Wednesday, 15 November 2017

Fuck The Conservative Party...Forever

Hey!

I just got my letter telling me I'm coming off DLA and gotta claim PIP! I have to do this by a certain date or I don't get jack shit! Plus even if I do claim then you will be assessed and might not even get it! Also, I got my letter not long after finding out about the many tax avoidance and evasion schemes used by the wealthy that cost this country millions in lost revenue! Yippee! 

PIP, or pip, it's such a jolly name, just like Belsen is such a jolly name!

Actually the flouting of Godwin's Law just feels so appropriate and fitting for this situation right now that I'm just gonna do it anyway. That said the comparison of Iain Duncan Smith with Josef Mengele is unfair as Mengele's treatment of the disabled had some sort of sick, twisted purpose to it while Duncan Smith has none. You see Tories; even the Nazis were a better party than you and it really takes something for me to be saying that!! Seriously. 

PS: Just an FYI, when your new benefit system has already cost lives and will continue to do so, it ain't working!

Outside of current anger and despair, there is a recognition that nothing really could be done to stop this. Duncan Smith and DWP successors are stoolies figuratively as well as literally. This was going to happen and it didn't matter which puppet was going to implement this, our rulers (whoever you think they are) had already decided this was going to happen and this would be the benefit system from now on. It is fact. Any change or leniency is a dream for a far off day or simply will not happen.

One of the things I can take from this is the final removal of the illusion of justice; legal fairness and equality is only for the wealthy. Tax avoidance/evasion is for greedy bastards and they do nothing, repeat nothing, to help. They have washed their hands of their country and their country should do the same to them. Of course it won't, so, that's it. That's justice, which doesn't exist.

The saddest thing really is there is a lovely little island off the Irish coast called Tory; having been there, what a tragedy that it is now associated with one of the most immoral and malign political parties to ever have cursed the face of the Earth.

That's justice...



Bisson




Monday, 23 October 2017

Why Brexit Must Destroy Britain

Brexit...really is a stupid word. As meaningless now as when it was coined up by whichever bite-size pain in the backside coined it up in the first place. It's Britain's exit from the European Union, not that Britain ever really joined in the first place, so its a stupid word as its not a word at all but lazy terminology.

When we speak of Britain, we of course mean England and its adjuncts; long-conquered and colonised Wales, subdued Scotland and the colony in Ireland that never really got much further south and so had to make do with being Northern Ireland. Still two out of three is not a bad hit rate and the English have learnt to live with that, albeit with the worse grace possible.

The real reasons for Britain leaving the EU are not exactly complex but have just not filtered through to the general population; mainly because the people in positions of power who want to leave, DON'T WANT the general population to know the real reasons for leaving the EU. Therefore the reason for leaving has been put down to the need for immigration control and how being part of the EU undermines such control.

Ah immigrants...that favoured old chestnut of an island people. To foam about immigration you need to have a basic and warped perception of nationalism and culture. Of course, Britain was built on immigration; you sort of need it to populate an island and would Scotland be such a pliant partner in the union if it had not be shorn of a sizable chunk of its population through forced emigration (becoming immigrants)? Nope, because the ones left are the ones too weak to put up any resistance.

Naturally in Britain immigrants are feared. From the modern EU, we have the descendants of all those people who fought so hard for Britain during World War Two and were then left high and dry afterwards. The immigrants who come from places that were run into the ground so Britain could have an empire and the immigrants who come every time a ham-fisted British foreign policy bites viciously on some distant country. Hated and feared, all of them.

Of course, they are in Britain to take jobs; which is easily done as they have fewer rights and protections compared to British workers and so rich, greedy employers hire them eagerly as they can then save some dosh not paying for Union agreed hours, wages, insurance and etc.

They are not here for the NHS and welfare state any more as that's nearly dead, of course.

So how can Britain save itself from immigrants? Well, the major problem is what we call Brexit. According to those in favour of leaving, Britain will become a wonderful paradise when it leaves where the streets will be paved in gold and everybody will be lovely and happy and free forevermore in their little land of hope and glory...

