it for my wife and my daughters. For though some will argue that they know what they are about, I know that they are chaste. They are my superiors. They are innocents. Their purity elevates them high above me. I would have them stay so for as long as the march of modernity permits. But their pure superiority disqualifies them from voting. For if they should vote on matters that seem to concern them, but upon which they are ultimately ignorant, they would lose their innocent advantages, become befuddled, incapable of seeing reason, and so would make decisions selfishly, to their detriment and the detriment of others. And so, though no friend to reaction, I will side with reaction, in the liberal cause, to defend our women, and their unintended victims, from themselves.

Best form of defence

Tue, 09 Oct 2012 10:16:00 -0400

Hello! Here in Smolensk butcher shop, we welcome Chris Grayling suggestion people should be able defend own home against intruder by use disproportionate force.

Local oligarch Big Oleg particularly welcome this. He has test Smolensk law in this area for years. When his operation expand to London, he need know courts on his side. Especially as he has amass great personal fortune and many precious thing, so is plenty huge target for petty thieving.

It all begin with rival gangleader, Big Viktor, who found dead at Oleg home. Post mortem find Viktor suffer single blow to head. Oleg testify in court that he encounter Viktor breaking and entering with view of steal Oleg precious Damien Hirst sculpture, ironical masterpiece, The Impossibility of Anyone in Their Right Mind Buying This, which look like – and indeed is – goat turd in formaldehyde. He wrestle with Viktor and in struggle Viktor bang head against solid platinum monkey wrench Oleg keep with other artworks in his gallery. Prosecution say this ridiculous. Viktor was invite by Oleg for meeting and in any case he have no motive for burglary, since he got great taste in art. But jury acquit Oleg on ground he use reasonable force.

Then same thing happen to Big Viktor brother, Big Vadim. Circumstances same, only this time Vadim found attempting rob Oleg club, The Happy Kalashnikov, in search of Oleg money, collection of rare Welsh vodkas and (fully licensed) tactical nuclear weapon. And also this time manner of death different.

Vadim was found dead by crucifixion.

Defence team argue this seem reasonable to Oleg at time. After all, he religious man, and it only three months after Holy Week, so cross was on his mind, and he just did what seem natural. Prosecution had threaten put him away for this, but atmosphere change in court when Oleg asked his name and address. He recite his own, that of judge, prosecuting counsel, jury, and all their family. This prove to everyone Oleg good Smolensk man and he acquit. In sum up, judge make legal history. He say Oleg justify in do what he felt right at time, even if afterwards it look disproportionate.

We happy for Oleg, especially as he continue need protection. New legal interpretation not stop attempt by rivals to assail his property. But fortunately law protect Oleg when he deal with burglars in various vigorous ways that seem proportionate to him at time. Big Grigori found in Oleg blender. Big Misha in Oleg fridge. Big Lev drowned in Oleg toilet. Court even back him using “retrospective disproportionality discount” when Oleg feel it reasonable to remove burglar from his property to other locations. Big Karlov shot sixteen times then thrown in Old Smolensk Canal. Big Goran considerately mailed to his family members (some in St Petersburg, some in Vladivostok). Big Volkovsky found in various pies throughout Russia.

Eventually, however, Oleg start fear existing protections not sufficient, especially against those who plan do more than steal some stuff. “Big Denisov people going hit me Pavel. Take everything. I know it. They can do it. Easy. All his hoods need is 45 minutes notice from Denisov and then I’m – well, then he take everything.” So Oleg decide test Smolensk courts once more. He send his bodyguard Gleb to deal with threat. Denisov head found three day later in bed of his favourite horse. At Gleb murder trial, everyone gasp when he say he acting under Oleg instructions. Oleg call to witness stand and confirm this. Then he produce dossier, which show detail of Big Denisov plan take everything by force: Oleg’s corned beef empire, homes, yachts, submarines, his shares in Hamilton Academicals, even Oleg’s solid gold Hasselhoff Collection juke box. Presiding judge ask why Oleg, fearing Denisov attack, not just call police, and ask them send couple of inspectors round to investigate claim against Denisov. Oleg say yes that looked good after event, but in act pre-emptive against threat, his behaviour, though disproportionate in retrospect, seem right to him at time. Judge then seek expert legal opinion from across globe, including UK. On advice of British judge Lord Hutton, he accept Oleg argument and acquit him.

Since then, Oleg has been adequately protect by Smolensk courts. They now accept as wholly explicable all many death and disappearance of those intending to break into Oleg home, steal his stuff, conduct industrial espionage against his empire – or even, if it can be credit, harm Oleg himself – as well as death of their potentially vengeful associates, extended families and friends. (And authorities also agree that fact that business interests, property, networks and goons of all these late would-be pilferers end up in Oleg hands is entirely separate matter.)

So Oleg happy with Grayling announcement today, especially as it help him defend any art he buy in London from Yellowist attack. He also sure Grayling next step will be development of UK’s own pre-emptive justice principle. Indeed, Oleg believe British may be able go further. Crime in your country mostly commit by poorer people. But they not always easy to find. This in part is fault of your historical system of allow poor and wealthy live near each other in cities. Criminals from poor background blend into crowd of respectable middling and wealthy. But sensible cap on housing benefit, enforce by Grayling old welfare department, mean poor must move from these place. Soon they end up in exclusive, underclass-only sink estates. Now these areas plenty likely be location of worst thieves and criminals. So, under new protections Grayling could create, any property owning middle class person wounding, maiming or killing someone from these undesirable postcodes would be automatically acquit. Court would assume, even without hearing testimony, that their seemingly disproportionate assault is responsible pre-emptive protection against future burglary of irreplaceable valuables, like XBox, DVD player or signed copies of complete works of Jeremy Clarkson.

And state itself could support this. If enough home owners fill in petition on Directgov website calling for action against vicious, thieving gangs based on particular estates, government could have them destroyed, possibly using guided missile or drone attack. Whatever is verdict of history, giving order to deal with these criminal parasites will feel right at the time.

Osborne Interview

Mon, 08 Oct 2012 06:22:00 -0400

Hello! Here in Smolensk butcher shop, we hear interview George Osborne give for BBC Smolensk this morning, ahead of Tory Party Conference speech. Here extract.

Osborne: …The basic point is that the policy is now supported by hard evidence. I don’t like the findings any more than you at the BBC do. But according to Treasury research, the truth is that poor people are genetically different from rich ones. The rich work harder the more money you give them. The poor work harder the less you give them. There’s simply no getting away from that. And it’s not just this scientific proof of the problem we’ve got with these feckless, er, feckless…

Interviewer: Plebs?

Osborne: That’s a nasty term and not one I would use. Especially as the new research uses the more technical term “scum”. No. There is also the question of practical incentives. Take the Universal Credit…

Interviewer: Yes. It has been suggested that you are at odds with Iain Duncan Smith over this.

Osborne: Absolutely untrue. Iain and I talk about this all the time. All I’m doing is improving on his ideas. You see, Iain wants to remove the marginal rates of tax that stop work paying. So do I. But critics say that even the UC doesn’t do that fully. And they’re right. So my plan is simple. Set a new rate for benefits and the marginal rates will disappear.

Interviewer: What rate?

Osborne: About nought pounds, nought pence.

Interviewer: But is that fair?

