Category: A Single Sphere

“In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king.” In the same way, in the age of the emasculated EU, the unotesticular must take command.

The Woke Brigade won’t like this, but it is undeniably true. Back in 1940, this country had balls. It single-handedly defeated a man in possession of only one ball. In the modern era, the bureaucratic nightmare that is Brussels has decreed that we must follow the example of Goebbels, and have no balls at all. In this instance the nation with a single sphere is automatically superior.

It is time that England exerted its singular advantage. We may have had our wings clipped over the years, we may be somewhat less potent than we once were, but even so we have the means to rule the EUnuch EU.

What is to blame for this feeble-mindedness? The weedy Woke movement is only a symptom. The blame lies squarely at the feet of women, who seek to achieve equality by removing the very symbols of our masculinity. We have no gonads, they argue, so neither should men. They had us by the balls, and, like hen-pecked husbands, we submitted in timorous fashion.

But not so England. True, we were part of the EU for a long time, but the Woke libbers only maintained half a grip on our Sovereignty. Now that we have broken free, albeit at great cost, we must rise up and assert the Natural Order of Things. We must restore the world in which Ursula von der Leyen and Michelle Barnier would be back in the kitchen, and would get dinner on the table at six o’clock sharp every single day.

This namby-pamby bowing and scraping to equality and rights has gone far enough. It’s time to gird what’s left of our loins, stand up tall and proud, and have a ball.

Once more unto the ballot box, my friends? Why? Haven’t we had enough of elections? Although the eternal threat of a Labour government will not rear its ugly head again until 2024, it is perhaps time to head it off now, while there is still the opportunity to do so.

History has shown that, when ordinary people are involved in any kind of decision-making, that the results are deplorable. This country only won The Crusades because the King was able to act decisively. What would have happened if His subjects had been polled? The results would still be being counted, and Johnny Foreigner would have won, and we would all be going to Mosques, not churches.

Our government, incidentally the best ever in my view, has got some serious work to do, to overcome covid single-handedly, and to make Brexit the roaring success it deserves to be. These are long term ambitions, and the government responsible should not become distracted with endlessly justifying its existence.

But Boris Johnson, alas, cannot continue indefinitely. As time catches up with him, a successor will have to be named. Let me propose, here and now, that the Rule Of Succession should be hereditary. The eldest acknowledged child of the Prime Minister should assume command upon the death or retirement of his father. The Johnson dynasty should be established as soon as possible. His profligate procreativity should guarantee that successors will be found for many years to come.

This will remove uncertainty, and restore the Glorie of Merrie Englande. Johnson’s achievements are already legendary. He has built more bridges than Telford, fathered more children than Casanova, and given away more money than any man in history. This is philanthropy at its finest, and not spaffing money up the wall as his detractors claim.

His achievements must be recognised. A statue is in order, and there must be no expense spared on it. And it’s also time that his miserable stipend should be increased to reflect his preeminence.

Stop whatever you are doing. Now. Just in case you are already triggered by my headline. Those who take offence at flags, old-school calling a spade a flipping shovel, and people having more money than you, sit down and pour yourself a stiff dandelion tea. Now.

Political correctness be damned. If I want to make a shepherd’s pie the traditional way, but introduce a couple of novel ingredients BECAUSE I HAPPEN TO LIKE THEM, what business is it of yours? Sip your plant-bothering bunny-hugging vegan Marxist Conservative bleeding-heart herbal muck, if you must, and do try to man up a bit.

Every day, it seems, brings another instance in common everyday life where one feels the Woke Brigade breathing down one’s neck. Not in person, of course, one would set the hounds on them if they came within a ten mile radius, but that unnecessary worry is always there. One is forever waiting for the Left Wing Media to pounce. This is not a petty matter. This is an entire way of life under threat, just in case you think that we UnoTesticular readers are thin-skinned snowflakes who, deep down, realise that they are archaic dinosaurs with the social mores of a face-eating leopard.