Nice, except that will make Britain an absolute magnet for immigration. Think about it, if Britain becomes this great land of honey and dew and sugar rock candy, then that's exactly the place people will want to be. They'll come in their droves and what is more they will come illegally which will mean you'll never be too sure how many immigrants are in the country at any given time. Unless of course you're prepared to watch every inch of the coastline 24/7, but even at that...

So if Brexit happens and Britain becomes the place the leavers want it to be then it will totally defeat the purpose of anti-immigration which is the main reason the general population voted to leave the EU. Britain will be viewed as the ultimate destination for ALL immigrants.

Ergo if you are anti-immigration then Brexit must kill Britain; the country must be reduced to a sniveling pile of wretched putridness, far below the degradation of even the most poverty stricken Third World country. It must be the worst place on Earth; the last place people escaping war and poverty want to come to. That is why for Brexit to truly work it must destroy Britain.

Yet fear not little foaming outsider haters, the ruin of Britain began well before it decided to leave the EU now...




Bisson.




Saturday, 2 July 2016

Poor Pussy Cat

Greetings,

Boredom breeds laziness, but what breeds boredom? Good Question. Perhaps the simple answer is fear.

What is fear? Just to love, the one you think of and they then run away from you, not allowing you to? Perhaps.

I was going to explain the origin of the phrase "Not so lucky, Pierre" which my name gave weight to.

Well, it is the cri de coeur of the unlucky in love, of which I am the most I know. I have fallen to love and lost.

I have tried to reach out and been rejected.

Ah that the most painful curse of all as you reveal yourself to your most naked core and are still found wanting. How do you, how can you feel then?

So fuck dating websites.

What is left? Well the infinite flaws of oneself, which of course, you are not unaware.

But then? Are you not a person of some interest? Do you not have redeeming features? So why be rejected?

I know not.

When one tries to find love and is rejected, one can be as I was and at least one can say; "Not so lucky, Pierre!" As luck favors those who pertain towards it...

Perhaps it is best to pour yet more into the glass and think no more of it.



Pierre




Wednesday, 29 June 2016

Nurture not Nature...

Waiting for something worth posting...this isn't it.

I remember a conversation I had with an ex...

Her: "Bisson, where are our children?"

Me: "Ehh, here and thereabouts on the bed sheet dearest, in fact if you get an extra strong microscope you can see them better. Look our eldest is doing front and backstroke. He'll be an Olympic champion that one..."

Her: "Would they not be better in my vagina?!"

Me: "But that's where they become really expensive my love!"

Her: "You pulled out as you came, you fucking..."

And that's all I remember of that conversation, but that was quite a later relationship and you can see why that ended. I was too far gone then.

I tried Plenty of Fish quite a few times before that. What happens on POF is one out of over 99,000 girls you contact actually answers your email for which you've had to debase and humiliate yourself completely to send, which is exactly how you feel when they don't respond. Self-respect? Had to look that up in a dictionary and I haven't had it since I was five years old anyway.

The ones that do...it turns out you rather they hadn't. What happens is you meet a girl and she expels a small mass of tobacco into a spittoon, pushes her stetson up to get a good look at you and speaks to you in that fine western, Arizona drawl that all girls have.

"That's a real purty heart yeh got thar..."

You nod your head, albeit in fearful agreement. She will spit out another spume of tobacco and then resume her considered remarks.

"Real purty...Actshually that lil 'ol heart looks real fine in that chest cavity...but would look even bettah if Ah rip it outta there, throw it to the ground and stamp on it continuous laike...then it'll look real beautyfull in mah trophai cabinet..."

At this point you shake your head fiercely in fearful disagreement but you know it's all too late for that, cos she spits out her last wad of tabaccy and comes for yeh. Some of them don't even bring their own spittoons and you're left with a horrendous carpet cleaning bill.