Osborne: Fair? Let me tell you what’s not fair. Already, the top 10% of earners in our country pay 55% of income tax. That means that hardworking City financiers, management consultants, a struggling interior designer or party planner, property developers, trust fund beneficiaries, Kirsty Allsopp, pornography barons, newspaper proprietors…

Interviewer: You said that…

Osborne: …stockbrokers, tax lawyers, hereditary landowners, Ashley Cole, Libor manipulators, all these people who are so vital to our nation and our economy, are already massively taxed in relation to their huge efforts and worth, when compared with, say, teachers, nurses, cleaners, porters, waste management operatives, street sweepers, bricklayers, road surfacers, shop assistants, who, important though they are, are all very replaceable and could earn as much as a bond market trader, and pay their own fair share of tax, if only they took on several more 40 hour per week jobs on top of the comparatively straightforward one they already do.

Interviewer: But…

Osborne: And can it be fair that there are huge numbers, swarms even, of single mothers, astonishingly fertile, producing up to 25 babies each, every one to a different workless father, men who get their needs serviced for free – or rather at the expense of the hard working hedge fund managers’ taxes? Shouldn’t these women give something back? Can it be right for them to be asleep in their beds, with the blinds down, lights out, while workers are going to their jobs?

Interviewer: But what if the people with their blinds down work nights?

Osborne: Did I say it was morning? No. And that’s my point. They should work nights. I don’t want socially responsible estate agents seeing blinds closed and the lights off at 9am. But I don’t want hardworking nightshift workers, getting up to go and assist tireless City traders in need of support and relief, seeing that at 11pm either. Why, I know one young lady I’ve worked with very closely, who gets up and is on the job all night to pay for her Higher National Diploma in the Culture of Poles and Laps.

Interviewer: Ethnography?

Osborne: Practical, hands on stuff. That’s the spirit we should demand from those who rut and spawn unproductively behind their blinds. We need them to put this talent - for some of them are talent - to good use. I know a lot about these night shift workers. I speak for them. They oil our economy, lubricate its creaking joints and massage its tensions and stiffness. You want growth, I want growth, your average hedge fund manager wants growth. Night shift workers get straight down on the problem, stimulate things, get everything moving, flowing. Lay-a-beds rub people up the wrong way. Night shift workers rub them up the right way. And it’s just the sort of strong business model I want to encourage. The workforce gets shares in the value of the business - albeit fluctuating on a daily basis - from their employer, in exchange for having no rights, say, status, dignity, legal protection or self-respect. So my message to Britain is take up thy bed and walk. The streets. In search of work. That’s the trick. Or tricks. Then by all means pull the blinds down during the day. Or the night. But keep the lights on. All the lights. The big red ones that say Britain’s Wide Open for Business. And you can leave your hat on.

Interviewer: You said earlier that in exchange for agreeing your £10bn benefit cut, the Liberal Democrats had convinced you to target the rich next.

Osborne: That’s absolutely right. And Nick, Vince, Danny and I are all on the same page here. So we’ll be bringing forward a Mansion Tax.

Interviewer: That’s a surprise. I thought you’d ruled it out.

Osborne: Let me explain. Now although I’ve said that the rich are already massively overtaxed and can only be incentivised by more money, people do seem to want them to pay more. And there is a group of them who seem to be willing to do so. So I’ll be imposing a 60% annual levy on the net worth of all homes valued at more than 1 million euros…

Interviewer: 1 million euros…

Osborne: Provided they are in France…

Interviewer: Wha…

Osborne: And owned by French people.

Interviewer: You mea…

Osborne: Like I say they don’t seem to mind. It’s more of a Chateau Tax really.

Interviewer: And if they do mind?

Osborne: There’s nothing to stop them copying the many people who benefit from Britian’s deregulated 24 hour economy by living and coming here.

Interviewer: You mean coming and living here.

Osborne: That too.

Interviewer: George Osborne, thank you.

Ode to Autumn

Thu, 04 Oct 2012 07:48:00 -0400

Hello! Here in Smolensk butchr shop we join British friends as they celebrate National Poetry Day. And as treat, local egghead Student Arkady has produce fine new poem.

Ode to Autumn

(After Keats)

Season of pissed-up Conference activists!
Kate’s bosom veiled by the “maturing” Sun.
Advising Nick Clegg how he’ll best insist
There’s fruit in deals he’s struck with Cameron,
Then say he’s sorry about his student boast,
And blame on Labour’s shiteness all his flaw.
To outshine Gord, e’en pump up Hazel Blears
Without cheat’s lecturn: now Ed’s budding more,
And still more, later flowers for his host,
Until they think his brother’s backers toast,
While Summer Games instruct their hammy cheers.

Lo! DfT clerks fall afoul of law.
“Some pleb?” asks Mitchell. ”Seek!” says Pat and finds
Train franchise bid rules on his ministry floor.
Thy hair tuft-ruffled by the Estuary winds,
While on a half-baked airport plan thou speak’st,
Roused all the Right cry “Boris!”, while some look,
Scarce thy Mayoral achievement find, and glower.
And sometimes through Lord Oakshott Vince thou leak’st:
“Ready’s my baldy head if Clegg’s forsook!”
Meanwhile the gutter press, with nervous look,
Await Lord L’s last jottings, hour by hour.

Where are the rows of Spring? Ay, where those same?
Think yet on them, thou hast still budget gloom, -
For bright red lines damn the now-dying claim
That torching public spend makes fiscal room.
Then every baleful liar ‘mong fat cats mourns,
To find his precepts shallow, every one,
And sinks he, for, says OBR, “Growth’s slain”.
Whose fly-blown plan’s now beat? Os – silly! – bourne’s.
What will Dave sing, what George? For Clegg is done,
And Red Ed whistles now with Conference won,
While damp sad Tories gather ‘neath Brum’s rain.

The Modern Leader's Speech

Tue, 02 Oct 2012 06:34:00 -0400

Hello! Here in Smolensk butcher shop, we await Ed Miliband Speech and think how hard it is be Modern Leader.

When I in Smolensk Academy in 1970s, my teacher Professor Miliutin used despise subjectivity. “Where is your evidence?” he shout and threaten we all be purge. Before he was purge. He often say “There is no ‘I think’ or “I feel” or other adolescent nonsense in good essay! You want feel something? Go and feel your Ivan!” And this used be true of politician. Left or right. They try persuade people by argument, underpin by evidence and logic. Or so Miliutin dream. Actually even he start have doubt after scandal of Pentagon Papers. And after his one meeting with Leonid Brezhnev. He tell professor, when very drunk, that “Lenin and Stalin are singing with the angels”.

But now, Modern Leader must make virtue of subjectivity. Down with evidence! Down with Enlightenment! Up with hunch and feeling and intuition and personal experience and subjectivty and “trust me” and all other things which led to glorious Western triumph in Iraq. For imagine what happen if Modern Leader say, “Today, I’m not going to talk about me. I’ll talk about issues, things, facts, reason. I’ll make arguments about stuff that exists outside me and you can test them with facts and logic.” Press is have day in field! “Well,” say Nick Robinson, “Lots of policy in Modern Leader’s speech there, but I’m joined by Modern Leader’s press spokesperson. Modern Leader’s press spokesperson, what about the real Modern Leader?”

Because Modern Leader now expect to make “deeply personal” speech. Imagine problem this cause in past.

Imagine “deeply personal” speech by Clement Attlee. “I like tea, my pipe and people who don’t talk about themselves.”

Or “deeply personal” speech by John Major: “I like warm beer, cricket, plain crisps, traffic cones, and that thing Edwina does when she’s on top.”

