End Gunshot Victim Shortage Misery


Come early, avoid the rush:

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From Yahoo News:

“The US military is reportedly testing a smart rifle that aims automatically, so whoever is firing has more chance of hitting the target.

Start-up company TrackingPoint says the military bought six of its precision-guided firearms for between $10,000 and $27,000 each. One journalist who tested it said he hit a target 1,000 yards away on the first shot.”

(see the whole article here)

Well about time too. I’m sick and tired of hearing all those news reports of those poor nutcases going on the rampage in Walmart car parks, Colleges, High Schools and Shopping Centers who keep missing their targets. Now they can kneel at the crucifix on the wall in their bedroom, tool-up, leave home and head for the local University Campus or Naval Dockyard, safe in the knowledge that now they can’t miss. Praise the Sweet Baby Jesus and the 2nd Amendment.

(also available from Amazon Norway— free Plastic Swastika with every gun sold)

And as if by magic, we also have this from today’s Daily Telegraph

Screen Shot 2014-01-18 at 08.57.34

“Twenty-three mass shootings have occurred in the US in the year since the Sandy Hook school massacre in Newtown, Connecticut, leaving more than 100 dead across 17 states.

Today marks the anniversary of the Newtown shooting, in which Adam Lanza killed 20 children and six teachers at Sandy Hook Elementary School. Lanza, who also killed his mother before leaving home for the school, reportedly had an obsession with mass murders, especially the 1999 Columbine High School massacre in Colorado, in which 13 people died excluding the two perpetrators.”

For the full article and interactive graphic, click here

ALTOGETHER NOW:

“…And the Laaaaaaand of thaaa Freeeeeeeeeeeeeeee”

cameronradvert

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Kickin’ and a Gougin’ in the Mud and the Blood and the Beer


Just for a change, I’d like to talk about one of the good things in life.

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He’s back and at last he’s brilliant again. Probably his best movie since Pulp fiction, the great QT returns with this sensational epic. If you don’t like plot, edge, witty dialogue, then go ‘chase me, chase me’ down to middle earth and go see the Hobbit with the rest of your Dungeons & Dragon set. But if you can stomach barrels of blood, acres of character and the funniest Ku Klux Klan scene since Blazing Saddles, then go and take yourself along to see Django Unchained….just don’t take your mum.

Be prepared to hide behind your hands in scenes which give more than a passing nod to the the torture scene in Reservoir Dogs. The much maligned Tarantino has been accused of having lost his touch, with the spiffingly over-rated Inglorious Basterds taking most of the stick for an ailing career. Well now, even if you had no time for Basterds, and didn’t get the brilliance of Death Proof and it’s sensational soundtrack, take yourself along and see a proper movie.

Certainly not for the faint-of-heart, Quentin delivers big time, yet again. It’s a long movie at 2 hours 45 mins, and the longer it goes, the more outrageous is the action, and the more blood is spilt. Well before then, you’ve forgiven the director for everything he wants to throw at you, and allow any outlandish stunt or ridiculous scenarios to wash over you. It’s like Kill Bill, just with horses and six-shooters. And so, so much better.

And look! the erroneous poster above even gives you two more reasons to go see it: Sacha Baron Cohen (or Kurt Russell) never actually made the final cast of the film. Russell quit for ‘unknown reasons’ (like Kevin Costner before him —phew!)  and Baron Cohen had too many commitments to his project The Dictator. Having now seen both movies, Sacha should now be put on a 24 hour suicide watch.

So, welcome back Quentin. A world choked with the smug smog of smeg by Peter Jackson and James Cameron needed you back.

And why not, indeed ?

Good poster too.

Being Screwed in ‘C’ Wing (Read All About It)


It’s probably worth reminding ourselves that the reason there are eight News of The World employees facing charges over phone hacking is that they were shopped, grassed-up or exposed by other journalists. Proper journalists. Not coppers (bent or otherwise) nor Politicians (ditto), or members of the general public, but journalists. This bunch of whistle-blowers happen to have come from The Gaurdian, but they could have come from any number of sources. Because, just as everyone at The Screws wasn’t a crook, then not every newspaper journalist is on the take (whatever the BBC may have you thinking). Not every Grauniad hack will be as white as the driven snow, and there may have been other reasons for exposing the Wapping scandal other than good, honest investigative journalism, but let us not forget that the industry shopped itself, Westminster please note.

