More Nonsense From _Paul_And_Land_

Month: May, 2013

Yeah. Ecstatic.

So it seems that the City of Sheffield is the happiest place in the known and unknown world. Well according to a happiness study carried out by that well known purveyor of happiness related stuff, the Transform Cosmetic Surgery Group (TCSG).

Far be it from us to be critical, but a third of people from that there place said they feel good every single day of the week which is absolutely smashing. However our own researchers, operating on a budget of less than the cost of a bag of chips, found the results to be somewhat flawed. Erroneous even.

Speaking as our ‘Voice of a bit of Sheffield not spoken to by Transform Cosmetic Surgery Group (TCSG)’ @LilyTebbutt, reports that she is “a bit fed up because her shower isn’t working correctly”. Something of a bombshell, we here at _Paul_And_Land_ believe. And something which drives a coach and horses, a moped, a 1975 Ford Transit and a Citroen Diane through the research.

The Transform Cosmetic Surgery Group (TCSG) claim that receiving a compliment and spending time with family or friends were among the top reasons given for feeling happy but conversely made no mention of faulty plumbing being at the base of anxiety, depression and deep unhappiness.

Our own research also indicates that in the United States alone, over the past year, more people have died in Bathroom Related incidents than by Terrorist Related incidents which is both shocking and entirely unrelated to anything.

Reports of stone throwing youths are, as yet, unsubstantiated. No arrests were made.

Rock n’ Roll

Y’know, some people really need to watch their trigger finger when they’re on Twitter. Let’s take Ian ‘H’ Watkins (@IanHWatkins) as a prime example. Rock n’ Roll superstar ‘H’ thought it wise to give the world his opinion on the much criticised Channel 4 shock-umentary “Skint” and, given his words, we’re very fortunate that he has drifted into the world of has-been.

Mr ‘H’, along with his equally ‘talented’ friends Steps, had a string of hit some time ago, many of which are immediately forgettable. However his writing talents come straight to the fore with his opening parry: “Dare I watch Skint? #skint”. Smart words, perhaps you shouldn’t have.

Feeling emboldened, Mr H moves right along by adding “GET A FEKIN JOB!!! #skint”. One could almost forget that ‘H’ and his chums were probably, at some time, heroes, heroines and role models for the people put under Channel 4’s microscope. And they probably helped stuff their pockets, as well. But why let a few quid get in the way of a good rant eh?

Any way, moving right along which, if TV programmes in which celebrities bare their souls for a slack handful of moolah, is something Mr H has failed to do, he continues: “I hate the excuse ‘I can’t get a job’! There are plenty of jobs! It may not be a job you want to do but there IS work out there!!! #skint”.

Perhaps our former superstar, cushioned from reality, would care to spare a thought for some of Scunthorpe’s residents who have busted a gut in the search for work. It doesn’t drop into everyone’s laps, Mr Watkins, it actually doesn’t. Maybe you should try a few days in Scunthorpe, its a good town, like Liverpool, like Grimsby, like many other towns which have, for no good reason, been hung out to dry by successive Governments and their London-centric policies. That’s why Scunthorpe, and all those other places, are screwed and you, Mr Ian H Watkins, have the temerity to Tweet: “Stop their benefits… Then they’d have to get a job. Even one they didn’t want to do!!! #skint”. You don’t know this town, you don’t know it’s people, you don’t understand their situation. You only know what some biased Channel 4 programme has spewed out for your entertainment. And, Mr ‘H’, remember these people were, repeat were, your audience. Show some respect for them, perhaps they would agree with “Grrrrrrrrrrrr #skint”.

At least you got something right.

Err, Where To?

Much of what the racists chant is of the vein “go back to where you came from”. Now let’s take this notion apart. If we’re going to start forcing people back where they came from, there’s going to be a lot of discomfort for Mummies and Daddies. There’s also going to have to be some major advances in Molecular deconstruction. Hmm, problematic.

