Stupid Lefties Of The Week (with Chorlton and The Wheelies bonus)

A dearth of Stupid Criminal Of The Week award worthy crimes led us to wonder in the Boggart Blog office if it might be time to inaugurate a new category of award for outandingly stupid behaviour among a sector of society for whom stupidity is the norm.

Right on cue those paragons of stupidity, the Occupy movement provided us with inspiration. Having failed to Occupy The City, The Barbican, a scout hut in Camden Town and various other spaces you’d think Occupy might get the message and occupy the space between their collective ears.

But no, these people are truly dedicated to fuckwittery of the highest order. They tried to Occupy The Salvation Army.

Last Monday, we learn, a little old lady rang the buzzer outside the Salvation Army headquarters in Elephant and Castle, London. They door was opened for her because even in Elephant and Castle the Sally Army doesn’t turn people away people who need help and she seemed in need of help. But the old lady or perhaps I should say t’little old Lady like the friendly Yorkshire dragon in Chorlton and The Wheelies who could never see that t’little old lady was in fact an evil witch who wanted to make the wheelies wheels seize up because the little old Lady knocking on the Sally Army’s door in Elephant and Castle was was not what she seemed to be either: she was a decoy for Occupy Workfare, a gang of Left-wing dickheads activists who were hiding behind her. As soon as the door was opened, they burst into the HQ and proceeded to “occupy” it.

Apparently Occupy don’t like the Sally Army because it employs benefit recipients who are required to do work experience as a route back to employment. This so-called “workfare” scheme means they help the charity for a maximum of four weeks – and some of them are so impressed by its Christian witness that they stay on as volunteers while they find real jobs and sometimes even become actyive Christians (which we think might be what really pisses off Occupy).

In the eyes of Occupy Workfare, however, the Salvation Army is “collaborating” in a Tory conspiracy to exploit benefit claimants. Hence their charming old-lady decoy trick, which enabled a bunch of scumsuckers reeking of Patchouli oil and personal odours to push past the reception staff, pushing some aside roughly.

Leftie agitators aren’t the brightest folk (anyone remember Citizen Smith?) so it never occurred to them that once the door had shut behind them they wouldn’t be able to unoccupy the Sally Army building. The reception staff, independent contractors of the type usually recruited from ex military personnel didn’t appreciate being bullied and called the police. Occupy Workfare are now complaining of harassment that they were being “held hostage” by the Salvation Army … Arseholes.

In case you’d forgotten – Chorlton and The Wheelies (YouTube):

Occupy Protestors Miss Kim’s Funeral

News bulletins tonight were full of the Kim Jong Il funeral ceremony. In reverential tones commentators spoke of how distraught crowds of people who adored the “Dear Leader” had lined the route for more than 24 hours, wailing and gnashing teeth in a frenzy of mourning.

What they didn’t mention was that the new government had decreed anybody not grief stricken enough would get 20 years in a labour camp.

Such is life in authoritarian states of course. Which I guess is why we did not see any of the recent “Occupy” protestors paying their last respects to Kim nor, despite their professed love of big government and collectivism, do we see them queueing to go and live in North Korea.

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Memorial To The Occupy Protestors

Now may be the season to be jolly but it is also the season when church officials go a bit crazy. Especially, it seems, if they are Church of England senior clergymen.

It may be all that business of having to pretend a virgin gave birth to a baby in a stable with an Ox, an Ass, a Lion and an Eagle looking on during a heavy snowfall in Palestine, while a bunch of shepherds and a very worried looking sheep hover in the background, an angel hovers overhead and three wise men try to look inconspicuous and hope the local chavs don’t notice one of them is carrying a casket of gold. I mean you’d have to be a bit barking to believe any of that so people whose job describption demands they beleve all of it must be completely pots for rags.

Anyway about this time of year while the rest of us try to pretend we’re enjoying ourselves, senior clergy tend to pop up and say stupid things. Last year some ecclisiastical knobhead blamed the unprecedented cold spell on homosexuals while another bloamed the economic crisis on the fact that we don’t go to church any more.

This years’ chump in a cassock award goes to the Bish of London however. He suggests there should be a permanent memorial erected outside St. Pauls Cathedral to commemorate the “Occupy something or other because hey, they’re giving out free soup,” protest against Investment Bankers bonuses.

Remember those personal hygiene adverse posh-boy-and-girl protesters who spent a few weeks not camping out in the grounds of St. Pauls but hanging around stinking the place out with their patchouli soaked clothes, beer farts and personal odours during the day then leaving their tents empty overnight as they headed home to the suburbs to a warm bed and a nice hot meal cooked by their dear old Mum.