Or “deeply personal” speech by Asquith: “I don’t really enjoy being PM and try to get it over with as quickly as possible. I knock off at 4.30 and go and play bridge.”

Or “deeply personal” speech by Wilson or Churchill: “There’s no better preparation for a Commons debate than drinking a massive bottle of scotch.”

Or “deeply personal” speech by Hugh Gaitskell: “I like dancing, jazz, and shagging Ian Fleming’s wife.”

Or “deeply personal” speech by JFK: “I like two at once, wherever possible, on the Oval Office carpet, while reading a brief on Cuba.”

But new approach is great development. Seeing how much Modern Leader is like you - never mind arguments about silly things like competing ideological interpretations of elusive and philosophically intractable “reality” - or at least hearing how much they just like you in what they say, and politely ignoring swivel eyed determination they show while try convince you bombing Baghdad make sense by liberally pepper speech with “y’knows”: this is only way you can be sure you can trust them. Trust them with your lives. So like their lives. Trust them to make good decisions.

So on politics course at modern Smolensk Academy, local egghead Student Arkady has been try distill essence of Modern Leader speech. Here result:

Modern Leader: I went to Ikea last week. I went to the Ikea cafe to buy a mochachino. And while I was in that queue, among many other people, ordinary people, like you, ordinary voters, buying a self-assembly recliner and queueing for a mochachino, I learnt a valuable lesson. I went straight from Ikea and wrote this speech. Because I say to all the people, men and women, black and white, rich and poor, struggling for a quality mochachino in the Ikea cafe queue: I’m just like you. And when I go home, assemble my Ikea ergonomic recliner, I think of you doing the same, wondering where the allen key is, struggling with the diagram. Well let me say today: The mochachino revolution has begun! And what evidence do I have for any of this, that it’s right to start a mochachino revolution for all who want quality self-assembly furniture and their mochachino done just how they want it? It’s who I am. Trust me. I’ve had a mochachino too. Just like you. You want someone who drinks the same drink, buys the same furniture and uses the same level of analysis as you. My mochachino mission is to prove to you today that I’ve never had rational thoughts, never attended a policy symposium, never asked for more evidence in my life. I don’t look at facts or perspectives. Instead, like you, I stare into the dregs of my mochachino and staring back at me, as always, is the answer. Trust yourself. Be yourself. Make your choices. Instinct. What you want. What I want. What we want. And I say to the mochachino mockers, the enemies of progress, the forces of conservatism, your days are numbered. Cos it isn’t talking about ourselves that got us in this mess, saying me. No that’s not right. We didn’t say ME enough! So what I say today is simple. Me. ME. Me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me. MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

[Standing ovation]

Nick Robinson: Well we’d criticised the Modern Leader for not saying enough about himself in the past, but today he delivered. With me is Modern Leader’s press secretary. Modern Leader’s press secretary, lots about Modern Leader, but what about policy?

Modern leader’s press secretary: There’s no pleasing some people.

So we wish Ed every luck with deeply personal speech today. And we understand Downing Street also send their best wishes. Volga News carry quote: “We wish Ed luck with his personal speech and look forward to him introducing his recently legtimised children and the mother of his former bastards.”

Westminster School Apologises

Wed, 19 Sep 2012 18:53:00 -0400

Hello! Here in Smolensk butcher shop, we read in Volga News (UK edition) apology by famous English Public School. Transcript below.

Westminster School Apology

We make a commitment to all parents, and to the country, that we will raise no cads and bounders among the pupils in our care. But that was a mistake. It was a pledge made with the best of intentions – but we shouldn’t have made it when we we weren’t absolutely sure we could deliver.

There’s no easy way to say this: we made Nick Clegg, we didn’t expel the sh*t – and for that we’re sorry.

When you’ve made a mistake you should apologise. But more importantly - most important of all – you’ve got to learn from your mistakes. And that’s what we will do. We will never again write on a school report, unless a pupil’s absolutely clear about our meaning, the words “Promising - keep it up”.

Volga News has learnt that the scandal runs deeper. Westminster made its pledge to produce morally upright pupils even as staff representatives on the Board of Governors were preparing to drop it. They feared that Clegg’s presence at the school - difficult to undo given his parents’ existing commitments on tuition fees and maintenance - made the promise unachievable.

In other news, sources close to the Deputy Prime Minister have already apologised for his apology. Clegg himself is expected to make a further statement on the issue within hours. Speculation is mounting over whether he will pledge to make no future apologies, apologise for future promises, pledge to make no future pledges, apologise for pending apologies, or, in a bold and potentially game changing move, simply tell students to go and f*ck themselves.

Let's do Vince Cable again!

Fri, 14 Sep 2012 05:36:00 -0400

Hello! Here in Smolensk butcher shop, we recover from last night Rocky Horror tribute event at Happy Kalashnikov Bar.

And as UK announce new industrial policy this week, local egghead Student Arkady perform special version of most famous song from show.

Doin’ Vince Cable

(To this famous tune >http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4_4aWTAkCFY)

It’s astounding
I’m still heeded.
Madness takes its toll.
But listen closely.
For a little bit longer
l’ll speak from my arsehole.

I remember speeches at Conference,
Drinking with beardies.
Then the Tories would hit me,
And Dave’s boys would be calling:

Let’s do Vince Cable again!
Mash our beliefs up again!

Say “Beecroft, No!” for the left
Cut worker rights for the right.
Make a small business bank,
But keep its spending tight!
With health and safety cu-uts,
Though you know they’re just inane-ane-ane-ane-ane-ane

Let’s do Vince Cable again!
Let’s screw his mind up again!

It’s so dreary!
Oh somebody free me,
So you can’t see me, no, not at all.
On Strictly Come Dancing,
I would rather be prancing,
Well secluded, from you all.

Had a bit of a mind flip,
Saw my halo and mask slip.
And nothing can ever be the same.
I was once a sensation,
Now I’m under sedation.

Let’s do Vince Cable again!
Speak contradictions again!

Well I was sitting at my desk
Just a-having a rest
When Ed Miliband sent me some evil texts
He shook-a me up, he took me by surprise.

The David picked it up
With Ming and Fallon’s eyes.
He shouted at me,
Said I mustn’t change
I meant nothing.
Never would again.

Let’s do Vince Cable again!
Let’s talk some cobblers again!

Say it’s growth for the left
But spend f-all for the right.
Slash redundancy pay,
Wealth tax nowhere in sight!
But it’s your lost statu-us,
That really drives you insa-a-a-a-a-a-ane.

Let’s do Vince Cable again.
Let’s flush his cred down the drain!

This Vince Cable tribute could be new sensation in UK. But Student Arkady warn not to try in your office. Under Cable growth plan, dancing at work is grounds for dismissal.

Shapps!

Mon, 03 Sep 2012 07:07:00 -0400

Hello! Here in Smolensk butcher shop, we excite Tory Housing Minister Grant Shapps is tip from promotion.We remember time Student Arkady ask me and Yuri help him sing Shapps tribute song. We do karaoke in park at local Smolensk blaxploitation night to famous song by Isaac Hunt. Or is it Jeremy Hunt? What you mean Arkady they same? Huh, what Yuri? Hayes. Of course. Jeremy Hayes. Not Jeremy? Of course not. When they do karaoke to famous song. By Melvyn Hayes. What?

Shapps!