Perhaps this isn’t the level of “going back where you came from” that these ol’ boys crave, so what is it? And how far back are we going to go in this process? Some of these lads, bereft of shirts but not of body art, proudly sing what they see as their National Anthem; God Save The Queen. Whoops, wrong move. Her Maj is of German extraction, not that some of them appear to have a problem with German ideology of past times but she isn’t full Brit as they would advocate. So ta-ra love, off you pop.

And then there’s her hubby, Phil. Well he’s Greek. And if you think about it, they’re living off the State so the whole damned lot can bugger off. Supposedly.

That’s got rid of them, who’s next? What about all them there Protestants? More Germans! Well they would have been if Germany had existed at the time and those Roman Catholics, go on bugger off to Rome. Normans, France. On your bikes. Hugenots, ditto. As for all you Vikings, Valhalla awaits. Angles, Jutes, Danes, shut the door on the way out, same with all you Irish, Picts, Scots and Mongol bloody hordes.

Tell you what, let’s all just climb up a tree and come down, once in a while, to stone a woolly mammoth for dinner. Would that suit?


Well the boys with the pitchforks and fiery torches have been out on the streets of Grimsby overnight. Swallowing the bait, the hook, the line, the sinker and the fishing boat, they’ve decided that the best way to react to murder on the streets of London is to burn down a Mosque in Grimsby. That’s about 200 miles away from the site of the original crime. Smart, uh?

Hey wow, some crazy professor guy put some bits of human together and made a monster in a castle: “Burn the Village!”

Look boys, all you’re doing is reacting in the way that the Authorities want you too. You talk about your “Freedom”, well you’re headed the right way to lose it.

Right now, the bobby-coppers are having a squint at “on-line” stuff and as sure as eggs is eggs, they’re going to be checking out the Facebook accounts of the boys they already pulled in. So they’ll be after feeling a few more collars.

And when the bobby-coppers come knocking on your door, how’re you going to justify what you’ve done. You did it because a couple of nutters murdered someone for no good reason. Well that just doesn’t quite cut it really, does it. What you’re actually doing is, and don’t be ashamed because the Authorities and the Media have done the same, is put two and two together to make scapegoat. Think on lads.

And while you’re out and about with your fiery torches and pitchforks, you might want to spare a thought for David Hill. Yes boys, he was the bloke who died in police custody, in Grimsby, the night before Lee Rigby died. Don’t recall any Police Stations being torched but that wouldn’t make the headlines, would it?

Alf Wilkins made the headlines though, remember? Come on Grimsby, you’re better than this.

Waking up with Mr Frottage

Back in the day, when we had proper money and summer holidays in Blackpool, Clacton, Brighton and Scarborough, everybody had proper political opinions.  If you wore a flat cap, fed whippets with scraps from the dinner table and skinned your knees falling out of trees, you were a socialist.  If you wore a big coat and a tie, drove a motor out to the suburbs and discussed your plans for the garden with a man called Ted, you were a Tory.  If you had died in 1918, you were a Liberal.

There were some others, as well; the sort that like to strut around in a black and white shirts whilst being filmed in black and white for the Empire News.  Or something.

These fine and neatly coiffured chaps, strutting around the East End, chests puffed out whilst catching badly aimed bricks with their nappers don’t fit in with the general scheme.  Some have whippets, others drive their motors out to the suburbs and some should have died in 1917*.  So bib-bib, keep an eye out for them.

Enough of those sorts, let’s move on to Mr Frottage’s United Kingdom Insulation Company.  It seems that everyone who isn’t anyone is jumping on to Mr Frottage’s Hay-Wagon.  And, strangely enough, Mr Frottage’s Hay-Wagon is more than happy to accommodate any ol’ has been or indeed many ol’ not has been or even multiple ol’ shit-pans who shouldn’t be let out among farm animals.  Among this motley crew of motley crewed type motles are any number of the sort that like to strut around in a black and white shirts whilst being filmed in black and white for the Empire News.   And some who sell fags out of the back of an ice-cream van.  And some who used to be something else but then thought I don’t want to be something else, I want to be something else.

Yes, confused.  Sort it out you lemons.

