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                                                        https://youtu.be/RE3wBUn-0p8

I finished re-reading Transmetropolitan just yesterday.

Fucking uncanny. More than a few times, a chill went up my spine as I read a page or two that came too close to the Real World.

I'll tell you what's fucking uncanny. Warren Ellis's fictionalised coverage of the 2016 election campaign. 18 years early. And inventing "google glass" for Spider's uber cool glasses. And predicting live streaming internet newscasts. Bumped for relevance. And as an excuse to stick my head around the door and say "Hey everyone". So erm, Hey everyone . . . and L8rs pert8ers.

Thanks guys. You think I got away with using "triumverate" twice?

Eris doesn't need worshippers like that limp rag of a Christos. His  hand-wringing supplicants are a plague upon the World already. She asks for no bent knees, no pious penitents, she offers no absolution, nor bids her faithful to be washed in the sacrificial gore of some scapegoat's stolen life.

She don't roll like Jeehobah, she doesn't need constant validation from a flock of frightened, sinful sheep, mumbling empty prayers under the judging eyes and false shepherding of a Priesthood full of bastards, mountebanks and charlatans. If she bestows upon you, your hearts desire, it is not as some reward for unswerving faith, or dutiful worship.

Nay, it is with the casual indifference of a good natured feaster tossing the remains of the meal to her Hounds. Her gifts are not something that one should strive towards, for she is nothing if not fickle and capricious towards mortals. Would Paris have been so blind in his pursuit of Helen, had he known the terrible price that would be demanded of him?

To incur the displeasure of Hera, and the abandonment of Athena, just so he could play "Hide the sausage" with a Spartan Queen, stolen from under the nose of her Atreides Husband?, Had he known every King of Greece was to wage war upon his beautiful Troy? It wasn't even the first time sluttish Helen had been "stolen away" for her beauty, oh no. But the first time, by a Hero so pure he would not bespoil her virgin loins with his mighty seed?

No, it was a good, stiff cock that girl yearned for, not the weak, dribbled seed of old man Meneleaus. Her womb demanded she till it's fecundity with the hard stiff, fucking of a young, strong Prince like pretty Paris. And Lady Eris? They fucking SNUBBED Her! Fuck those preening Olympians and their pet Kings and Heroes!

Peleus and Thetis should have as their wedding gift, to see their Olympian Gods and Goddesses for the self obsessed, spoiled bitches and thundering spineless bastards they really were. The vanity of woman, exemplified beyond mortal comprehension by the greedy squabbling of deific entitlement.

"For The most Beautiful one"  She tossed her Hesperidic Apple into the sight of the three most vain, self obsessed, spoiled bratty bitches ever cut from the flesh of a demented child devouring Titan. So greedy, they couldn't even let Thetis, though sired by Zeus himself (but don't tell Hera) and their own half Sister, be "the most beautiful" one, even at her own fucking wedding feast!

Even in her glorious wrath, Eris (who loved a good game above all else) left an option for redemption. All they had to do was let Thetis claim the Apple as her wedding gift. Behave in a way fitting, not for Olympian Gods, but as Guests in the House of their hosts on the day of their Wedding.

Daddy Zeus, cock of the fucking block, patron of Hospitality and the bestower of a guest's right to be treated with respect, he could have put his mighty foot down, and slapped his squabbling family of bitches into line with a single word. But no, so spineless was he, so reluctant to have to go back to the Mountain with Hera's haughty disdain and icy cold psyhcopathic plotting of revenge, he abetted their appalling behavior.

He said he would mediate the issue, then delegated responsibility to Hermes. Who bottled it too, and picked poor Paris, watching his goats on a hillside. Then each would be pretty Goddess, in order to be bitchiest bitch in the bitch pile, and Apple owning Queen of the spoiled sulk, tried bribing the fucking judge. Unbelievable. Monstrous arrogance. Self obsession taken to it's ugly and catastrophic extreme, with not a thought of consequence, or twinge of conscience. Just as Eris had foreseen.