So, without further ado, I would like to share my Genuine English Shepherd’s Pie recipe, made with genuine British shepherds. (If Harrod’s is out of stock, and you are slumming it in Waitrose, don’t worry, they do a perfectly acceptable range of British Tradesmen.)

All measures, needless to say, are in Imperial.

1 massive knob (of butter)

1 Spanish ENGLISH onion

2 BRITISH shepherds, peeled and chopped 

A goodly splodge of Greek-style ENGLISH yogurt

1 tin Italian ENGLISH tomatoes

1 teaspoon Dijon NORWICH mustard

1 enormous chip on the shoulder

ABSOLUTELY NO QUINOA

Combine the ingredients together (or get Cook to do it), cover with BRITISH mashed potato, and bake for a while. If you CHOOSE to include tomato ketchup or Worcestershire sauce, GOOD FOR YOU. 

Serve on a bed of Union Jacks with a fine ENGLISH wine, and enjoy the warm sensation of self-righteous superiority seeping through your veins. And may the Woke Brigade choke on their free-range organic cornflakes.

Amid all this hoo-haa about Association Football, one thing has escaped the notice of the self-important hoi polloi. Let them play football. It’s about time the Sport Of Gentlemen had a European Super League of Gentlemen.

A true Sport involves danger, risk, cunning, skill, and tearing an innocent animal apart. Very few of these attributes apply to Soccer and its overpaid crybaby players. The sight of blood is all too rare, and generally staunched instead of being allowed to flow freely. The object of pursuit here is not a lethally swift and unpredictable vermin, but an anodyne ball and a stationary net.

Football does have more noble origins, whereby at one time it was common for two mobs of common ruffians to fight tooth and nail over a barrel of beer. Instead of an almost daily occurrence, this would have been an annual spectacle, one single day when the serfs could be spared from working in the fields. In some of the more – shall we say – conservative villages in the shires, this noble tradition is still maintained. The score would be counted in broken limbs, missing teeth, and fatalities. Now that would be a Spectator sport worthy of the name.

And so we come to fox hunting. The Woke Brigade won’t like this discussion, but it is time to override their weedy handwringing once and for all. Gentlemen from across Europe should come together and compete on a level playing field. There may be objections about animal welfare and veterinary certificates, but a quick text to the Prime Minister should sort that out in no time.

There will be no prize, other than pride, naturally. But there will be casual expenses to pay for, such as transportation, grooms, stirrup cups and so forth. The serfs will have to put in an extra shift and contribute their earnings. There will be no tawdry TV coverage. This is a Trial of Champions, not bread and circuses.

So let us blow our own horns and release the hounds. Tally ho!

Remainers got it wrong in 2016, and they have got it wrong ever since. Brexit is not about Europe, and the fact that they think otherwise is laughable, and even slightly sweet.

Look at the evidence. Brexiters aren’t stupid, contrary to the popular trope. Not the ones running the campaigns, at least. Europe was a whipping boy, an Aunt Sally, a scapegoat. The Brexit debate was about misdirection over Europe, and even the Remainers fell for it. So much for the intellectual elite.

Europe was the Trojan Horse through which Brexit could happen. By tapping in to the lingering resentment felt by Britons over the loss of the Empire, the feeling of disaffection (for whatever reasons), the transferred nostalgia for a glorious past where we won wars and world cups, it was the obvious choice to blame Europe. They lost, after all, yet managed to drag us down to their level.

The announcement of the European Super League of top football teams is a Trojan Horse in much the way Europe was with Brexit. If you look at The Beautiful Game as a whole, the Super League is a stupid idea. In the same way, if you look on the economy as a whole, Brexit is a stupid idea. But that is to miss the point. The ESL is nothing to do with football, and Brexit is nothing to do with economics.

The key expression is Follow The Money. Who wants to Take Back Control, and why? With Brexit, it was widely – and erroneously – believed to be the United Kingdom regaining its independence and surging forwards (or backwards?) to a glorious future (or past). This kind of ambiguous muddled thinking was deliberately encouraged, again to conceal the true motives.