And finally, a snowboarding chicken



*Note the change of time

Damn, let’s explore some funky stuff:

Beats the life out of all those guys in suits and stuff. But hang on, can this be The Isley Brothers:

I’m feeling mellow.

And Stevie Wonder circa Long Time Ago

Now, back in the day, when Tamla was in a place called Motown:

That is damned nice. So damned nice they decided to let Detroit go to rack and ruin.

More R. Dean Taylor

Just because we can, here’s a bit more R. Dean Taylor circa Cleethorpes 1977.

Not really, obviously.  More like not Indiana.

Stereo Radio Types

Somewhere out there, in the world that is known as “The World”, there is a big, fat, ugly, smelly office block with a sign on the door. The sign reads (well no, a sign cannot read because it hasn’t got the capacity to do that task but likewise the sign couldn’t, say, ‘say’ something because it hasn’t got all the bits and pieces to speak so let’s start the sentence again). These words are printed on the sign (that’s much better, thank you) ‘The Department for Stereo Radio Types’.

In The Department for Stereo Radio Types, lots of grey and dead-eyed ladies and gentlemen work ceaselessly creating new, and hopefully loved by the public, Stereo Radio Types. We all know the kind of thing: single mums are only single mums because they want a council flat (scroungers), black people all smoke drugs because that’s what they do (criminals), young men whizz around in Vauxhall Novas because they have too much time on their hands (ASBO badges of honour) and big, fat, ugly and smelly capitalists all wear pin-striped suits, smoke big, fat, ugly and smelly Havana cigars and have wads of cash hanging out of their pockets.

The Department is very proud of the work they do (‘cept for the last one, obviously) and often send out memos to BIG organisations reminding them of their sterling work and informing them how they can sneak a few cheeky stereo radio types into their stuff.

And so we get happy, smiley Mormons cuddling up to friendly tigers and unicorns because everyone and everything loves happy, smiley Mormons. And we get bouncy, jovial bobby-coppers because everyone loves bouncy, jovial bobby-coppers. And we get pallid, wasted looking mothers with ninety-seven children, all eating McDogpoo burgers because pallid, wasted looking mothers with ninety-seven children are too busy with yet another refugee from Iran or Iraq or Turkey or Braintree going for the century. Shameless hussies.

But in the far corner of the Department for Stereo Radio Types, in the basement, hiding behind all those boxes of old papers and scripts for Bernard Manning, is a little old man beavering away. He’s been at the Department for years, more years than anyone can remember. He’s been there so long that everyone has forgotten that he’s there. Bless him. He’s become very bitter. Very, very bitter because he created the very finest Stereo Radio Type: the bearded, black hatted and cloaked, bomb carrying Anarchist.

So now, this long forgotten little chap seeks to make amends. Whilst all his colleagues, including the dungaree-wearing, lesbians and blousey gays Stereo Radio Types creation Teams have all been reassigned to the Muslim Myth Creation Super-Team, he continues in his own little task, destroying his own finest piece of work. How many people bother voting these days? Who cares about politicians? Who gives a flying fart about the Royal Family?

Our little old man in the corner is doing a fine job. Yes, he is.

War on Terror

Look back. In more ways than one. At _Paul_And_Land_ we made it clear that some things need a good look at. Proper things, real things.

Yeah, well this is a proper thing, a real thing. People dying, people getting lairy, people blaming people. This is wrong. This is very, very wrong.

Yes, it’s very easy to point the finger at someone whose colour, whose language, whose culture, whose religion is different. It’s very, very easy. That’s why people who struggle to see the real problem do it. It’s the damned foreigners at fault, y’see, messing up our lovely system. Well no, it ain’t.

Every day, in our lovely system, people are dying. Good people, people of all colours, all races, all cultures, all nationalities. And what is killing them? Why, our lovely system, our lovely capitalist system. People with no money and hence no hope in this fucked-up, ‘money is more important than anything’ system; throwing themselves under trains, off bridges or just doing for themselves with a handful of pills.

We, here at _Paul_And_Land_, are waiting for our politicos, the media and the people who jump on band-wagons to start shouting “Send Capitalism back to where it came from”. We may be waiting a long time.