Somebody explain to me why these people should not be publicly scourged when caught:
Parents have been urged to check playground equipment after thugs attached razor blades to a slide.
Potentially deadly blades were cellotaped to a slide in Winifred Lane Play area in Aughton, West Lancashire – and left in a prime position so children could easily slice open their hands.
Here’s an example:
Now go ahead and tell me why I shouldn’t start assembling the whipping-frame.
Some Brit toffs just got married at the groom’s future digs (which he gets when his dad snuffs it), said shack being so vast that no ground-level photo can quite do it justice :
Now ordinarily I am disinterested in the couplings of nobility; the nuptials of Lady Fontinella Waxwork-ffolkes and Lord Beastly Stiff-Upper-Lypp pass by my gaze unnoticed, and even Prince Harry’s marriage would have been disregarded by me but for the fact that the poor royal ginger ended up with some foul feminist Hollywood slag and was therefore only worthy of comment insofar as I predict that this unfortunate alliance will not end well (you heard it here 455th).
Anyway, the thing which caught my idle glance in the above report was this unfortunate description:
“George, the Marquess of Blandford, 26, married childhood sweetheart Camilla Thorp, 31”
Say what? I’m assuming / hoping that he wasn’t 5 years old, and she 10 when they became sweethearts… oh wait, it turns out that they met ten years ago when he was 16 (not really a “child”, was he?) and she ummmm…. carry the two, 21. That’s a fair age difference but not overly so.
Phew. I am relieved. Of course, had this liaison been consummated in Murka, she’d have been facing statutory rape charges at some point (assuming that they’d started bonking soon after first meeting, as seems to be the custom these days), but I suppose the aristocracy has a much more benign attitude towards this kind of thing so it’s okay, albeit risky. (Remember that Chinless Charles married Super-Sloane-Ranger Di when he was in his thirties and she yet in her teens, and we all know how that turned out.) Also, the Dukes of Marlborough are outrageously wealthy, thanks to Great-Grandpappy Marlborough marrying a Vanderbilt girl, so maybe there’s a different rule for the rich when it comes to bonking sixteen-year-olds.
Anyway: congratulations and good luck to the happy couple, who seem to be quite charming. And as wedding pics go, you have to admit that this isn’t one of yer ordinary backgrounds:
And all over Britain can be heard the gnashing of desperate debutante teeth as another eligible “catch” escapes their hooks.
Another age-distinct couple got married recently, and their backdrop was also rather special:
That’s the Umaid Bhawan palace in Jodhpur, but it’s not likely to be owned by either the bride or groom anytime in the future, as they are neither royal not even noble. Like we couldn’t tell (note the bride’s ceremonial hand tattoo UGH):
Anyway, he is someone called Nick Jonas, a one-time (or current?) pop star of whom I know nothing except that like the future duke (above), he’s 26. His bride, like the Royal Ginger’s wife, is some houri actress named Priyanka Chopra, and who like the Marchioness Blandford is older than her husband, but she by some ten summers.
At least this couple are not “childhood sweethearts”: the thought of a twenty-one-year old woman bonking an eleven-year-old boy… well, you know.
This marriage, I give a couple of years. Call it a hunch.
My friend Doc Russia has a fixation about being prepared for any eventuality. His gun collection is, shall we say, comprehensive — so much so that the last time he rode out with the North Texas SWAT team (a gig he volunteers for, uncompensated), he arrived with his latest toys and one of the guys burst out: “Damn, Doc! You’ve got better gear than we have.” And it’s true.
One of the things that the SWAT guys need is transportation for the emergency doctor who rides out with them — to be more specific, transportation for Doc’s successor, because of course, Doc’s ride (which we his friends dubbed the “Doom Wagon”) could probably not only survive a nuclear blast, but also outlast the cockroaches which would survive that. Even Keith Richards would shake his head and give up.
For those who are interested in such things, it’s a Toyota 4Runner, although after he’d finished with the mods, it looked like nothing Toyota ever dreamed of. Here are a couple pics, just for you to get the idea:
All this came from Doc’s need to be prepared for any eventuality: it’s a bugout wagon par excellence, and as you can see from the latter pic, it carries spare fuel (it has to, ‘cos it be thirsty, mon). Also inside is a giant medical bag, to save lives, and to take lives (if necessary), a semi-auto rifle in a hidden compartment and a spare Glock 17 in the glove box, along with shall we say an adequate sufficiency of ammo for both. Alert Readers will have seen the light bar, and the snorkel for deep-water fording, but would not have seen the massive steel underbody plate, the beefed-up adjustable suspension or the built-in air compressor (to be able to re-inflate a tire in case of a puncture).