You can extend this thought to the fact that it wasn’t only Wapping hacks that were up to no good – just that they are the first to get pinched for it. The reader might like to note that this week PC Plod revealed that two Prison officers had received payments totalling over £50,000 from The Daily Mirror and Daily Star. As mentioned here before, the shredding machines all over Fleet St have been doing overtime whilst the Inspector’s time is taken up with Murdoch titles. Only time will tell if, by the time Sue Akers and her Mukkers get to “M for Mail” or “P for People” in Glenn Mulcaire‘s address book, the evidence has somehow vanished (like an old oak table).

The conversations may well get interesting as the assorted journos in HMP-issue uniforms are locked up for the night by the very people they were throwing cash at for info about their celebrity/muslim/titillating inmates. Retribution may ensue. The News of the Screws has never been a more appropriate nickname for their paper, in so many ways.

I can’t help thinking public would never have given a toss if the enquiry had merely  revealed that the papers had been listening into the phone messages of Elton John or George Michael, going through Hugh Grant’s bins or Jordan’s drawers. That is, after all, why the average knuckle-dragger buys The Sun and The N.O.W- for the gossip stuff that they always seem to get. Fuck actors and sportsmen and singers and the like. They’re not real people. They forfeited their right to privacy the minute they…er…became good at their job (something, thankfully of which I have never been accused).

But to hack into the phone of a little blonde girl who is a possible murder victim ???? Disgusting ! It is a mark of the country’s appetite, class and taste that had the victim not been a little girl, then not only would this intrusion not have registered with the moral code of Joe Public, but the original story would never have made the front pages of the tabloids in the first place. But sadly for Milly Dowler, and latterly Andy Coulson this was not the case. The girl was just the sort of target which his papers and readers salivate about, and the whole sorry saga was somewhat inevitable.

I’ve never bought into the Kelvin McKenzie argument that “papers only print this stuff because that’s what the readers want” but I’m prepared to make an exception in this case. It’d be nice to think that the avid Screws reader realises his own part in this sorry and sordid affair. Nice to think he would, but unlikely to be true, as The Sun on Sunday‘s figures still show. More tits, more bums, more shite, more readers.
Thank god Madeleine McCann wasn’t a 6 ft tall hod carrier from Bridgend – you’d have never heard of the case. News International likes promoting these cases on its covers, and  Maddie’s plight has been thoroughly reported over the years, none more so than by The Screws. The family felt this would do their cause some good, giving them some hope and support to find their little girl. Right up until the paper published mum’s personal diaries for the Editors and the average Wayne and Waynetta to dribble over.

So do I feel and pity for these eight (on the understanding, of course, that they are all completely innocent until proven guilty) and the torrid time the police and prosecution will put them through ? No, not much. Maybe sorry that they’ve been singled out, when there are many, many others around that need their collars felt. But the overwhelming feeling is of relief that the industry ratted-out itself and showed others how it should be done. Just don’t talk to me about a self-regulating Press Complaints Commission. It clearly doesn’t work.

Now Steady On !


The Incumbent tells me that she was once arrested for calling a Policeman a wanker. On what grounds I’m unsure. I wasn’t even aware that Hendon English classes had reached advance swearing as yet. They’ll be able to write next.

I was listening to Peter Tatchell the other day defending the rights of people to use “insulting language” against others. Quite right too. This page, for example, would be nothing if it wasn’t for the right to call people a wanker when the author felt the need. It may be insulting but surely it can’t be illegal ? It’s an opinion. It attacks no race or religion (although wanking is treated by some as such), but is an outlet which allows people to vent their displeasure at someone without resorting to baseball bats and bricks. Ban someone from calling another an arsehole and, not only would my mailbox be empty, but we start on the route which Herr Hitler, Mr S.Hussein and that nice Mr Putin have already embarked on so successfully. Now there’s three big c*nts if ever I saw some.

