No words

No jokes about the Emirates, please . . .

Fucking hell, they're using actual living kids as goalposts. The luxury. Posh bastards.

All I want for Christmas . . .

. . . is number 17.  

Thank You, Santa.

The Man Who Shot Lewis Vance by Stuart M. Kaminsky (1986)

When I opened my eyes, I saw John Wayne pointing a .38 at my chest. It was my .38. I closed my eyes.

The inside of my head seemed to be filled with strawberry cotton candy with little unnamed things crawling through its sickly melting strands. Nausea forced my eyes open again. John Wayne was still there. He was wearing trousers, a white shirt, and a lightweight tan windbreaker. He was lean, dark, and puzzled.

“Don’t close your eyes again, Pilgrim,” he said.

I didn’t close them. He was standing over me and I was slumped in a badly sprung, cheap, understuffed hotel chair. I tried to sit up and speak but my tongue was an inflated, dry pebbly football.

Animal Farm 2.0

"This time we're not going to fuck it up  . . ."

Road to Christmastide

I'll be watching old Bob Hope movies this Christmas, but for those of you with a more religious frame of mind . . .

Porridge (1979)

Last One In?

Could this be my last 180 of 2019?

Quite possibly but 16 180s for the year is not too shabby in the overall scheme of things. Maybe I will actually hit a double in 2020.

The Thing (1982)

Under Fire (1983)

Gauntlet thrown down . . .

and challenge accepted.

Cheeky bugger. I've been spewing out the occasional shite meme for ages now. I'm not some Johnny Come Lately when it comes to hackneyed political in-jokes. Here's one I did eons ago, and it was only 14 months after everyone else had stopped using and abusing that meme. 14 months, people, 14 months . . .  that's on the ball politicking for the SPGB.

Posted from said armchair . . .

Just doing some desktop clearing up before the end of the year. Found this floating around and, as I feel the need to explain my jokes most of the time, I thought I'd whack it on the blog.

I bet it'd been killing you all this time about what the blog header was actually referring to. I'm here to serve:

Marxist-Wertherism

Don't mind me. Just need to put this somewhere, and this is as good a place as any. 

I'm still on my one man mission to popularize the SPGB-Werther's Originals joke meme. I'm trying  . . .  very trying.

Economic Conscription

Stop the world I want to get off . . .

Down for the Count by Stuart M. Kaminsky (Mysterious Press 1985)

I tried to ignore the shadow over me, but you can’t do that when it belongs to the heavyweight champion of the world.

“He dead?” Joe Louis said, breathing heavily. Louis was wearing blue shorts and an extra-extra large white T-shirt stained with sweat. His feet were bare.

“Down for the count,” I said.

About a quarter-mile down the shore some girls were giggling in the surf, the late sun hitting their tanned bodies, their voices bubbling through the white waves hitting the beach and the corpse I was kneeling next to. I looked away from the girls and out over the ocean at the sun heading for Japan. I wondered how I was going to tell Anne about the massive brown figure in the wet sand casting his shadow over me and the badly beaten body. There wasn’t much face left on the body, but there wasn’t any doubt about who it was.

Ralph Howard had always dressed tastefully, conservatively. Even now with sand, salt water, and pinkish blood staining the tan panama suit, the corpse had Ralph’s touch.