Like the ESL, the aim of Brexit is to concentrate more money into fewer, rightly favoured, hands, and to prevent it from escaping. The People, after all, are only there to generate tax revenues for the leaders, just as football fans are only important so long as they cough up for match tickets and TV subscriptions.

Brexit isn’t about Europe, and it never was.

Amid all this fuss over the superior English clubs joining a European “Super League”, one fact has escaped most people. We Got Brexit Done. We are out of Europe. Now they are trying to force our teams into a permanent European alliance. In the immortal words of Liz Truss: This. Is. A. Dis. Grace! 

The argument for staying in European competitions was lost after The Vote in 2016. Remaining in the Champions’ League and its successors is a betrayal of the Will Of The People as expressed so clearly in the referendum. 

The biggest and best clubs, as defined by their balance sheets, would be forever removed from defining themselves as English ever again. The guilty parties are Arsenal, Tottenham, Chelsea, and three others, based (almost unbelievably) in The North. 

This European closed shop would lead to our magnificent English clubs become soft and lazy. They would lack the motivation and pride needed to thrash Stoke on a wet Wednesday evening in December. Every argument successfully applied in favour of Brexit applies here. We must rid ourselves of this feeble dependency on Europe in football as in economics. 

Instead we should apply to join the TransPacific MegaLeague, in order to teach our oriental friends that English football is the best. Ordinary fans like myself would fill the directors’ boxes in Tokyo, Beijing and Shanghai in no time. 

The aforementioned Liz Truss could Chair the League, and games could be played inside active volcanoes where there is ample space for Spectators. The playing fields will, naturally, be level. 

The winners will receive a lifetime’s supply of pork, provided and presented by Truss herself. 

And if you would prefer to watch your world beating team get world beaten by the puny and disrespectful likes of West Bromwich Albion, tough. You lost, get over it. 

France has its virtues. It has an agreeable climate. There is an unlimited supply of delicious fresh food and fine wine. There is even the reputation of slightly loose morals, if you are that way inclined. Unfortunately, all the people speak French, so these undoubted pleasures pall after a while, and one is desperate to return to good old Blighty.

Ah, the rain, the chill wind, the endless grey tarmac, the soggy chips and the limp lettuce. Britain, land of heroes. Although far from representing oneself as a hero, one does crave home soil. However, this is impossible right now for me, as I have become trapped in a bureaucratic nightmare so characteristic of the EU.

For I am unable to return home. The French have closed their borders – presumably this is an illegal act, since only a truly independent sovereign nation is able to do this – because of the panic over the Covid-19 virus. This appalling state of affairs is set to continue for some while. This dreadful treatment of a proud British Citizen is an example of how the EU has regarded us all along. This is not intended to become a political diatribe, but my experience demonstrates just how right we were to Leave.

My advisors inform me that the UK is now a 3rd country. This is just ridiculous. The UK is the number one country. Third place belongs to some insignificant, tinpot nation. Ireland, maybe, or Greece, but not the UK.

There is light at the end of the tunnel. Once 90 days have passed France will be obliged to deport me. This indignity I will endure in order to return to Glorious Great Britain. In the interim I shall be obliged to endure la vie Françoise and merely dream of concrete, traffic jams, and oafs brawling outside Wetherspoons.

Keep the home fires burning!

Never mind the Monopolies Commission. Control is vital to the Ruling Class. To remain in the Pink, investment in key properties must take place.

The covid crisis has hit rental income badly. This was an unlucky roll of the dice. Private companies have, sadly, had to let staff go, in order that they may still afford to pay their dividends. There is nothing left in the Community Chest.

The solution is to acquire a greater number of properties. Whitehall, though it produces a not inconsiderable sum, is under pressure from the unpatriotic woke public standards office to reduce the amount of taxpayers’ money spent on renting offices, houses, hotels and the like. We exhort UnoTestiocular readers to club together to acquire the entirety of Pall Mall and Northumberland Avenue. We need only show the world that we possess the cojones.