"Consequence, my pretty ,posing, shamefully behaved progeny? Oh, Grandmother Eris is going to teach you ALL about fucking consequences, you primped up over-privileged priapic bunch of superpowered toddlers! Game on, motherfuckers! (Technically, sibling fuckers, but hey, who's going to point THAT out to Zeus and Hera?)
Eris in one fell move, became Dungeon Master of the Olympian D&D Cabal. The mortal play people that Olympus had for so long been at a loss what to do with, they were going to make some fucking demands of their Gods now. They were going to have to work for their Ambrosia habits. Learn some diplomacy. How to make concessions,  how to back the fuck up a bit, and let these Mortals have their head. Learn some fucking boundaries. Rules. Gamesmanship.

Either that, or it was War in Heaven. With canny Hades, down below, with the souls of all the dead at his command. and jealous plotting, bitter, tricked brother, Poisiedon under the waves, played for the chump again. Waiting for his chance to topple Zeus, and take his rightful turn as crowing cock, King of that dunghill Olympus. No thought for the fact the Earth would be once again under his Ocean, nope, not with him up the Mountain, guzzling barrels of Ambrosia all day long. Thus went the dreams of Posiedon.

And poor Paris, his hard on for Helen was pre-destined to humble the mighty Greeks, to grant them victory over Troy, but to pauper them in the process. Agamemnon, proudest  and most ambitious King of Mycenae, and Meneleaus, his Brother King of Sparta, but only by dint of his marriage to (soon to be stolen away) Helen of Sparta.  Most puissant Queen that mortal man had ever spawned. Original Trophy Bride, the face that launched a thousand (yet to be built) Ships. Wife of an Atreides, the King of the Spartans, mightiest Warriors ever to pick up a Spear. And not really a man who would take being cuckolded by a mere Boy Prince of some far off City with good grace.

This Queen, Helen, was the glue holding the loose confederation of Greek City States together with her dowry, her beauty, and her placement at the tip of the triumverate of powers, Sparta, Athens, and Mycenae.
Casually promised to pretty boy Paris, as his reward for Judging in favour of Aphrodite. Her of the bottomless cunt. So the greedy eyed, cock hungry Daddy's girl, gets what she wants. A fucking Apple. With Kallisti wrote upon it's golden skin.

"Cock-a-doodle me, prettiest of the three you two ugly bitches, bow down to me"
Wisdom was not this jiggly titted honey dripping slut's forte. Olympus's in house rutting whore, Hungry cunted Goddess of sluts, skanks, and cum guzzling slags everywhere with a libido that surpassed even Zeus himself. Her proudest party trick was a cock in each hole, one between her pouty lips, and one in each hand, then bringing them all to bone juddering climax simultaneously, to the enthusiastic applause of those living up the Topside. Proto-Bimbo-Barby slut guts. (Still would though, know what I mean?)
"Attagirl" Zeus would say, under his breath
because Zeus openly admiring any female that wasn't her just sent Hera off into one of her squawking rages.

Slowly, the events set into motion by these blustering bragging irresponsible Olympians were coming together, mortal man's day was here, these unconsidered playthings, whose whole existence was so carefully guarded by Foresight and his brother, Hindsight , (Prometheus and Epimethius) and bought at such price and risk from Zeus;s wrath, now had the teeth that Zeus always feared they'd have.

Now do you start to see the depth of Eris's gamesmanship? See how her carefully planned vengeance would teach them ALL to behave a little bit better? Now Zeus would really have to put the family to work!  Each Olympian designated a sphere of mortal influence, having now to barter their good graces to this scurrying thing, Man, for goats and prayers and promises of fealty, and should they waver in their diligence,  the balance between the triumverate Sons of Cronos, Posieden, Zeus and Hades would crumble, the Kraken would awake, and the World would be lost.