So much do the SWAT guys covet this beast that Doc promised to transfer it over to them should he ever have to quit the gig, so his replacement would have its full use. (It’s even deeded to N. Texas SWAT in his will.)
I don’t know why I’m using the present tense in all this, because last week the Doom Wagon was stolen out of the hospital parking garage while Doc was on duty in the ER. According to an eyewitness, it wasn’t gone in sixty seconds; the pro team of thieves (which it must have been) only needed about half that before driving off in it.
So while Doc was saving lives in the emergency room, some fucking bastards stole his truck.
He’s insured, of course, but that’s not the point. I’ve been with him almost all the way in his quest to create the perfect utility vehicle — we’ve sat and talked and argued about this option versus that option, weighing cost vs. performance vs. utility and so on — and in the end, all for nothing: gone to a mope with a crowbar and a screwdriver.
Here’s what’s interesting. Needless to say, Doc’s medical kit and the two guns with it are also gone, but that’s not what bothers him the most.
You see, his eight-year-old daughter’s favorite water bottle, complete with her name engraved on it, was also in the truck — and when I picked him up from work, he was most upset that he was going to have to explain to her that yes, there are bad people in the world, and because of them, she’ll never see her water bottle again. It would have been her first experience of evil because like most good parents, he’s tried to shield her from the ugliness as much as he could. No more.
You don’t want to hear the details of our revenge fantasies, should we ever lay hands on these bastards.
I recently happened upon this article about The Englishman’s travails with Gummint, and I passed the link on to the kids as the place under discussion happens to be where their mother is buried.
Daughter’s comment (and Quote Of The Day):
“I feel like this is the definition of bureaucracy.”
I would have put it somewhat differently (with much more venom and bad language), but I think she’s encapsulated the issue perfectly.
As Mr. Free Market puts it, “The French have always been revolting, dear boy”, but this latest round of mayhem is outstanding, even for the French.
Violence has erupted again in Paris today as masked protesters stole an assault rifle from police, clashed with riot squads and set fire to cars and Christmas trees on the Champs-Elysées in furious demonstrations against the French government.
Riot police sprayed tear gas, fired water cannon and stun grenades and pulled out their batons to fight back against ‘Yellow Vest’ protesters who occupied the famous boulevard and graffitied the Arc de Triomphe.
Police said 80 people had been injured in clashes, including 16 security officers, and 183 people arrested as more than 5,000 demonstrators brought chaos to Paris for the second week running.
Masked and hooded protesters hurled crowd barriers at police in Paris and this evening stole an assault rifle from a police car in the city centre.
Meanwhile there were further rallies spiralling across the country, spreading to Marseilles, Biarritz and Antibes on the Mediterranean coast and even into the Netherlands.
The protests, named ‘Yellow Vest’ after drivers’ high-vis jackets, began last month amid fury over rising fuel prices but have mushroomed into an all-out challenge to Emmanuel Macron’s presidency.
Of course, they being French, there’s a certain element of style to the thing, even when burning the place down:
However, as my old buddy Erik at No Paseran! puts it, it’s more than just higher fuel prices which have got the Frogs miffed:
It is not wrong to say that the demonstrations were caused by the government’s decision to raise gas prices. What is missing is that this is just one of several draconian measures dating back half a year, i.e., ‘tis the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back.
For the past four to five months, the French government has done nothing but double down on bringing more and more gratuitous oppression and more and more unwarranted persecution measures down on the necks of the nation’s drivers and motorcycle riders.
Read the rest of it, because it’s quite obvious, when you follow the whole sequence of incremental governmental bastardy, just whence the burning anger came and why the French riots, unlike those pitiful pantomimes performed by our own Pantifa snowflakes, are so well supported by the French people en masse.
Good for them, I say. Now, if I may be a little old-fashioned for a moment, let’s hope that the next scenes will show Frog politicians being carried in tumbrels to the waiting guillotines.
The Frogs always overdo things; it’s one of their most endearing traits.
As Sundays at this address seem to have degenerated into discussions of beauty (with a little gratuitous leering thrown in — you animals), I had an idea for a new series: beautiful cars, suitably accessorized.
Here, for example, is the Ferrari thread:
Your votes in Comments.
Next week (unless y’all hate this idea): another brand.