Now that was POF, but you'll have exactly the same experience on OK Cupid, Match.com, Tinder and so on. Just the stetsons tend to vary.

I've been ripped to pieces over love and relationships since I was 20 anyway. I'm quite fed up with it by now. It's like getting ripped to pieces by wild dogs but you've got to stitch yourself together each time and your needlework is getting worse every time, really bad and there's always material left over. If you're in a monastery and you ever get a twinge of 'what if?', don't. Brother, you took the easy way out.

Actually as I race towards middle age I have found that past experience has tended to heighten my standards. Now, for example, I will ask myself a question like this;

'Is this woman as good as or better than "No Other", the album by Gene Clark?'

'Erm...better than "Life's Greatest Fool"...? Possibly, though I've had my self-respect trod on more than I have listened to that song...'

'Ok...is she as good as "Strength of Strings?'

'BAHAHAHAHAHAH!!!! Are you serious?? There hasn't been the woman born!!'

'What about "Some..."

'You seriously need to shut up now, this is the stupidest internal conversation I've ever had.'

And that is the lesson I've learnt the hard way. Girlfriends are great, don't get me wrong but they will never, ever be as great as good music. That will never leave you, it will always break your heart only in a good way and is always there when you're heart has been broken by some nasty human.

So get a monastery with a good sound system and you're set for life!



Bisson




Saturday, 5 March 2016

Morons of the Brattish Isles unite!

Howzit going dere?

They have an extradition treaty with the Caymen Islands...oh spiffing! So I ran back here.

I was foaming with rage in the sun since the new year as we lose good men and the shit-talkers still rule the world. What's the latest fib then?

Oh, Derek 'Daave' Camerunt's Ma apparently would say "Put on a suit, do up your tie and sing the national anthem". Oooh would she?! Sounds like it was a laugh a minute in your house when you grew up, Derek, no wonder you turned out so fucked up.

We get the suit/tie/anthem shit for the first 20 years of our lives and those of us with sense tell this type of empty pointless gunge to get to fuck and stop jamming up our brains with its pointlessness. So get to fuck Daave, which in your case means SERIOUSLY FUCK OFF.

Anway Daave's Ma never said that. What she did say to him was:

"Dear Cunt, stop cunting around with our vital public services you stupid cunt. Should never have sat on the bed after your father cracked one off on the eiderdown and I became pro-abortion after I squeezed you out, you smooth faced cunt. You fucked my piss-flaps forever more with that over sized cunt of a head of yours. Fuck you.
Signed Mrs Cameron aka deeply sorry mother of a dozy cunt."

Quote her correctly next time Daave, she's on the money.

Meanwhile in Amerikkka...

A comb-over shows us with enough money you can buy an election but are still too cheap to get a decent hair transplant. What the over-comb plans to do is, like all American dreams, lifted from Germany in 1945. He wants to build showers for any non-white people still left in the country after he buys his way into the White House as he thinks if you're not white, then you must be dirty. Only his trick is they are not actually real showers...

You think this is the end of the world? Nah that already happened in 2008. Or maybe it was 1980...

 We're fucked anyway in case you didn't guess.




Bisson



Ps: Learn the national anthem, before it's too late!



 





Tuesday, 15 September 2015

The swirling of musings at the bottom of the glass

Greetings,

I suppose I must be a socialist. I never thought I was. I always imagined a proven lack of awareness of socialist tenents would make someone utterly unqaulified for such an appellation. Yet I hear comedians such as Mark Steele or Mark Thomas speak and it is like brain nectar; refreshing and exactly in tune with my own feelings at the same time. I hear Billy Bragg and I hear a man speaking good sense.

By contrast when this David Cameron comes on the screen I change the channel immediately with a few well chosen Gallic oaths questioning his parentage, humanity and etc. This person is right wing and everything he says just makes the mind feel more leaden and the feeling that you are being told a downright pack of lies. That you know you are being sold falsehoods and you must pay. Vile little man.