The Demigods Zeus had so carelessly spawned with any woman shaped thing his dick fancied poking, had founded the dynasties of Man's Kings, and they all looked to Olympus. They could withhold their worship, or turn away, towards other new Gods. (They even had to flee, hide in Egypt and disguise themselves with Animal heads while Heracles sorted the Titan "threat" out for them. (He freed Prometheus too) And in this way, with acts of service, Man's Heroes,  Heracles, Theseus, Perseus, Bellerophon, Achilles, Atreus, Orpheus, all had Zeus's blood in them, and all founded Dynastic Houses, dedicated to their patron Gods. . . Deific inter-personal politics had to be learned by Olympus. The ages of Man grew, from Archaic, Classical, Hellenistic, slowly Greece became more and more apart from it's Gods. The mystery cults of the Orphic Mysteries, the Oracular Pythonesses, and their attendant Priesthoods now held sway, and spoke for the Gods.

Eris sits back in her rocking chair, playing Donkey Kong on her old Nintendo Gameboy, while Zeus bemoans the eventual fall of Greece to Rome, and the quick "shufty" to Romanised forms in order to survive. Eris, although Grandmother of Zeus, and older than the first thought, still as quietly powerful as ever (since her Game had never depended upon people's belief) rocks slowly, her hand rolled fag hanging from her smiling lips  says

"Sack up, Boy, you had your day in the fucking sun didn't you? You did deeds, great and small, noble, and base, your name is still written in the dusty books of Epimetheus's little side project, Man,right?"
Zeus nods glumly.
"They still sacrifice to you, The Thunderer, don't they? Your bolts of lightening still get to feed you, Zeus, now and again?"

"They strap the sacrifices into a chair of wood, Grandmother. HUMAN sacrifices. They begin to show the disease of Cronos, in the way they
feed upon each other, their young, their Wars, all so senseless"

"And where did they get that trait from then? You! You sticking your priapic pecker into their women, you passed Cronos down to them,.. . They are just doing with the gene what they have to, NEED to!"

"And Zeus" said Eris, Zeus looks up. "Since when did you, an Olympian and God, the Mighty Thunderer, Zeus, first of the mighty age of Gods, since when did YOU even give a fuck?" Her eyes twinkle . . .

"Since you fucking MADE us all give a fuck, Grandmother. . . you scheming old Bitch . . .I CARE now, I feel things like . . like I suppose mortals do" Eris nodded, sagely. Waiting for her once slow witted thuggish Grandson to follow his thoughts . . .

"Are we to die like mortals too? Is that what we have come to? An Ignomious death, falling in the dirt and leaving our bones to bleach under the Sun of the next fucking SunHero the monkeys nail up?"

"What am I, some kind of Agony Aunt for your morose moody grumblings? Get up, you moody emo twat, I didn't raise me no whiny lil bastards! Well . . . I did, but you're all grown up now . . . Grown. You're big grown badass son of fucking Chaos, get up and act like it. . .

You don't like your sacrifices all Human and fried? Tell them! Make them fucking listen. You're a GOD, for God's sake. You still have a Crew of other Gods, shake them up some, get a rocket under their arses too, go and do some fucking Godding! I mean it, now get up, and fuck off! I'm sick of the sight of your droopy mawkish face!"

Zeus, stung by the rebukes, and as always, more than a little afraid of this flapping old crone (funny, she was beautiful, young, and vibrant not five minutes ago) gets up, and slouches towards the door. "Forgetting something?" She says. "I don't think so" says Zeus.

"COME HERE AND GIVE YOUR GRANNY A FUCKING KISS YOU LITTLE BASTARD" She screeches at him, all crackly fire and sour piss now, incandescent. Afraid, but more afraid of not doing her will, he kisses her . . . "And"?  . . ."I love you Nan" he says, as hopeless as any other seven year old boy and his cranky old Grandmother.