(To this theme > http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cEaRCAcfOEQ)

[During extended intro we dance out onto open field, singing ”PLAGIARISE, PLAGIARISE, PLAGIARISE - NOW!” & “FOLLOW, FOLLOW, FOLLOW, FOLLOW, UN-FOLL-OW!” & “I’M NOT MICHAEL GREEN, IT’S SHAPPS NOT GREEN, I’M GRANT SHAPPS ME” in time to riffs and brass and honking horn. Arkady is dress like Eric Pickles. With Afro wig. My costume is David Cameron, but with brown jacket, cream polo neck, tight, Ivan-cramping trousers and revolver. Yuri outfit confuse. He tell me later it was montage of George Osborne and Natalie Rowe. But at time I think he dress like Pam Grier. Wearing Rowan Atkinson mask.]

Arkady: Who’s the bad Tory dick,
That net info thief, in charge of bricks?
Pavel and Yuri: SHAPPS!
A: You’re damned, right?

A: Who tells poor souls
To leave their slum for some other hole?
P&Y: SHAPPS!
A: Can they dig it?

A: Who’s the cat that won’t cough up
Though homelessness is on the up?
P&Y: SHAPPS!
A: Right wing.

A: They say this cat Shapps had frontal lob-
P&Y: Shut your mouth!
A: But he’s talking out his ass.
P&Y: Better kiss it.

A: It’s a complicated brief,
But no one’s built less housing since Macmillan.
P&Y: GRANT SHAPPS!

[Yuri and Arkady dance around until I sing DITHERING, DITHERING, DITHERING - STOP! then knock them down - BABADABADA BABADABADA BAA BABADABADA BABADABADA BAA - and build mock up of Tesco from used corned beef tins on top of them and field.]

Smolensk Sun Says

Thu, 23 Aug 2012 21:41:00 -0400

Hello! Here in Smolensk butcher shop, we get exclusive justification in Smolensk edition of The Sun of paper decision to publish naked picture of Prince Harry. Here transcript (translated back into appropriate English by local egghead Student Arkady).

Smolensk Sun Says…

Today we’ve published pictures of Britain’s very own Prince Harry. In the buff. And very buff you look too, Your Royal HIGHNESS! We’re not invading your privacy. We’re not degrading you, sir. What could be better for your image with our salt of the earth readers - they love you, they do! - than being well fit without kit in their fave daily? You were big news before. But how BIG are you now? Hazza the Wazza! You look so fab we even thought about putting a comment by you on your news alongside Your Nakedness. Like you were Lisa, 18, from Dagenham. You know, “I think The Sun’s decision to publish a candid images of me today shows that David Dinsmore is a worthy inheritor to the mantle of such greats as Ben Bradlee at the Washington Post. David is now the world’s most respected advocate of a fearless, dignified and crusading press. A press that stands up to tyranny and oppression, by exposing, laying bare, unveiling, denuding and divesting the TRUTH. As the Roman satirist Juvenal might have put it, sine libertate promulgare tabulae nudae principorum, libertas cadet.”

For that’s the point. We’re publishing shocking NAKED pictures to protect FREEDOM. Our freedom. Your freedom. The freedom of the world. Because if we can’t print these pictures, what next? We hesitated, of course. Under the horrific Leveson tyranny - a tyranny that already stops us even thinking about hacking the phones of abducted children to bring you the stories YOU want - we hesitated. But then we realised. If we don’t publish these pictures, how will we know we are free? Free to uncover the next Watergate, the next Jonathan Aitken, the next Cash for Access. Not that we broke those stories. We serve YOU, our readers. And we know what you want. Naked pictures. But we also know when you look at today’s crown jewels you smile. Because you know you’re safe from oppression. And when you look at one of our gorgeous Page 3 stunners, you say “Phwoarr, look at the lovely freedom-protecting bazungas on that!” Because in stripping some busty Basildon babe’s bouncing baps, or uncovering the choicest cuts of Royal meat and two veg, we protect the freedom you know we’d need to investigate something serious we’ve decided you’ve decided matters.

So that’s what we’re doing today. We’re not publishing a nob’s knob at half lob to please the mob. We’re defending the dignity and liberty of the Fourth Estate. Your Fourth Estate. We’re defending YOU.

And we are fearless and will go EVEN FURTHER. Tomorrow we start our new campaign: Kit Off for Freedom! To show we aren’t cowed by Leveson’s attempts to stop us insinuating that strange landlords are probably murderers, in the way we know you want us to, we’re encouraging YOU, our readers, to send us pictures of yourselves. In the NUDE! We want to see you in the bath, on your sunbed, at the doctors, straddling the lavvy.

And we’re taking the lead! Yes, over the coming weeks Soaraway Sun editors and reporters - past and present - will appear as you’ve never seen them before. Wow! Davids Dinsmore and Yelland, with Trevor Kavanagh and Toby Young: Mooning across the Newsroom! (Or is that their gleaming and glistening heads?!) Andy Coulson massaging Oil of Olay on James Murdoch’s ribbed and rippling chest. Shaun Custis and Richard Littlejohn sharing the Lynx Tempest Shower Gel. Look! Rebekah’s left the Goody Proctor dress at home today and she’s flopping out of Wapping! Has Kelvin lost his Calvins? And in this week’s Sun on Sunday Secretary of State for Education Michael Gove explains why he’s happy that our full page spread of - guess who? - our very own Rupe showing his bendy dong to Wendi Deng means we’re part of a press free enough from meddling regulation to investigate his private emails - if we ever decide that’s what you want us to do.

The Sun: Rubbing Foam on the Naked Torso of Truth Since 1964.

[And inside tomorrow’s paper, Who’s that giving Armitage Shanks a golden shower? It’s Number One QC, Robert Jay!]

Exchanging Policies with Policy Exchange

Mon, 20 Aug 2012 06:37:00 -0400

Hello! Here in Smolensk butcher shop, we very excite by new report from Cameronist think tank Policy Exchange.

Today, Policy Exchange say councils should sell any social housing they got in expensive areas, build new estates in poor area, and relocate tenants to these new place.

Smolensk egghead, Student Arkady explain. “The only true authority, Pavel, is the market. It determines your right to live. Now let us say you have lived in an area of East London all of your life. Then suddenly the state decides to build some elite athletics facilities in your midst. House prices rise. Since you have done nothing to affect this one way or another, but instead have stayed within your home, passively nursing the social grievances which stem from social, educational, familial, representational and environmental deprivation, you immediately forfeit the right to live in your home. You are now too poor to remain in the place where you’ve been appallingly accommodated for the whole of your life. This is clear. Extremely clear. So clear Grant Shapps understands it. And has called it “blindingly obvious”. Or “obviously blinding”. It amounts to the same thing. So you have to move.”

“Where to?” I ask.

“Well, if the council sells your home to fund new build, it must obviously ensure that you cannot again make the same mistake again of letting someone regenerate your area, push up house prices and require your further relocation. So, they will need to construct new estates in places where no one wants to invest. On old landfill sites, near nuclear waste disposals, in the sea, up Eric Pickles’ alimentary canal. Anywhere in the North.”

