GOD SAVE THE KING!

Phew!
For a moment I began to think the bally Trots were going to mount a coup!

Normal service is resumed.

God save King Dave.
And IDS (Peace Be Upon Him).

I've got five years to extend that ruddy conservatory, or Mrs.Mac won't be getting that second home in Walberswick.
Time to phone Bagshot Russell (My financial advisor).
Might need to cash-in that extra pension.
Shame.
I was hoping to invest it in a mobility-copter for Glyndebourne or Glasto.

THE PROBLEM WITH TRUMPTONSHIRE (AND IN PARTICULAR, CAMBERWICK GREEN)

It would appear rather obvious to anyone who cares, that in order to reduce the deficit and maintain a robust economy, we need to cut public services.

Now, I'm all for a regular bus timetable.
Without concise timings, and rigid punctuality, the hard-fought plans of IDS (Peace Be Upon Him) would be nothing more than an exercise in redeployment.
We need workers, of course we do.
Our banks and retailers will not grow exponentially, if we don't feed them a healthy dose of human misery.

But I will not stand idly by, and watch millions of our Great British Pounds, wash away down the drains of the public sector.
In order to reduce the deficit and maintain a robust economy, we need to invest in stocks & shares, ensure everyone over 65 has a healthy mortgage, and stop spending our money on Johnny Foreigner, the feckless, the bad-back brigade and wanton single mothers.
If you're a bally bin-man, be thankful you're not in Afghanistan or The Falklands, taking on the Argies and IRIS.
If you're a teacher, enjoy your ruddy holidays, and TEACH for heaven's sake!
If you're a nurse, try & be a little more sympathetic, and make sure you can speak Her Majesty the Queen's English, before sticking anything up my bottom.

In order to reduce the deficit and maintain a robust economy, we need to be a lot more like we used to be, and a lot less like Trumpton.
Or for that matter, Chigley.

In the town of Camberwick Green there is a fire service.
Smart chaps.
Always well turned out, polished boots, shiny brass and the what-not.
But they are constantly out on-call, primarily because everything is wooden and made by traditional craftsmen, such as Chippy Minton.
And also because of cats.
Stuck up trees, stuck in trees, stuck near a tree, or caught up in a windmill.
They could improve things an awful lot if they banned cats.

The bureaucratic cretin at the Town Hall has no idea about funding (probably a bloody Trot) and he nonchalantly bank-rolls these public servants, every week, and then expects them to play music in the park bandstand every day!!!
What a complete waste of good honest taxpayers' money!
In order to reduce the deficit and maintain a robust economy we mustn't pay overtime to public sector workers.
We are not a ruddy something-for-nothing society!

And there's a whole PLATOON of soldiers at Pippin Fort.
And a drawbridge.
Instead of trundling around in an army truck (and a humpety-bumpety army truck at that) why doesn't Captain Snort teach his NCO's how to play a bally brass instrument, and relieve the overpaid & over-utilised fire service of some of their duties?

Bolsheviks I can only imagine?
And tree-huggers as well no doubt.
The army was never this incompetent under Major IDS (Peace Be Upon Him).
He knows how to motivate the idle.

So I therefore say, nay DEMAND - Bring Back National Service!

God Bless Her Majesty.
And in order to reduce the deficit and maintain a robust economy - Vote Tory.

JE SUIS MAXIMUS

Thought I'd re-join the blogosphere for a chance to express a few ruddy well chosen words or two.

Marvellous news today!
Despite a lot of nay-saying from Multi-Bland, Balls-Up and the dishonourable gentlemen opposite, it would appear that those of us on the Income Based Contribution Employment & Support Allowance Scheme do receive an annual pay increase, not so much in line with inflation, but more in recognition of austerity, and the tough times ahead.
A beautifully constructed letter from the DWP and IDS (Peace Be Upon Him) arrived this morning, informing me that as of April 2015, my fortnightly payment would rise by nearly two guineas, or two pounds & thirty pence in the new-fangled metric pinko sense.
The letter, sent from Belfast via Post Handling Site B in Wolverhampton, that acts on behalf of the Norwich, Norfolk office, out of Bury St.Edmunds (for all Lowestoft Area correspondence), did not calculate the exact pay rise percentage figure, but thanks to a free gift (a solar powered calculator) from my friends at Parker Knoll, I reckoned that it was an increase of either 4152% or 1.05%.
(I tend to favour the latter figure, as I know Dave & Georgie are getting tough on high percentages).
But even so, a sure sign that this septic isle is fast becoming an economic behemoth, in a world that quite frankly, is not what it used to be.