"I'm proud of you Zeus, you know that? Out of all my ill-considered brats, and their own whelps, you are the one I was always so hard on (I said hard on, she giggled) You know why?" "No" he said . . .

"Because YOU were always the slowest witted, the stupidest, the dummy, the one everyone else took the piss out of. event hough you were the one that could take any three of the others on and whup their sucky arses, Zeus the Goose, what's the use? they'd sing.

You think you outwitted Posiedon? I had to get in there first and dose him up with Cough syrup and Ativan so that you'd not be the one swimming around with the fucking fishes! Pffft, Now get the fuck out, and don't come back until you've done whatever the fuck it is you're going to do . . . And when you do come back" she paused . . . "Bring us back a bottle of Harvey's Bristol Cream Love, can you?" "Yes Nan" . . . .

That was a lot of tl;dr some-other-forum's-boring-drama to wade through just to have a legitimate question bizarrely dismissed.

Sorry, did you ask me a question? I must have missed that.

Probably not, I typically only try to communicate with sapient beings.

So in light of your oversight to actually ask the question in question, my dismissal of it wasn't really that bizarre at all, was it? In fact, it wasn't even a dismissal. If I added too much detail for you to comfortably wade through, it was only to help you try and grasp the setting and context that for the sake of brevity, I originally omitted to expand upon. Typically, I try to communicate in a way that doesn't provoke the reader into an unexpectedly taxing level of engagement. Mostly because I know people find it tedious to wade through the disproportionate levels of bombastic pedantry I sometimes enjoy inflicting on people whom I feel might appreciate the effort.

I am after all, a creature of indolent and capricious impulse, and I enjoy indulging myself in ways that might perhaps be seen as less than endearing to those whose sense of their own sapience seems (as I'm also aware, my own is) a little bit precocious. Anyway, to offer a less than legitimate answer the question you didn't ask, I'm more of a misanthrope, with perhaps a touch of (not entirely unwarranted) narcissism. I'm certainly not a misogynist. My sense of humour however, often allows me to laugh at the most appallingly inappropriate and offensively taboo subject material. But . . well, you'd have had to have been there, so I won't garnish you with any examples. But if did, they'd be funny as fuck.   

That was a lot of tl;dr some-other-forum's-boring-drama to wade through just to have a legitimate question bizarrely dismissed.

Sorry, did you ask me a question? I must have missed that.

Like, I seriously can't tell if you're lampooning the misogyny of the comic drawing a character as a misogynistic caricature of a "typical woman" or if  you're sincerely using the "typical woman" line yourself as a descriptor.

Seconded.
BadBeast, I am trying to think the best of you, but without context that quote is very disturbing.

On reflection, taken out of it's context the original quote does seem a bit baffling. I know this, because my memory of even making it got mis-filed, which makes it pretty much impossible to dredge up the original spirit in which it was made. So in the interests of  . . . Historical accuracy (needs citation) I just got back from Whitechapel, (the forum in question) and refreshed my brain's post history for there. Which involved a nostalgic refresher going back through the Avatar webcomic in question (Disenchanted) Then back through my Whitechapel history, and how I wound up in their comic threads in the first place.

I traced my association back to the time I discovered "FreakAngels" on Avatar's site. Then followed the link to Whitechapel for the discussion threads, where I picked up on the (then, ongoing) "Crossed WYWH". I like the format of having a thread for each web episode where you can offer the writers your own thoughts on their creative (Or not) process. To stop threads just going on and on and on for ever with gushy fanboi titwank, if  no-one makes a post for five days the thread is capped. Anyway, during "Crossed", I made regular posts there where I  kinda gently trolled Spurrier with td;lr posts, speculating on where his plots were about to take us, or how consistent / believable / credible / or true to character (or not) his plots and their people were.