My assistant Yuri and me is debate this point after Arkady leave. For there flopside of Policy Exchange position. You lose right to home when house prices go up in your area because you sit by passive and allow. So logically you keep right to your home if you stop investment in neighbourhood and depress house prices. So, we decide exchange policy with Policy Exchange. And our policy is this: tenants can keep their homes if they prevent economic growth in their area by, for example:

Rioting. Burn down all shops and businesses in an area and just watch house prices collapse
Agreeing to mass relocations of sex offenders to their estate
Adopting similar open-door policies to drugs dealers, handguns and knives
Daubing daily their otherwise desirable system-built warrens of dampness, cockroaches and subsidence with fresh faeces
Rebranding, with signs like “Proud of Our Hartlepool” - even if estate is in Kensington and Chelsea

We offer this idea to brilliant Policy Exchange Director (and Harpo Marx lookalike) Neil O’Brien and also to Grant Shapps. Surely because it blindingly obvious, or obviously blinding, it be adopt as policy by UK government soon.

Like a Virgin

Wed, 15 Aug 2012 15:25:00 -0400

Hello! Here in Smolensk butcher shop, we learn Quentin Tarantino has today release new version of opening scene of Reservoir Dogs. Here is transcript.

Mr. Brown: Let me tell you what ‘Like a Virgin’ is about. It’s all about a girl who fucks a guy who’s a big dick. The entire procurement. It’s a metaphor for big dicks.
Mr. Blonde: No, no. It’s about a minister who is very vulnerable. She’s been fucked over a few times. Then she meets the First guy who’s really sensitive…
Mr. Brown: Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa… Time out Greening. Tell that fucking bullshit to the regulators.
Joe: Arriva… Who the fuck is Arriva?
Mr. Brown: ‘Like a Virgin’ is not about this sensitive minister who who beats some shyst seller. That’s what ‘East Coast’ was about, now, granted, no argument about that.
Mr. Orange: Which one was ‘East Coast’?
Nice Guy Eddie: ‘East Coast’ was a big ass hit for Adonis. I don’t even follow this National Express flops shit, and I’ve at least heard of ‘East Coast’.
Mr. Orange: Look, asshole, I didn’t say I ain’t heard of it. All I asked was who’d Andy let go? Excuse me for not being the world’s biggest Nat Ex fan.
Mr. Blonde: Personally, I can do without franchises.
Mr. Blue: I liked the early stuff. You know, ‘Northern Spirit’, ‘Silverlink’ - but once they got into that ‘Connex South Eastern’ phase, I don’t know, I tuned out.
Mr. Brown: Hey, you guys are making me lose my… thought on trains here. I was saying something, what was it?
Joe: Oh, Arriva’s now this Deutsche thing, what’s its last name?
Mr White: What’s that?
Joe: I found this old operator list in a jacket I ain’t worn since the 90s. What was that name?
Mr. Brown: What the fuck was I talking about?
Mr. Pink: You said ‘East Coast’ was about a nice minister, a sensitive minister who cleans a nice mess, and that ‘Like a Virgin’ was a metaphor for big dicks.
Mr. Brown: Lemme tell you what ‘Like a Virgin’ is about. It’s all about this schmooze who thinks he’s a regular fuck machine, but he’s just a walking - day, night, afternoon - dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick.
Mr. Blue: How big a dick is that?
Mr. White: A cock.
Mr. Brown: Then one day he meets this Theresa Villiers mother and it’s like, whoa baby, I mean this cat’s now like Charles Bronson in the ‘Great Escape’, he’s crying in tunnels. Now, she’s giving this serious dick hassle and he’s feeling something he ain’t felt since forever. Pain. Pain.
Joe: Anglia? Anglia Who?
Mr. Brown: It hurts him. It shouldn’t hurt him, you know, he should know you win some you lose some in procurements by now, but when this Villiers doll fucks him it hurts. It hurts just like it did the first time he flopped. You see the pain is reminding a self-promotion machine what it once was like to be a business virgin. Hence, ‘Like a Virgin’.
Joe: Wrong?
Mr Brown. Right.

Konnolsky for Corby

Tue, 07 Aug 2012 06:57:00 -0400

Hello! Here in Smolensk butcher shop, we salute another great proud day for British yesterday.

No. I not mean further triumph in Olympics. After all, that be short live. (And good thing too. It clear from low-key coverage in UK media that many self-effacing Brit find all this acute embarrassment. Don’t worry! Gold rush result from elite sport get nearly £100m per year, as well as adequate supply of facilities in schools. As Coalition sell off sports fields and investment drain away, future sporting success be confine to rowing, shooting and horse, preserves of private educated kids. This recover true spirit of British mediocrity and allow real sporting character – stoical moaning about past glories – to flourish once again.)

And no, I not mean discovery that Olympics will make major contribution to George Osborne UK Economic Performance Reduction Strategy. As you know, when Osborne blame some factor for depress UK growth – Royal Wedding, Euro, previous Labour Government, direction of wind, late appearance of spring cuckoos – in secret he please. His strategy for recovery depend on smash British economic performance in short term. This approximate conditions of Golden Age of national life. Victoria era. It ensure great engine of capitalism, that drive poor to work hard to close differentials and rich to strive to maintain them, INEQUALITY, is optimise and can spread its benign contagion. So Osborne please. For despite propaganda of cheerleaders for Olympic bid, who claim positive impact of Games on economy, actual effect on tourism, cultural events and retail almost certainly be negative. Just like every other Olympics, ever since goats cheese and olive oil traders complaints about special VIP lanes on trans-Peloponnesian dirt track were recorded by Aristotle.

And I not mean glorious revelation that British banking just as important as it always was: discovery of huge dealings of Standard Chartered. US regulators will add to yesterday’s evidence today and reveal pressure applied by British bank to Liverpool FC (bank sponsor their shirts) to rehire porky, retired, defensive legend Neil Ruddock, so Standard Chartered could hide billions of laundered dollars in folds of his vast kit.

Yes, it certainly proud time for British. With sense of national belonging. Statisticians notice unusual statistical spike in British use of first person singular. As in “we won the heptathlon, we won the 10 000 metres, we won the women’s sculls, we tanked the London retail sector, we hid Iranian cash from the regulators”.

But what interest me is by far proudest boast of British today: “We’ve got our Coalition back”. Yes, Nick Clegg make nation proud by put Coalition back on track and concede death of Lords Reform.

As you know, Nick has be great proponent of Coalition Changes Everything Principle. Usually, when no party win election, coalition formed and pursue programme that comprise elements of participating party’s election manifestos in proportion to their electoral success. But UK Coalition apply new principle. It pursue programme containing policies not in either party manifesto – top down reorganisation of NHS, means testing child benefit, imposing benefit cap – and even policies contradicting both their pre-election positions – increasing VAT, for example. Coalition Changes Everything Principle allow privileged, elite educated adherents to spirit of Thatcher, like Cameron and Clegg, to make spending cuts, reduce state, stigmatise and punish poor for their part in economic downturn, and impose only tokenistic measures on big finance. A radical rightist agenda only hint at by Tories and rejected by Liberals before election. Implemented by bypassing inconvenience of true electoral scrutiny and dated democratic accountability. (Just like our benign oligarchs do in Russia!) Presence of Liberals in Coalition provide huge benefit for Cameron. Instead of be on sidelines with Labour dismissing cuts as reactionary, they inside government. This make opposition to cuts seem minority activity. And Liberals infuriate extreme social conservatives in Cameron own party. This make him look moderate.

But before summer recess, Clegg is be wobblement. Lib Dem activists, with their macramé handbags, militant veganism, sackcloth sandals and organically fertilised beards, very unhappy that in exchange for support cuts, U-turn on tuition fees and dilution of green policies, all they get is few amendments in Health Bill – some better grammar and syntax, and exchange of use of word competition for use of word choice. So they very angry when Tories unable deliver majority for thing that matter to them. Lords Reform.