Expert opinion suggests that this move would, at a stroke, double our rental income. We have been advised, however, to avoid one well-known property on Pall Mall. The advice is not to purchase St James’s Palace at the current time, out of respect for Prince Philip.

We must take the Chance. (Nobody in our circles would ever pay a £10 fine.) But we must not be too greedy. Doubling our income is desirable, naturally, but doubling three times could land us in Jail, although it is probable that someone in the know will be able to produce a Get Out Of Jail Free card.

Quite frankly, this is an unsurpassed opportunity to erect many hotels. London is still a big draw internationally, and should prices prove a little steep for some, well that’s business. We can be flexible and offer to receive payment in property. This has the advantage of taking lesser players out of the game.

And remember, we can always collect all the fines from the so-called “Free Parking”. Advance to Mayfair!

Brexit means Brexit. And now that we have Brexit, we, the English, must demand our independence, and once more become a giant on the world stage. As always, there is a price to pay. The deplorable scenes in Belfast show the way forward. We must jettison Ireland to avoid being tainted by their petty internal squabbles.

This means, sadly, that we must disappoint our Unionist friends – for now. English independence was always the primary objective of Brexit, and if you didn’t realise this, then you cannot have been paying attention properly.

But England cannot be associated with the senseless civil war on the Emerald Isle. It is better to let Ireland go, than to tolerate these scuffling fools and thereby destroy our glorious reputation.

It need not be this way. Our position is clear, and always has been. We genuinely love Ireland, but cannot abide the division between North and South. A united Ireland would be welcomed back into the English fold, but there must be two conditions. Firstly, this abhorrent violence towards the forces of Law & Order must cease. Secondly, Dublin must forego its foolish and damaging insistence of dangling from the coat-tails of the EU.

We must be a lean, mean Nation. We must now take our preeminent position in the developed world. Global Britain will become, once again, the heart of the Global Village. We will achieve this through a divine mixture of ideological and Anglo-Saxon purity. Our awestruck neighbours will bow before the might of England. The restoration of the Empire is around the corner, and we must seize this opportunity with both hands.

So once again, we must offer Ireland the choice. Join hands with us, and prosper. Reject us, and feel the consequences.

Colony, Overseas Territory, or Vassal State? The choice is yours. Over to you, Dublin.

A successful businessman is successful precisely because he is able to spot opportunities others can not. And part of that success is to ensure that one’s secretary maintains one’s Rolodex. Over time, these contracts accumulate until one is in a position to telephone a chap to help one out in almost any scenario. 

Naturally, one has to give a little in return. However, if one secures a contract by offering a more substantial discount than the normal, then one can expect to secure repeat business and recommendations. And so the Rolodex swells, you gain a formidable reputation, and an enormous quantity of goodwill. Now one dies not rely on this goodwill by tawdry capitalisation. It must remain off the balance sheet. One does not boast. 

The true mark of success is when you no longer need to schmooze people at your London club, or ensure a round of golf with social climbing Johnny come lately types. 

Which brings us to David Cameron. One of the most successful and charismatic Prime Ministers since Sir Alec Douglas-Hume, he should have been set up for life. Politicians are traditionally exempted from exploiting their contacts in the name of profit, but there is no good reason why this should be. In any case, this restriction is generally more honoured in the breach than the observance. 

Cameron could have maintained a dignified profile. He could have earned his pocket money providing £50K dinners to aspiring types like Rishi Sunak and dear little Mark Francois. But his clumsy lobbying was crude and vulgar. This is not the way that one should trade upon one’s reputation. One is expected to place a number of calls, perform introductions, provide a sumptuous luncheon with fine wines, brandy, and cigars. One greases the wheels, to use the vernacular, and in return receives a six figure sum. 

But one must be discreet. One should be invisible. One should not allow the scandal-seeking gutter press to catch even a whiff. This is not their concern. And if, by misfortune or incompetence, one is discovered, then one must act with contrition. 

Cameron should be permitted to benefit from his contacts list, like anyone else. But his blundering has put our whole way of life under threat.