I can only assume that the Yanks had quite a lot to do with this.
They bailed us out in '44, kept the Commies and Johnny Foreigner from our door, and now in the shape of Maximus, they're going to put Benefit Street Britain back into work, and away from the seductive charms of Messrs Lambert, Butler & Greggs.
The chaps that masterminded the WorkFare scheme, have landed on our beaches and are ready to tackle the poor & undeserving, by nuking their culture of entitlement for the paltry sum of just £500million.

I certainly won't be missing those Froggy type blighters from ATOS.
If they can't handle some good-natured British banter, then what chance have they got re-homing our feckless young adults, all sitting at home indiscriminately shooting Prussians in Call of Candy Crush II, let alone any chance of winning the 5 Nations rugger?
As if Michael Roux and Hector's House isn't enough, they're practically running SeaLink these days! And most (if not all) are bolsheviks, with their late lunches and two-day-weeks on their minds;
when they're not smoking in cafes and leering at our women-folk.
Good riddance to the bally lot of them!
A bunch of Prosecco Charlies if you ask me.

I only hope that Lowestoft John (my Personal Advisor) can get his job back.
Myself & the chaps 'down on the line' really miss him.
Street credibility really isn't enough when you're unemployed, despite the fun that me & the lads have.
I suppose if you're a 'pub man' or a 'club man', you should make the most of every day and not let hard times stand in your way.I genuinely think it's time to give a wham (and a bam), because the benefit gang are going to pay.........

God Save The Queen.

IT'S TIME FOR A PROPER BALLY LEADER.

So Cleggy thinks the way forward is to maintain a flabby coalition, despite the fact that no blighter really wants to take charge.
I think the sooner we flush-out these wishy-washy salmon pinkos, the better the United Kingdom of Great Britain & The Northern Bit of Ireland will be, and we can all get on with boosting the economy, elevating house prices, bettering our investment portfolios, and our sorry excuse for a military machine, the Greatest British Army.

The wagon-jumping, rat-faced Teather's abandoned ship, Huhne's incarcerated, Kennedy's plastering three sheets onto the wind, Oaten's a chutney weasel and Major-Captain Ashdown has finally joined the war party (albeit from the wrong side of the benches).
I think the liberal-demagogues should ruddy well buck up their ideas, stop recruiting teenagers and realise that no-one actually reads the Independent newspaper other than pot-smokers and female impersonators.

If we don't bomb Syria soon, the Argentines and the Spanish will inevitably invade British sovereign soil, and we'll be handing over the Isle of Wight to the Russians, before we can say "No Deal Uncle Bulgaria".

And I see Moriband is all set to sack those hard-working chaps at ATOS.
Another 10,000 on the unemployment scrap-heap.
If my experience with the DWP is anything to go by, he'll replace ATOS as soon as is bally well possible (probably with a Trot-infested organisation like the Co-Op or the Mail on Sunday's colour supplement).
Those fellows are doing a damned fine job at keeping Johnny Foreigner away from our poorly NHS and our ever-shrinking pot of gold.
Moriband won't get into Number 10 now anyway.
Not if Australia and Germany's recent elections are a sign of better things to come.

Still no word from Lowestoft John (My Personal Adviser).
A chap with an illegible scribble of a signature sent me a letter recently, informing me that I could attend a 'Work Focused Interview' if I really wanted, but I was under no obligation.

Now, if this was the Army, I wouldn't have a ruddy choice!

I'd be expected to attend the interview, and the onus would be on me to have polished shoes, a sensible haircut, a smart uniform and a positive attitude.
All this laissez-faire, non-committal, voluntary attitude is what's wrong with this sceptic isle.
A bit of National Service, a few medals, a trade and a pension wouldn't do anybody any harm, and it would keep the feckless, the scroungers, the idle and twerkers from vegetating in front of Pointless on a regular basis.

My letter explained that as I had paid into the National Insurance scheme all of my life, I was in the 'Contributory' group, and this means I'm not entitled to free prescriptions, eye-tests or dental treatment.

And quite right too!
We can't be seen to be wasting valuable government resources on those who 'can do'.
If the unwashed snivelling masses knew where their housing & child benefits came from, they'd only want more of the same, and this would put unnecessary strains on the Ministry of Defence, the Church of England, Iain Duncan Smith (peace be upon him) and quite probably the Countryside Alliance too.