Now I not know how important this was to Clegg. After all, if British people not understand logic of Coalition they might vote against him in Sheffield. Then he need Lords to get back into government. Through appointment. By Cameron. And Lords, as pre-democratic institution, with system of patronage and unrepresentative membership, show way for post-democratic reality of Coalition.

Whatever. It appear Clegg must try get Lords Reform to satisfy his party. Especially as Coalition start make few little tactical error. Pasties. Caravans. Charity tax. Budget. Reversal these small measure by Osborne seen as response to popular concern, not result of lobbying by Lib Dems inside Coalition. Activists uncomfortable party not able adopt natural position: flexible oppositionist populism, so brilliant exemplify by gold-medal winner in Olympic Freestyle Bandwagon Jumping, Simon Hughes. So they wonder if it time pull out of Coalition.

But Clegg has make brilliant coup. He agree death of Lords Reform. But has compensate his activists by say he oppose boundary change plans. Now this is annoy Cameron bit and backbenchers more. But again that useful. Anything that anger Therese Coffey is seen as moderation by British people. And so long as Clegg not want real change – like ask for pupil premium be made real by restoring pre-election levels of education funding, halt resource drain of Free Schools, insist removal of poorest from tax become effective through reinstate tax credits and scrap of benefit cap, propose VAT cut, insist work experience always paid, call for Health Bill repeal, can electronic surveillance plans, lead more constructive engagement on Euro crisis, end bonuses in nationalised banks, and demand immediate abolition of Eric Pickles, Grant Shapps and Sayeeda Warsi – then everything be fine and Cameron happy.

So. Impress by this reboot of Coalition, I have make big decision. Russian are popular in Britain. Our oligarchs are great source of your foreign exchange reserves. How wise are City of London and Premiership not to care too much about how money is made as long as it is money! So I have ask Smolensk oligarch Big Oleg to back my campaign to stand as Coalition candidate. In Corby.

Corby seat vacant for sad reason that MP Louise Mensch resign to devote more time to pressing needs and demands of herself. So I plan run in Corby on 5 point platform:

I will back the NHS with same fervour as Shirley Williams
I will reform House of Lords by let peers watch Countdown during sittings
I will end pie tax row by introduce incentives for any outlets that sell my Konnolsky hot meat products, especially assistant Yuri excellent goat bladder and otter cheese flan
I will be tough on vegetarianism and tough on the causes of vegetarianism
I will call for investment in Corby’s famous trouser press to turn it into a viable Trident replacement

Yes, I plan mount serious challenge. I announce my candidacy on my new social network platform. Forget Menshn. Say hello to Rushn!

And you will have notice I plan stand as Coalition candidate. And this for good reason. Nick Clegg effectively abolish Lib Dems yesterday and pave way for merger with Tories into new Coalition Party. I plan be first candidate of this organisation. And if it not possible get party approved in time for Corby poll, then I sure Nicky be plenty happy if I stand for party that sound most like Coalition and he has work so hard to benefit.

Conservatives.

Diamond, gold, silver, bronze, white

Mon, 30 Jul 2012 10:10:00 -0400

Hello! Here in Smolensk butcher shop, we very thankful to all friends who concern about my absence. This contrast with reaction my sons, who only just realise I been gone for almost month.

So where I been? Plenty excitement!

Over three week ago, Smolensk oligarch Big Oleg summon me his office in Happy Kalashnikov Bar.

“I want him Pavel,” he say. “Get me Diamond!” Oleg explain he want Bob Diamond, former CEO Barclays, to help him manage his returns to LICBOR, Legitimate Index of Corned Beef Of Russia. LICBOR is cartel. Producers quote price they offer consumer and publish aggregated mean. This govern sale corned beef commodity on open market. LICBOR vital to Oleg, Smolensk leading corned beef magnate.

“If I manage manipulate price, I can speculate against rivals destroy them and then take over the world!”

“World of corned beef. In Smolensk,” I suggest. Oleg look at me like I fool who not understand power of tinned goods.

So, I leave Yuri in charge shop, and travel UK with Smolensk egghead, Student Arkady. (Oleg pay for Arkady Smolensk Academy education – in exchange for repayment scheme where on graduation Arkady enter Oleg employ for 65 year term. He send Arkady with me to get practical work experience.) We evade UK Border Control plenty easy, disguise as consignment Theresa May shoes. We find Diamond plenty quick. He playing round of farewell no hard feelings golf with Mervyn King. We tell him about LICBOR proposal. But although he know about corned beef pricing, he not able help. “I already cut a LICBOR deal,” he say. “With Fray Bentos.” I ring Oleg and hold phone away from ear while he react with usual shouts and expletives he use to denounce hated Baxters-owned Uruguayo-Caledonian interlopers in Russian market. And it get worse when we tell him that though Diamond not available, King interested. “I am want grinder of organ, not idiot monkey!” he scream.

“So you want us come home?” I ask.

“No,” Oleg reply. “There something else you can do. You can’t get me Diamond. So get something else precious.” While we in UK, scandal break of G4S failure recruit enough security guard for Olympics. Indeed, throughout our visit, Olympics is only story in UK. We see nothing else on TV in our hotel, run by Oleg underworld associates, Travelodge. Arkady explain. “In ancient times, Pavel, wars and animosities were suspended for the duration of the Games. As modern proxy for this, the BBC is suspending all non-Olympic news.”

Oleg want us offer British Government replacement for G4S: service of his protection outfit. “Tell them we got brilliant way of keep peace,” he explain. “Olympic sites will be reserved for members of IOC family. It’s an outfit Pavel, just like ours. So’s LOCOG. It’s just like LIBOR and LICBOR. Only without Burger King. Who want in to LICBOR. So. We treat all scumbag trouble-making non-family general public, who actually stupid enough to want to watch some stupid shit like badminton, we treat them just same as we treat people outside our organisation. With maximum prejudice.”

“You mean, erm, rub out the crowds?” I ask, plenty nervous.

“Why not? After all, organisers in UK prefer empty stadiums.” Eventually Arkady get Oleg compromise. We offer deal where Oleg outfit sweep tourists, flag-waving sports fans and non-approved businesses away from venues to location where they can do no harm: gridlocked M25. But though Government interested, we lose on technicality. Our proposal say nothing about what happen after Olympics. Oleg prefer more long-term, open-ended relationship, where you scratch his back and you scratch his back. But cost-cutting British Treasury spot this and realise they may end up paying Oleg many years after 2012. So government bring in security outfit they can downsize and disband after Olympics. The Army.

“Can we come home now?” I ask Oleg.

“No.” By time we finish security negotiations, UK post negative growth figures, under cunning Olympic camouflage. Oleg get idea from British media that George Osborne is “part-time Chancellor”. “That mean he got time on his hands, Pavel,” he say. “I could use him in our organisation.” Oleg move into Siberian market in lead-based household paints. Want George be consultant. But Arkady convince him drop plan.