Originally I wanted to correctly predict where the next few episodes were going, so I could call Spurrier out for drawing on MY ideas to keep HIS OWN career as an "A List" writer from foundering  . . . (I'm a troll, of course I wouldn't miss such a juicy bone to run with, if it was thrown down!)  Then when my incredible insights and uncharacteristic generosity with my own creative process were evidently too "edgy"  for him to touch with a big shitty stick, did I become bitter? No. Did I start to disparage his own (quite obviously, of a magnitude far in excess of my own) skills as a writer? Of course I didn't.

Did I begin bitterly sniping at his "unrealistic" stories? (It's a post apocalyptic nightmare World of brain-blown rape zombies ffs  ), or his character's sociopathic lack of empathy, his ego-centrism  or the way his rare acts of altruistic or selfless generosity, were in fact, blatantly motivated by self centred narcissism? Well, yeah, I kind of did that a bit, but no more than I ever did, and only proportionally to the plot / story arc. And of course, my own trollish sense of where the boundaries might lie. (for which I make no apologies)  When Spurrier wound up WYWH, he began his latest Avatar webcomic, "Disenchanted", which I followed with the same level of interest and "helpfulness".

Which brings us full circle, and to the point raised regarding my motivation or reasons for making "that"comment in the first place. Without going into a long, interminably boring and un-necessary critique on the plot dynamics of "Disenchanted" or how you had to "be there" to get it, my reason for the subjective context and the barbed sentiment I used to aggregate it, are simple. Trollish hyperbole. The satisfaction I got from Spurrier's response, was a petty and and purely personal one, and one that I wasn't expecting to have to justify, but I don't mind. Much. Spurrier is a brilliant writer in an increasingly cut-throat and fickle industry, and (as yet) his quality of artistic content remains consistently excellent. So there's no chink in his creative process that I could even  detect, invent, or comment upon. For which I'm actually quite glad, because I enjoy his work immensely. But he's not such a good forum admin.

He tends to have little input in those threads, save for starting one each week, and his sporadic forays into site moderation tend to originate in some really classic Whiteknighting when one of his favoured fangirls gets even slightly ruffled because someone said something rude to someone else, or the "spirit" of the forum has been compromised because someone doesn't agree with some wanky sense of entitlement some people have about never getting offended.

Well, I don't know about you, but I think if you have a admin like that, with such a wide open vulnerability for WKing, it would be churlish, and a betrayal of trolling traditions NOT to give the fucker a bit of a poke. Not enough to actually get them to pre-emptively ban you, or force some arbitrary and petty punitive climbdown in light of his status as admin. To his credit, he didn't demand I that I remove the post, or even remove it himself . (Which is what he usually does) he asked me to "make an edit". Which I did. With no fuss. And even left the original post up. And that seemed to satisfy any forum protocol, and satisfied my own petty smug, confirming his admin abilities.

OK? Same old BadBeast, just not around as much as I used to be. 

And for context: I tell (and laugh at) dead baby jokes.

You'd have loved our "Dead baby jokes" FB Page. I was surprised at how long it lasted. Or our short lived but hilarious "Mothers against breastfeeding" page. Funny how people will go right out of their way to hurl themselves into taking offence at the most outrageously spurious trollbait, then start foaming when they get mocked and ridiculed into making blatant death threats to the admins on a public forum, in a open page, then thinking better of it, and removing their posts. They go absolutely batshit when you re-post screencaps of what they said, that they CAN'T remove. Then they demand that you remove them immediately or "face legal action".

When you remind them that they have no legal grounds for "harassment" (or any other) lawsuit, and that no-one is forcing them to come to our pages, make complete arseholes of themselves, then demand that WE help them to pretend they never said those things at all. Or that our screencaps were taken "out of context". Of course they were. THEY removed the comment from the context! Then the inbox fills up with "I'm going to shoot you in the face" PMs.  People troll themselves on facebook. Then call you a troll, because of their own lack of self control.  I nearly started a thread here, to post some of the more hilariously OTT responses we've had from people with a seemingly bottomless capacity for cunting themselves, but it doesn't look like anyone's giving FB the trolling it deserves. The Disco groups on FB have their moments of sublime idiocy, but they boot all their best trolls from the groups. Eventually.

