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

SAD NEWS

I lost Lowestoft John (my Personal Adviser) today.

Those cheat-geeks at the DWP have decided I won't be able to work any more.
The dream is over.
As a consequence, I lose the services of my Personal Adviser (Lowestoft John) and I receive a dole-scrounging payment called 'Support' every bally month from here on in.

I have to say I'll miss Lowestoft John (my ex- Personal Adviser).
For a public-sector pinko he had a good sense of what was possible.
John had vision.

He could see I didn't want to stack shelves, or worse still, lie around watching How Much Is My Attic Worth, eating Greggs burgers and jacking up crack.
No. John was a ruddy good fellow.

I shall miss him.

TIME TO SIEGE THE EMBASSY

Now I don't want to get into the legal differences between squatters' rights and political asylum, but if our 'boys in blue' are now allowed to evict the unwashed & feckless from empty unwanted properties, surely they can arrest known criminals that are camping out on working embassies' floors?

I never had much time for the Ecuadorians myself.
Funny bunch.
Never really forgave them for 1979.

But just last Tuesday, on speaking to my friend Captain Vaughan Lockhart-Smith of Ellingham (lets call him Pinky), he told me house prices have plummeted since the antipodean chose a Baby Belling and a floor-mat, over one of Suffolk's finest stately homes.

Assange may be a cad in the sack, and he jolly well is an enemy to Western governments' security, but when the Aussies start fiddling with our finances in our own backyards, I think it's time we ruddy well called out the SAS!

Still, I suppose we at least have Claudia 'Get Orf My Land' Schiffer to keep the natives away.

WHO PUT THE 'TORY' IN INFLAMMATORY?

Ahead of my fourth tribunal hearing on Monday, I thought I'd better keep the old interblog chaps up to speed, so as to avoid any confusion if I'm shipped overnight to L.A., to replace Simon Towell on that talent show thingy.

I must say I'm not sure this is a good waste of taxpayers' money.
I'm perfectly capable of finding myself fit for work, without these bally DWP chaps suggesting I might not be.

My last tribunal hearing was cancelled because of (off the record & only allegedly) "the judge and doctor being struck off".
Now I know most of the GPs, JPs and BPs in East Anglia, and you have try ruddy bloody hard to get struck off these days.
An old friend of mine (let's call him Bunny) was eventually dispatched for charging his patients 200 guineas for a sick-note, something the GMC frowned heavily upon.
Bunny set up his own private practice after that, turning his back on the whole shoddy affair.
As he correctly said;
"What's more important?
Saving lives or creating work for a bunch of left-wing namby pamby trots in a nurse uniform?"
I think we can all agree with the sentiment.

I am however getting a tad miffed about all this 'Con-Dem' naysaying, and general dissent within the ranks.
It's not our Dave's fault the spics (and the wops) spent all the ready cash, and forced us all into upping the drawbridge.
Dave cares about England, and he and his cohorts IDS(RIP) & Christopher Grayling are damned fine chaps when it comes to getting the economy up and running again.
Only last week, an Air Commodore friend of mine (let's call him Piggy) told me in the strictest confidence, that our arms industry is worth £22 BILLION to old blighty's crown jewel purse.
That's an awful lot of cash when compared to say sales figures for the liberal nonsense comic The Guardian, that rarely breaks the £6million mark.
(My association soccer team Brighton & Hove Albion have a left-half worth more than that!)

Anyway. I think it's time we started looking at the positives in this whole welfare reform thingy.
Mrs Mac feels that my desire to pack up my old kit-bag and pick up my rifle again should be tempered with a visit to Lowestoft John (my Personal Adviser).
I personally feel she is always wrong, and with a little joined-up sky and a little blue thinking, we could get England (and a large part of Wales) back into work and out of the labour exchange. We need progressive thinkers like Bunny & Piggy, a good dose of the old bamboo, a few cold showers and a jolly bracing work-ethic that says

No! To shirkers.
No! To disabled benefit hoarders.
No! To mini-cabs.
No! To heavy-petting & bombing.
No! To council houses for single mums with itinerant boyfriends.
No! To foreigners who aren't tourists.
No! To free stuff for those who haven't earned the right to free stuff yet.

And no to this have-a-go-hero culture that rewards immigrants with no grasp of the King James' Holy Bible, and who insist on having families.
This 'bogof' society that expects free prescriptions, when men fought and died against the Germans to put square meals on the table, and the right to vote for discipline in schools and the right to bare their arms.
This septic isle, rotten to the core, and full of alcopops and Stephen Fry homogenousness.

It's time to keep Britain tidy again!
It's time to dig deep for victory.
It's time to keep mum.
It's time to bag it & bin it (or face a fine of up to a maximum of £1000).

THE SUN'LL COME OUT TOMORROW.......

So tomorrow's the Big Day.
My tribunal has been moved to Norwich, and although they'll refund reasonable taxi costs, a hotel is out of the question.
It's a terrible shame, as there's a damn fine Travel Lodge by the bus-station, and a Waitrose directly opposite. I foresaw a night of Bravo Gold & gouda cheese crispy crumbs, in a bed that I was not about to make!

Lowestoft John (my Personal Adviser) has gone rather quiet on the whole subject of finding me suitable employment. I took it upon myself in the end to apply for eleven jobs.
Most of the Armed Forces were kind, but brutally honest when it came to rejection.
(And if I'm totally honest, I wouldn't necessarily want me as a bombardier over the skies of Syria or Argentina either).
The RNLI have no current vacancies for a helmsman, and the Fire Service no longer have a a bell-ringer on the back of their trucks.
I'm still awaiting a response from Clinton Cards and La Senza, but I think retail may be a step too far.

 From what I can gather, tomorrow's meeting will reassure me of my 'capability for work'. It's a bit like a preliminary interview (to ascertain that I'm not a disabled, a terrorist or a benefit cheat, I imagine).
 IDS also reassured me last week that I would not have to have a 'soft job' in a factory, as he is closing all factories down. The Great British pastime of elongated tea-breaks must be checked, if we are to forge our identity as the world's leading financial services provider, and armoured protector of democracy.

 I'm not taking Derek with me. We fell out over a game of draughts.
I personally think it's irrelevant how one wins, but I will not tolerate him calling it 'Checkers'.

 Off to Bedfordshire now. Need a good night in the arms of Morpheus, if I'm to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed in the morning.
 There's always a chance too that the bally taxi-drivers will go on strike (sorry, 'protest') tomorrow.
It's not too late to enforce compulsory National Service for the feckless.

 I do hope my rheumatism doesn't play up.
The last thing I need is to come across as an incapacitated imbecile.

 In the words of the Iron Lady herself:
 Disciplining yourself to do what you know is right and important, although difficult, is the highroad to pride, self-esteem, and personal satisfaction.