“You see Pavel,” he explain when put phone down on Oleg. “Osborne is not part-time Chancellor. He is half-cock Chancellor. Brilliant strategy. If you are faced with crisis of capitalism, you got three choices. Solve it – tax rich, cut evasion, protect incomes of spending poor, break up and regulate banks, invest in growth. Which is politically very hard. Or do nothing – and risk popular revolt. Or use half-solutions. Impose one-off stamp duty levy on rich, not an ongoing property tax, and introduce general anti-tax evasion provision (imposed at discretion of decreasing numbers of HMRC officials facing phalanx of corporate lawyers), while simultaneously making it easier for rich to move their profits into untaxed foreign subsidiaries – oh and cutting their taxes. Blame the poor for the crisis and cut their benefits. Reduce levies on bank profits, fail to block bonuses, introduce meaningless “firewalls” instead of breaking banks up. Block EU-wide agreements on financial regulation. Cut spending while failing to stimulate growth, turning your deficit reduction strategy into a deficit enlargement strategy. And what happens?”

“What?”

“Nothing. Nothing really changes. Only it looks like you’re trying to do something. Especially if you’ve convinced another party to go along with you. But meantime those who did well out of the crisis, your natural supporters, bankers, financiers, tax dodgers, continue to do well – and will do brilliantly out of the next disaster. And the fact that your half-cock measures fail reinforces your real message: government can’t do anything and you can’t buck the market. Nothing induces apathy and resignation in the face of the status quo like ineffective measures. And nothing makes people more likely to see all politicians as the same, as snake-oil salesmen, even those proposing real solutions. No, Pavel. Osborne’s not part-time. Genius policies like these take hours of hard work.”

“So, can we go home?” I ask.

“No. I gave Oleg another idea.”

“What?”

“You’ll see on Friday.”

Arkady smuggle me and him into Olympic opening ceremony, disguised as Great Ormond Street hospital beds. Amazing spectacle.

“Look, Pavel,” say Arkady. “What an inspiring message! Apart from Elgar and honorary Englishman Vangelis, all of British musical culture can be summarised in a post-60s continuum refracted through the lenses of Cool Britannia and Brit Pop. This isn’t dated at all. It’s how post-Blair Britain really hears things! And look. The Industrial Revolution! Owing nothing to the advantages of colonial resource expropriation, but instead springing spontaneously out of Ken Branagh’s head. Forging on the anvil of time the ultimate consummation of British history. Its greatest export.”

“Parliamentary democracy?”

“Mr Bean. Gove and Ferguson must be delighted. British manifest destiny. A new take on the Whig version of history.”

“Is Kenneth Branagh wearing a wig?”

“Sideburns I think.”

“Who is he anyway?”

“Brunel. Why, who did you think he is?”

“John McCririck.”

Arkady explain new plan. “A creative visionary who can cosy up to royalty and make them look amusing and like they’re one of the people, who can show the easy inevitability with which Morris Dancing leads to Firestarter, who can make everyone feel morally superior by including a reference to the NHS at the opening of games sponsored by purveyors of saturated fats, sugars and alcohol – no those weren’t rings that came spontaneously into being as result of Brannagh chewing an unlit cigar, those were the mounds and undulations of so many interlocking golden Ms! – that is the sort of creative visionary Oleg needs.”

“For what?”

“Our forthcoming Smolensk Big Oleg Day.” And of course I remember. Oleg plan festival of games – well, of monster tractor rallies, goat dressage and toad tossing – to show how he and his benign despotism is inescapable consummation of Smolensk history.

So Arkady try hire Danny Boyle. Meanwhile I watch some Olympics. (Funny how there were low expectations for Euro 2012. And England got no medals. And high expectations for men’s road race. And Team GB got no medals. You British must stop having expectations.)

Well, Arkady fail. Danny Boyle’s people say he interest, but he too busy working on new show to celebrate his forthcoming knighthood and canonisation. (I relieve. There not enough silk in all Smolensk to make parachute large enough for spectacular skydive arrival of Big Oleg elephantine frame.)

But fortunately, we able get services of someone even more to Oleg taste. Someone who promise extraordinary celebration: vision of Russia, ethnographically pure Russia, monochrome Russia for the Russians, without Poles, Circassians, Mongols, or any other distractions from progress of Russian history towards creation of supreme and purest of all Russians, Oleg himself.

So we head home and arrive back this morning. Oleg thrilled. After all, it not every day you meet someone with spotlessly pure vision, whiter than white.

Not every day you meet Aiden Burley.

End housing benefit: improve gene pool!

Mon, 25 Jun 2012 09:10:00 -0400

Hello! Here in Smolensk butcher shop, local egghead Student Arkady throw plenty light on UK Prime Minister David Cameron benefit proposals.

“Ending housing benefit for the under 25s,” he say. “Capping numbers of children you get child benefit for. Brilliant ideas, Pavel. But widely misunderstood. Commentators like Peter Hitchens say the UK benefits system incentivises poor people to spawn, get council houses and avoid work. Cameron himself has echoed this language. But it is a cover. A charade.”

“Why?” I ask.

“The UK and US have among the highest teenage birth rates in the developed world. Both have posted figures consistently above (and often well above) 30 per 1000 over the last decade. But they have less generous welfare systems than many European counterparts, especially in Scandinavia. Where teen birth rates are much lower. In Sweden, it is in single figures. Now some commentators argue that low rates often stem from a mix of supportive and targeted welfare provision and comprehensive sex education. And they point to sub-Saharan Africa. No sex education, limited birth-control programmes, no welfare. And astronomical levels of teenage pregnancy.”

“So, I not understand. Surely this all mean Cameron wrong.”

“Why?”

“Well answer to teenage pregnancy is more welfare, maybe better welfare, and better, erm [cough] sex educating.”

“That would be the obvious conclusion,” respond Arkady. “And the wrong one. Have you seen Smolensk Sun this morning Pavel?”

“Well, only lottery numbers. And the, erm, [cough] sex education, on third page.”

“Then you will have missed the leak from Downing Street. The Sun reports that Cameron is prepared for this attack on his policy and has commissioned a new study. It will be published next week. It reveals astonishing new data.”

“What it say?”

“The study, conducted by an American academic, Charles Murray, concludes that owing to peculiar mutations within the UK lumpenproletarian gene pool, underclass Britons are 642 times more fertile than middle-class ones, and 235 times more than their counterparts across the G20. They are also 854 times more, erm, inclined.”

“Eh?”

“Rampant. Horny. Up for it. Can’t stop themselves. Even if they tried. Make rabbits look like eunuchs. Consider. The average 16 year old male on a UK sink estate masturbates 37 times per day.”

“That sound about right.”

“And by 17, he will have his own harem, comprising what the report calls ‘at least a dozen bitches’. And the bit-, erm, teen females, will often have as many as six sexual partners. In the same day.”

“Wow!” I say. “I want have my teenage life all over again. In Britain.”

“Furthermore,” continue Arkady, “The genetic make-up of the average UK sub-prole makes them many times likelier than other Britons or overseas comparators to be violent, greedy, feckless, lazy, ill-mannered, oblivious of the rights of property, illiterate in English (as well as Latin and Greek), ignorant of the King James Bible, and also an astonishing 942 times more disposed to dress, speak and behave in a manner offensive to Paul Dacre. They also possess on average an IQ of 56. Underclass teens are thus inherently resistant to reason, education, exhortation, benefit programmes, or indeed any attempts to reform their behaviour and make them industrious or continent using economic, social or information stimuli. Which means…”

“Which mean Swedish solution not work in UK.”

“Exactly. The study justifies completely the otherwise apparent defiance of evidence and logic in Cameron’s policy.”