He didn't respond to me... maybe he won't ignore just ignore you. After all, you are a man. 

Nigel, my lack of response to your first post wasn't on the grounds that you're a woman. I just didn't come here to discuss misogyny, and your post obviously had an agenda suggesting that I might need to address it as a subject. I don't. But don't take it personally. If I ever do feel a need to examine any inherent misogynist issues I may find myself struggling with, I promise I'll come to one of your threads on woman stuff, and thrash it out, ok?

If you turned up to a fight where everyone wath armed with gunth, and all you had wath a fuckin' Hammer, you'd be Thor too.

This post brazenly continues to to disseminate some more of the criminally under rated and underexposed work of the late, great Robert Calvert. He was born in 1945, in Pretoria, South Africa, to South African parentage, and moved to England as a young child. The profound differences of the two, very different Countries certainly had an effect upon his Artistic outlook, and more sadly, on his mental health.
He suffered from what was then called Manic Depression, being diagnosed as Schizophrenic in his teens too. This led to regular breakdowns, and Hospitalisations, or as his Mother put it, to his Band, when they first went on tour,
"Be warned though Boys, he tends to go into regular meltdowns every nine months or so" They thought she was probably exaggerating. She wasn't. 

So here are two very different pieces of prose by him, reflecting his feelings on both England, and how he missed the strangest things about his family in South Africa.  Enjoy.


~True Brit~

We are an obstinate people
We sometimes fake that we are thick
or adopt intellectual overtones
that only confuse ourselves
There is no one easier to fool
than a British intellectual

our language is only made for feelings
and for strange meaningless detentions
that say all
without any need for unravelling
We divide ourselves into ridged classes
and stick to them with such tenacity
that even when we cross them
our class will cling to us
like the symptoms of an hereditary disease

One of the boys in my class
has a trawler now
and he is still my mate
he is not impressed
by the measure of my success
only in that I have made myself the hero of my own dreams
as he has himsely
and Tony, Rod and Nik have all done the same

We have become ourselves only more so
we are True Brits
if we go abroad we look out for each other
there is a kinship between us
a ship of kin
that has sunk to the bottom level of our society
all hands went down
we find we can live here
with Davy Jones
eat fish and chips

None of us is very good at spelling
our faces are carved up with laughter half the time
The only time we are serious is when we punch fuck out of each other
We still speak in a language the Romans could not interfere with
It is a limited vocabulary admittedly
but even medical students
only turn to the Latin
when attempting to describe the unexplainable

There is nothing ethnic about us
but we share an ethos
even with some kids who are totally black
but not with awe

There are new laws being passed now
that say we must
We have always thought that laws were made to be broken
the Romans still have a lot to answer for
as do the Normans

The Norman's had the arrogance
to stay and lay claims that are still being adhered to
just look at the Channel Islands
their last stronghold
full of tax evaders
a bunch of cunts

Notice how easily they were invaded by the Bosh
but that's all history now or is it?
At least the Romans showed the cowardice of their convictions
and sailed off when they knew they were beaten

Some of them have stayed of course
that's why you see so many broken noses still around
There' is only one thing we lack besides conviction
(though some of us have had a few previous)

And that is enough money to live a decent life on
and I've just had a think about this and
I've decided that this poem is going to have to go on strike
until I can get some parity with other night shift worker.


And on South Africa, to where his Father, an Architect, and his Mother returned when Bob was in his late teens.  Bob elected to remain here in England.