For Sale (one piece missing)


Clearing out the loft this morning I came across a few old sets from my Subbuteo game. I could never understand why I never won a match when I played with my QPRJoey Barton” Edition.  Anyway, yours for either the price of Jermain Defoe‘s phone book, or Rangers FC, whichever is higher.

Oh, That Fellow Davies


Long before I developed my typically English opinions of the Welsh (yes, yes I know it’s mutual), when I was merely a roly-poly soft centre waiting to happen, there was Mervyn Davies. Merve the Swerve Davies was one of those sensational players that, as a young boy, you couldn’t take your eyes off. He was a magnificent specimen, and was picked for both the victorious British Lions tour to New Zealand in 1971 and the infamous 1974 tour to South Africa (the ’99 Tour). When I first took an interest in the oval ball game in 1976 I quickly found two heroes to adore – JPR WIlliams and Mervyn Davies. Yes, they were both welsh and both were as hard as nails. Everything I wasn’t.

WHEN MEN WERE MEN, AND SIDEBURNS WERE ENORMOUS: Mervyn Davies, JPR Williams, Mike Roberts, Geoff Evans, Gerald Davies, John Dawes and John Taylor – London Welsh’s representatives on the 1971 British & Irish Lions tour to New Zealand, 1971

Sadly Mervyn was to retire early due to a brain haemorrhage playing for Swansea in a Welsh Cup semi-final against Pontypool in 1977. It was a sad moment for Welsh, British and world rugby. Mervyn died today, and marks another piece of my childhood to slip away.
The 1970s was a time of welsh dominance and greatness, the reason everyone (me included) loved watching them play and the reason the unsuccessful Welsh teams of the ensuing years could never let go of, and for good reason. It wasn’t just the welsh who pined for the grace and skill of Mervyn, JPR, JJ, Gareth and the like – instead of the lame fair the WRU dealt up for the following 25 years. Little wonder they became bitter, twisted and unloveable. The boyos of the 1970s were a tough act to follow.

When the Welsh team pick up the Grand Slam tomorrow, which they look like they’re gonna do, their captain Sam Warburton will deserve the prize as he is next in a long line of great welsh back row players to ply his trade on the rugby field. When, as he surely will, he becomes the next British Lions Captain he will merely be taking the place of Mervyn who was odds-on to do the same had the brain injury not deprived him of it. Warburton could be truly great, and if Wales are lucky they may be able to find a few more like him and, who knows, rekindle the spirit of that great 1970s team.

Until then I look forward to the BBC digging out the footage of Merv and company thrilling the crowds around the world.

And, as Mervyn was playing No.8 in the 1973 Barbarians vrs New Zealand match, I see no reason for not showing the greatest try of all time again. And again. And in full

(normal English service will be resumed as soon as possible)

Jumpers for Goalposts


Ah, those were the days.  When we used to have a kick-about in the street outside my house, there would invariably be someone who wanted to be Peter Osgood, one who’d play as Peter Lorimer or Georgie Best or even  Derek Hales (well I had to look up to someone, didn’t I ? and I reckoned I was better than Killer was, anyway.) We didn’t have anyone who was hard enough to pretend to be Dave McKay.

Take a look at one of the great sports photos of the 70s. There’s old Dave about to throttle that little-shit-of-little-shits, Billy Bremner – no softie himself. But where Bremner – like  Ron Harris, Nobby Stiles and anyone who put a Leeds Utd shirt on – was a kind of slide-my-studs-down-your-calf-and-into-your-achilles-when-ref-isn’t-looking-sorta-bloke, Big Dave was a sort of snap both your shinbones in two if you try to get past me, in front of the ref, the linesmen, the opposition bench, the BBC TV camera and four JPs and still argue the toss that I played the ball first-sorta-bloke. A very very tough bloke. A great photo.

McKay is reported to be in poor health. It will be a shame to lose another character of my childhood. A reminder of when football was a contact sport, professional players could be built like Fannie Lee and still get picked for the side, and Alan Rough and Derek Hales were in gainful employment, somehow.

Wishing Dave McKay all the very best. Let’s hope the today’s millionaire show-ponies spend a little less time crying and rolling around on the grass this weekend. Big Dave would have given them something to cry about.