“But wait. I confuse again. End their benefit won’t make them work and stop have babies either.”

“Quite right Pavel. Nothing will. The study shows that attempts to place feral and fertile youths in work schemes have all ended in failure. Some male placements wasted time sexually propositioning factory machinery, forklift trucks, well stacked shelves of Weetabix, or got their Ivans caught in office printers, while females often spent their day pleasuring their ushankas with barcode readers. And secret initiatives authorised by Iain Duncan Smith to overcome lumpenprole intellectual deficiencies through subliminal messages on work and abstinence embedded in TV programmes all failed too. An episode of The Only Way is Essex commissioned by DWP to create positive images of careers in beauty therapy simply caused confusion. Huge numbers of hormonal teens, male and female, reported to their local job centres and asked for a new vajazzle.”

“So, I, erm, so…”

“Pavel. The purpose of cutting their benefits is revealed in some graphs and tables at the end of Murray’s report. It is not to get these people into work. It is to improve the UK gene pool. After all, remove someone’s benefits, and they will be unable to eat, will end up on the streets, or in the flat where their parents live. Together with the inevitable array of unfunded children and countless sex partners that go with their genetic underclass disposition to breed. Fights will break out among the very extended families living in overcrowded homes or between street people, over food and more especially over important resources: drugs, nicotine, drink. Reduced spending power will see these products diminish in quality and become more dangerous. Already B&Q is preparing for a surge in turpentine and solvent sales. And the underclass will go on and on pursuing its lusts. Youngsters will fornicate and fornicate, breed and breed, become ever more diseased, produce more and more dependent and unbenefited bastards, increasing the demand for resources, while their access to supplies gets ever worse. Malthusian analysis dictates that…”

“They will die…”

“Population will indeed decline. Usefully, some will even be proactive in this regard, as suicides and murders increase. Thus the gene pool will be improved and the UK will comprise only hard-working, intelligent and sexually continent families.”

“Clever. Why don’t we do same thing in Russia?”

“We are doing, Pavel. What else do you think alcoholism and our AIDS epidemic are for?”

Big Society, Big Bishop

Sat, 23 Jun 2012 20:24:10 -0400

Hello! Here in Smolensk butcher shop we plenty angry Archbishop Rowan of Pelling of Canterbury attack David Cameron Big Society.

Big Society born in Russia. When Soviet Union collapse, public service system is disintegration. But happy for us, it replace by charity of wealthy oligarchs and gangsters. They provide welfare. In exchange for krisha protection money or political support. And our resourceful people do many thing for self. You not need comprehensive healthcare to treat gangrenous limb, when you got bottle vodka, open fire and axe.

David Cameron model his idea on our experience. He know when state withdraw from provide services, philanthropist like Sir Philip Green, Lord Ashcroft and Martin Sorrell build school, hospital and feed poor, in exchange for little more than army of free workfare volunteers, indulgence of HMRC, and death of Vince Cable. Prime Minister also know people will improvise and run own services. There now cross-party agreement to replace UK Borders Agency with Gillian Duffy.

Consider Cameron plan to slash housing benefit for under 25s. Yes, he respond to mix of youth unemployment and affordable house shortage. But not by force young people stay with parents in council house well into adulthood. He not Allegra Stratton! No. He know Big Society plenty more ingenious. Rich benefactors will provide home for young people. Housing minister Grant Shapps got space, especially since evict his brain to more suitable accommodation in hazelnut shell. Many youngster will build own residence, using Recycle, Reuse and Rehouse principles successfully pioneer on Brazilian landfill sites. And as Close Protection UK demonstrate during Jubilee, there much comfortable living space under London bridges.

So we disgust at latest intervention by Archbishop and Church of England. Plenty different from our Orthodox Church who contribute so much in Russia. Like their work to replace mental health services with exorcism and casting out of demons. However, Cameron got opportunity deal with this. Rowan Williams soon retire. And Prime Minister choose successor. So instead of appoint John Sentamu, I sure Cameron be radical. Not appoint anyone. But call for spontaneous public creation of Big Society Archbishop of Canterbury!

Imagine. Collective effort. Anyone can have bash at Bishop and come together to create perfect successor to Thomas à Becket. Stout yeoman who travel Ukraine in crusade gear supporting England show more understanding of religious activism than cerebral clerics. They be great as Big Society Archbishop and give clear moral lead on complex question like multiculturalism, vote for prisoners and minimum alcohol pricing. And they get support from specialist volunteers. Spiritual dimension be provide by Derek Acorah. Continuity in thinking on gay marriage come from Jim Davidson. And as all proper Archbishop must look plenty eccentric, face of new Big Society Lambeth Palace be John McCririck.

Of course it possible people too busy watching X-Factor to shepherd fellow man to salvation. In that case, Cameron got perfect plan B. He contract out provision of Archbishop of Canterbury Service to Capita.

The Good Gove Days

Thu, 21 Jun 2012 10:16:00 -0400

Hello! Here in Smolensk butcher shop, last night we watch re-run of great British programme, The Good Old Days. Here sample.

SACHS: Antediluvian [woooo], pre-lapsarian [woooo], retrospective, retrograde, reactionary rapscallion, Mr Michael Gove! [bangs gavel – applause]

GOVE: Thank you, thank you. Whoops, did I hear a gavel? My life, I thought it was Judge Leveson. Have a care there Your Honour, M’Lud and all that, that’s the freedom of the press you’re taking blinkin’ liberties with. Eh? Ah, you gotta laugh, haven’t you eh, eh? Otherwise you’d screw your face up into an ugly pout just like this one, eh, see that Misses, did you ever see the like? It’s like a cross between a guppy and someone puckering up to plant one on Rupert’s unmentionables. And don’t say you haven’t been there sir, I’ve seen your sort with your big wide get me elected and me principles is in the post smiles, I have! Well now what’s all this I’ve heard about GCSEs and what nots and all that new fangled malarkey. Stone the workers, if it isn’t a diabolical load of gobbledegook and some very unBritish way of expanding higher edicashon and that, to let lots of very undesirable people in. You know the sort I mean, so poor they’ve not a net curtain to twitch or knee to jerk between ‘em. Cripes, they’ll be letting anyone in next, even you sir, and judging by the shape of your head, good old-fashioned phrenology, that’s the way I say, you’re scarcely fit to be Deputy Prime Minister. Course in my day, if you was poor and wanted to get on and that, you got yourself adopted at an early age into a nice middle class family and did yourself some proper exams. Now if you can’t show that initiative as a nipper what’s recently leapt out from your mother’s how’s your father to get yourself adopted into more suitable surroundings then why should you be let into universitary? No. Back to good old-fashioned GCEs for them’s what knows what’s what, and apprenticeships and shelf-stacking for them what don’t. Am I right madam, oh, she’ll be up here in a minute, live wire she is, laugh, I nearly tore my own head off in agonised embarrassment, keep her on her Teather or she’ll have my whatsits for Wotsits. Remember Wotsits? And Freddos? And how you could take your Tizer bottles back to the corner shop and get enough coppers back to pay for a new King James Bible. Oh the past, my past, it’s what your future’s made of. A song? You want a song, a good old-fashioned tune what you’ve all heard before. Well how about this:

Standards goin’ down,

Let’s blame Gordon Brown.

Back to the future we must go

Sixteen plus called level O.

If Vince Cable’s bending

I’ll slap his silly head

G’s up, C’s up,

No S here but E’s up,

Mortar board and gown!