~White Dynasty~

Chin cupped
In the palm,
Bunched fingers
Pressing up
To lift the flesh
From the cheekbone,
Chinesing the lid:
That's how he sits
When he's reading;
Elbow propped
On a leather arm.
I sometimes catch
Myself in this
Unconscious pose
Of my dad's.
My brother
Does it too.
(It leaves a mark.)
While they relax
On their verandhas -
The sun
Of Johannesburg
X-Raying the page -
Tear gas drifts
In Soweto's lanes.
And I am exiled
At a desk in Kent:
My conscience clear.
But by the time
I have written this,
I know the left side
Of my face will bear
The same
Faint redness
Around the eye.

But despite all that, I still remain optimistic about human nature. Futile, perhaps, but it beats letting it depress the very last breath from me. (which is the only alternative)

Be fair. Going with Boris is closer to beating yourself in the face with the frying pan full of scalding oil.

I certainly won't be "going with Boris", I just wouldn't put it past the UK electorate to pick him over either A/Cameron (To lead the Tories in the next election)

or B/ To pick him over any Labour / Labour coalition with Milliband at the helm.

FTR, I've never participated in any electoral  / democratic process in all the 30+ years I've been eligible to vote, and I don't see anyone on the political horizon that inspires me to do anything other than throw bottles of piss at the whole UK democracy gameshow . Fortunately, I've managed to develop some measure of impulse control, or I'd be typing this on a smartphone smuggled into my Prison cell via someone's colon. The whole process seems more and more like an invitation to paddle through a sewer, and pick the shiniest turd that floats past every time.  And the more it gets dressed up as the tinkling of a pristine mountain stream, the less I want to dip a toe into it.

I don't have any alternative political solution to the whole mess, and I'm not naive enough to try and convince people to revolt, or take to the streets, (I know how that ends up every time, and have the scars to prove it) so all I can do, is refuse to participate. It's a shit game anyway, and no-one ever wins. If voting could change things for the better, then why hasn't it already done so?

Sadly I think you're right. And Labour aren't even fit to field a decent opposition at the moment. I think Boris will replace Cameron too, and that's like . . . . out of the frying pan, into the frying pan.

Isn't that effectively what Harold Wilson's Labour Govt did at the end of the 1970s? (Making the 1979 election a one horse Tory race)  Also, what the following Tory Govt did in the run-up to Blair's "New Labour" Campaign? (Making Blair seem like a good, fresh option)

The Tactic seems to have been adopted by the Republicans under GWB too. Being such a shitty, unpopular, and inept administration that the opposition inevitably gets in, and has to either adopt the policies left behind, or spend their whole term trying to clean up the mess . . .


eta: My point being that England effectively becomes a "one party state" in the run-up to every general election . . .

It probably seems kinda funny to an outsider, given the reputation of Scotland and Northern Ireland...but as a rule, skinheads, fascists and nazis tend to be unionists (and Protestants), and do not flourish well in such climates.  Combat18 once tried setting up cells in Belfast, but, well, the Provos got wind of them and that was that.  The play-believe stormtroopers generally do poorly against anyone who can actually fight back, be that Celtic fans or Republican terrorists armed with drills.

Totally, this. Britain may have it's totalitarian political biases, but fascism isn't one that ever sat well with people. It may be something to do with the way we stood virtually alone against the Nazis in the early years of WWII, but I think it goes further back than that. It's possibly got something to do with our decision to re-instate a constitutional Monarchy after Cromwell, rather than take the option of being a Republic. Even the symbolism and iconology of our Heraldic heritage is decidedly lacking when it comes to double headed eagles, lightning bolts, fasces and other such revered symbols of fascist movements. It might even go back to our breakaway from Catholicism under Henry VIII. Or even further, the last fascist rulers of Britain were the Romans, and even they had trouble keeping the population in order. We were the only Roman province where Rome felt the need to keep a constant Military occupation throughout their "rule" here.   

TDS is basically a good way to fuck the wrong end of the pig.

Oh come on, it's a PIG for fuck's sake! The only points of etiquette that matter flew South long before any decision was made to fuck it. Just dribble a bit of spit on the end before you go in . . . . . 


(Christ, the end with the hole in it of course!)