2015 can't come quick enough for me.
If we have to coalesce, please God let it be with Farage.
A man with his military pedigree would be the tonic to accompany a gin-soaked Tory revival, in which we kick out the lemons and replace them with a dash of bitters, and a private pensions renaissance.

God Save the Queen!
Iain Duncan Smith for Prime Minister!

HANDS OFF OUR MINERAL DEPOSITS, MRS.ARGY-BARGY!

Nothing like a near unanimous vote to put British democracy firmly back on the map of the world, and in so doing, wipe the cheeky little dago claim to sovereignty, off the faces of Mrs Kitchener and her gaggle of lady politicos.
Las Malvinas?
This is the British Empire madam!
Not some kiss-me-quick island resort in the Med.

The Falklands are as British as Marmite and KitKats.
Argentina may well have Elaine Paige and Lionel Messy, but we are the custodians of blue-blood Englishmen.
We are soldiers, farmers, politicians and seamstresses.
We have no time for sheet metal workers and gazpacho horse riders.

Look at any map of worth and what does it say above the aggravating lump off the southern coast of the Americas?
It says "Falkland Islands (GB)" - the furthest outpost of empire, the land of sheep & glory.
Our little England in the South Pacific, with its rolling green hills & mountains, and its arrows of desire.

Would the French be happy if the Scots laid claim to Guernsey?
Would the Spanish tolerate an invasion of the Canaries?
No. They ruddy well wouldn't stand for it

And I ask you. Who were the three that voted in favour of Argie rule?
Mentalists with a penchant for corned beef sandwiches and Peronism no doubt.
I shall be writing to the Lord High Governor and asking him to catch these ne'er-do-wells and put them on the next blasted container ship to Venezuela.
I'm sure there's a Huge(o) vacancy for them there!
Bally Bolsheviks.

Failing that, they could be returned home and made to stack shelves in Poundworld.

Well Mrs Kitchener; I have some news for you.

We won't forget how we lost Hong Kong.
We won't accept Aussie insults towards Her Majesty the Queen.
We cannot stand by and let Romanian become our 2nd language.
And we will NEVER forgive Ossie Ardiles for eating our penguins.

Rule Britannia.

NOW IS THE WINTER OF THE MALCONTENT

Hello.
I know it's been a while since I last 'touched-base' with you chaps, but things have gone slightly awry recently.
Here at Dwile Flonker HQ, we have found ourselves wrangling with a bally sticky issue.
We haven't been this fidgety since we thought we'd found reds under Penelope's bed, only to discover later that it was her school prep.
I personally feel that the aforementioned issue is one of grave pertinence, but Mrs.Mac has, since only this past Thursday, refused to discuss the matter completely.

The subject is the Winter Fuel Allowance.

In my experience, those that qualify for the Trot-inspired piece of welfare shenanigary, only spend their allowances on frippery & tut.
The skivers, the shirkers and the shivering timbers take the money that 'Dave's economy' can ill-afford to give, and literally set fire to it, with their superking cigarettes and their Paddy Power gambling habits.
Allotment Alan's small but spacious semi-detached is frequently cold, but the fumes generated by his special cigarettes could evict a bee colony from the top floor of a blasted tower-block, were he ever to get out of his armchair!

As a nation, we're due extremely low temperatures this weekend (notably coming in from the scroungier parts of Eastern Europe); so I hope the feckless and unwashed have invested in a blanket or two, because it's the idle who will suffer in the cold, along with their taxpayer-benefited children.
And will they moan!
I personally feel the allowance should be presented to the deserving (the Atos frieze-marked disabled, key-workers, ex-civil service, Sky TV subscribers and the military) in the form of a crossed cheque made payable to British Gas, or in the form of kindling, logs or coal.
Those of us who do not require their allowance, should be able to donate their fuel to Falkland Islanders in need, or in very special circumstances, old ladies with British passports.

If Millibland and his pinko cronies would only shut their bally mouths once in a while, (Sir) Iain Duncan Smith  may lead us to a promised land; a less corrupt, better run, 'newer' society; one based on hard work, savings and sensible opinions.
Strivers who earn over a certain amount should not be penalised for being better than everyone else.
The carrot & stick approach is beginning to work on old Cleggy, so I'm hoping we can switch to a crop & a whip before it's too late.
I also worry that Mrs.Mac may be afflicted with this modern scourge of liberalism; this Facedbook generation's Twittery Spring thing.
So we'll see how she copes when I let her out of the coal-bunker on Monday.

Until then, keep warm.
And God save the Queen.

He Who Strives

He Who Strives