But what kinds of memorial does the Bish have in mind? An empty tent with used syringes, roaches, empty Calrsberg special cans and 2 litre Lidl own brand cider bottles strewn round it? How about an illuminated manuscript of The Benefit Claimant’s Handbook.

Clearly something special is needed to commemorate these fearless and indomitable socialist warriors who are bravely and against all odds still fighting the class wars of the 1920s and 30s: something must be done that is worthy of their futile and intellectually bankrupt cause and the men and women who risked cold, rain and sexually transmitted diseases to protest on behalf of … erm … somebody against the evils of capitalism. So said no less an authority on poverty, low aspirations and the quality of life on sink estates than than the Bishop of London himself in a sermon delivered on Christmas Day.

But what kind of memorial could ever suffice to pay tribute to those who would risk their dole to support an attempt to liberate the downtroddeen masses by applying the failed political ideologies of 80 years ago to the problems of today. I suggest a group statue of the protestors rallying to the cider bottle with these words carved on the plinth.

But we in this shall be remembered-
We few, we happy few, we band of sisters, brothers and transexuals;
For he or she to-day that share their dope and booze with us
Shall be our brother or sister; be she or he ne’er so vile,
This day shall gentle his or her condition;
(or better still there is an STI clinic at Barts.)
And gentlemen in England now in work
Shall think themselves well blessed they were not here,
And hold themselves in high esteem whiles any speaks
That dossed with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.

Paraphrased from Shakespeare’s Henry V

Keep up the good work Bish.

(BTW St. Crispin’s Day is October 25th)

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OLd Bags Don Your Coats, Your Hats And Grab Your Umbrellas, Your Country Needs YOU

Well the “riots” of last week seem to be well and truly over and it seems like everyone is chipping in their twopennorth as to the causes of this unprecedented outpouring of selfishness and greed. They’re also chipping in with solutions to the problem of disaffected youf.

So far it has been the fault of the parents, education, the national curriculum, the police, authority, people who have things – such as a work ethic, morals, conscience, pride, a job, an ability to communicate without every second syllable beginning with f, shoelaces, jeans that fit, more than three functioning brain cells – capitalism, consumer society, advertisers,Princess Diana… oh go on just add your own to the list.

Solutions have ranged from bringing back National Service, vocational education, scrapping the national curriculum, making all children do maths till the age of 36, street cleaning, community service, beating, drowning at birth, shooting and imprisonment, to name but a few.

So we at Boggartblog thought we should outline our plan for re-establishing the nation’s stiff upper, ramrod backbone and a firm belief in the values espoused by Rudyard Kipling, not least the ability to enjoy afternoon tea with exceedingly good cakes.

We don’t need more police, we don’t need riot squads, we don’t need frowning politicians.

What we do need are more old bags.

Opinionated old ladies who are not afraid to make their feelings known, no matter whom they may upset, old bags just like the Grandma from the Giles cartoons and our dear old Mum.

We need a whole army of them, patrolling the streets with their winter coats firmly buttoned, their umbrellas furled and ready to point, their beady eyes peeled to all manner of things that weren’t like that in their day, and their tongues duly sharpened to let anybody and everybody know just what they think at any given time.

The old bag who lived next door to us when I was just knee high to a grasshopper could stop a child dead in their paces with one steely glance over the garden wall.

The one we lived next door to after that, who probably wasn’t really that old given that she had children that were knee high to me, only had to twitch the net curtains for us kids to scatter to wherever we had come from.

Old bags would shame the recalcitrant child into giving up its seat on the bus to an older person.

Old bags would calmly accost a litterbug and point out that they appeared to have dropped something.

Old bags thought nothing of telling miscreants off for spitting, swearing, not covering their mouths when they coughed, walking three abreast on the pavement, wearing skirts too short, not having your coat done up, getting soaked through in the rain, not forming an orderly queue, pushing in, snogging in public, snogging on the bus, snogging in the cinema.

Old bags were omnipotent. They saw everything, they knew everybody.
How many times has the phrase, “I know who you are Johnny Smith, I know where you live, I’ll be telling your parents about you…” followed the retreating figure of a wannabe arsehole down the street?

And how often did those all seeing eyes and uninhibited tongues prevent a little mischief that could have led to so much more?

Unfortunately the old bag appears to be a dying breed, but Boggartblog says ladies, and men but you would have to drag up, get your coats, get your hats, get your umbrellas and take to the streets. Stick your nose into anybody’s business, say what you want without fear of political correctnesss or other people’s feelings, name and shame those around you who don’t conform to your ideas of good public behaviour.

YOUR COUNTRY NEEDS YOU!

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