Another glance in the glass and well fed by a sharp white, this is such a method to while away the afternoon in a sufferable blur. Then I am a socialist, it is indeed nice to have these things decided sometimes. Meanwhile on the record player I have Zoot Allures upon the platter, not for the usual connotations but because one of my favourite musicians happens to be Frank Zappa. I have begun side B with the excellent aural philosophising of 'Find Her Finer' and its even more excellent warning of how trying to impress a girl with your finer qualities will get you nowhere in love.

I have no finer qualities but I am nowhere in love all the same. I would surmise that you could play the willfully ignorant man mountain card but how do you maintain such a guise for the rest of your relationship? She will find your finer qualities out sooner or later and then you will be dumped I suppose. It would be a very stressful act to maintain but again not wholly without benefit.

However to speak with any authority I must turn to the phrase that my name gave form to:
"Not so lucky, Pierre."
This does begat a whole area with which I can talk with absolute conviction and qualification and therefore must be explained. However it will be next time as the bottle calls, until then, yours,



Pierre




Monday, 14 September 2015

Feigning indifference is different...

Bonsoir

Ah a gaze towards the pallid light eking its way through the gauze upon the windows shows the fallacy of such a greeting but nevertheless if I think in French and write in English I am expected to make some acknowledgement of the former. The tourists love it.

What I will not acknowledge is this rather stewed vintage wallowing in both glass and bottle before me. Clearly from the side of the vineyard where the grape pickers relieve themselves. It has not been opened since 2014. One glass in and I can see why.

Still, a borderline alcoholic must take the chaff with the wheat sometimes. Why not drink when you can think of little else to do? It is the drug to be the crutch for the rest of your life. I was on a consignment of prescription drugs not long ago which were meant to alleviate the mood and bring a feeling of worth back to the desolate canyons of my mind. Not even a sisyphean task, for rolling a rock up and down a mountain is a far more achievable request by comparison.

I cannot say it is self-loathing which commands these feelings; for that emotion is the foolishness of youth and immaturity. No, self-doubt is what I feel more. That concern that you are just not cut out for anything. You lack the skills which may make you a happier person. There is no skill required in buying yet another bottle to blitz away the day, inhibition and memory; the long term experience of any of these things can only increase the sorrow and isolation I find.

The only hurdle with wine is needing money but that is so celebrated and worshipped in this modern world. The atheists have freed us from religion but throw themselves entirely at the feet of money. I find money to be more intangible, baseless and ludicrous to believe in than any of the major religions they tend to sneer at these days.

I remember the cliche of the French being great lovers. I have been entirely passed by that national stereotype if it ever existed. I have become even less interesting with age and apart from drunken musings in the dark hours before dawn have entirely resigned myself to a life without love. Less complicated it is true, but...the loneliness and essential rejection of all I am can be hard to live with and needs constant justification. As a source of stress it can take years off you. Still on the positive side it has given me the motivation needed to finish this bottle of Chateau paint-stripper in one sitting.

I raised my head from the pool of my own vomit long enough to take a phone call from dear Bisson last night. It was also the opportunity needed to find my cigarette, fuming as it still was in my cadaverous fingers of all places. Bisson wanted to tell me of a great dream he'd had and wished it be related here. As he has given me the kindness to relay my thoughts here while he hibernates, I am honoured to do so.

The dream concerns a fellow called Ian Duncan Smith. This dubious creature was sitting in an orange jumpsuit and appearing very badly beaten up, bruised and bleeding, as he sat in the dock in the Hague. He struggled to answer all the charges put before him in any effective way and was found guilty. Bisson said he woke up before he heard the sentence but that was no bad thing as it allowed his imagination to run riot with all the possible and terrible fates that could have befallen this malefactor. It will keep him entertained for weeks he said.

Ah farewell wine, you were unpleasant to drink but made great inroads into my time. The last number of hours are a mere blur. Yet I must stumble out and buy refreshment for the evening and long night ahead. Begin on a sparkling white and let the selections darken just as the night itself does. Until next time friends.



Pierre