Category: The Facilitator

The ‘woke’ will not like it, which is reason enough for any action, be it starting a land war in Asia or choosing new curtains. The Prime Minister, and the woman he’s currently engaged to, choosing new curtains would be an excellent next step in the culture war. Open a new front and see what appetite the straggly, dirty, lentil eating bunny huggers have for a real fight.

But where to begin this next push forward into the No Man’s Land of historical revisionism? We suggest Chequers, the 16th century manor house that began life as a humble brothel and after a series of refurbishments was enlarged into a harem. This is the Prime Minister’s natural abode.

Clearly a refurbishment of this scale is well beyond the meagre budget of a simple public servant. The Prime Minister and his current companion will have to seek financial assistance. Here they can simply phone any friend who may need a favour. Quid pro quo Clarice.

We would suggest they call Lex Greensill. If he is not able to supply the loan then any relative of Matt Hancock will have sufficient spare money in the bank. The loan must be interest free though, as this is in the service of the great British public.

It will be an opportunity to put the wind up Ms Sturgeon also. The PM can hire Scottish carpenters, Welsh tilers, Cornish shoplifters (to install the gift shop) and Northern Ireland electricians. See how the woke like that!

Once the refurbishment is complete the Prime Minister, and whoever he is shagging by then, should welcome in a magazine like ‘Hello’. Do a great reveal spread. The public will easily forget the pile of pandemic bodies once their minds are dazzled by wallpaper so esoteric you need a month alone in a mountain cave just to understand it.

If the PM won’t put the public interest first then who will? Refurbish Chequers and let the nation move forward, neatly skirting around the pile of dead with their eyes averted.

Victory was attained by a United Kingdom against fascism in Europe on the 8th May 1945, 20th July 1966, and most recently the 31st January 2020 when Mr Johnson wisely “Got Brexit Done” so he could focus all his energies on his relationship.

It has been a rollercoaster ride of national renewal since that date. The Union Flag now spontaneously appears before national buildings and in the living rooms of the pious, as if taking inspiration from the Mother of God herself.

The leading lights of Mr Johnson’s cabinet have daily showered themselves in gold. No less a superpower than Matt Hancock has produced a ‘Care’ badge for the NHS. Liz Truss has travelled the world in classic British defiance of the pandemic, while lesser mortals cowered at home. Mr Jenrick has overseen a housing boom and Mr Johnson himself has timed lockdowns to perfection.

Where to next you ask?

We have the answer.

It’s time to really put a finger in the stodgy eye of Brussels. It’s time to bring back the great British pint! For while we have nothing but praise for the strong and stable leadership of Mr Johnson and his handpicked crew of Ukippers, there is just this one little strand of Brussels red tape that casts its shadow still across our green and pleasant land.

We at UnoTesticular/The Facilitator call on the Prime Minister to immediately repeal the law from Brussels that outlawed serving beer, ale and ciders in pints. Let’s see how they like that! A taste of the power of a fully sovereign, trading nation right on their doorstep. We say no more beer served in volumes of 568.261ml. We demand our pints!

You can be guaranteed the French won’t take it on the chin. Berlin will go into a spin. The Spanish will beg for relief and the Italians will be dumbfounded.

The Prime Minister should go a step further too with his legislation and make it illegal to drink wine in anything but pint glasses from now on. The ‘woke’ will hate it, and that’s reason enough on its alone.

Bring back the British pint! It’s one of the many Brexit benefits that the great British people (in their collective wisdom) voted for!

Once we have our pints back we can then take the next step to shed all of the hangover of EU membership and return to driving on the left hand side of the road.

Old friends can be relied upon in times of trouble and strife. This much is evident to all. Most also are aware that there is no time more riven with strife than when a younger wife, mistress, girlfriend, escort or favoured bordello owner wishes your opinion on new wallpaper.

We as a nation can be grateful that our Prime Minister has a diverse selection of friends to call upon when he is in need. Whether it’s for a foreign holiday in Mustique or Tuscany, or matters of decor. No need for assistance in decorum, he has that nailed down in a way no one could ever improve on.

He was in great need recently when his latest fiancée wished to wipe away the stale odour that Mr Johnson’s predecessor left at No. 11 Downing Street.

Can you imagine yourself Mr Johnson? You already have a full diary each and every day. You must rise at noon to attend to your hangover. You have to have a hangover or you will be wanting for arts and crafts supplies. You have to have a plentiful supply of said materials or how else will you relax after you attend to grave matters of state? That one hour each day takes a mighty toll.

How would you feel when you move from No. 10 to No. 11 after that arduous hour of governance only to find your current lady standing with a monumental collection of wallpaper samples? And she is nobody’s fool. She has positioned herself between you and the fridge with the champagne.

The situation is even worse when you see the price tag attached to those Topkai harem styled wall papers. How will you pay for such lavishness on just a Prime Minister’s salary? Have you not already sacrificed enough?

Here is when a friend, a true companion will come to your aide. They will offer to cover the cost of the refurbishment so you can attend to graver matters, like wondering what Dom is doing?

It is to be cheered that Mr Johnson had a ready friend in his time of need. The woke will never be happy. They want no one to have friends. We can just pray that David Cameron was the friend who paid the £60K, for no reason greater than to help, with no thought to benefit for himself.

That would be perfect indeed, no matter how unlikely.

There comes a time in every great nation’s history when it must take a good and long look in the mirror. Global Britain is at such a fork in the road and the tine is nigh for it to undergo a deep, inward focused examination.

We must not shy this day from drawing down our pants, bending our torso forward, then down, and lifting our eyes up and backwards to stare into the pursed sphere of self-awareness. Further wisdom can be gleaned should we physically insert our cranium right into our interior. To do this all we need do is hold our breath and believe, as was the case with Brexit.

The reason for this is not just Socrates imploring us to know ourselves, it is the parlour state of the nation’s self-esteem. The Prime Minister is being undermined by saboteurs, presumably sent from Brussels, and we must close ranks.

For daily now the chatterati have nothing better to do with their time than gossip about the Prime Minister’s private communications. It is no business of the unwashed what the PM does with the tax code. It is his business to govern as he sees most expedient. This is why he was elected.

Clearly the leaks are a dream come true for the ‘woke’ who are obsessed with the private business of their betters. It is just base envy and should be illegal.

There is a clear case for criminalising poor people talking about rich people in disparaging terms. There is also a clear case to end lobbying scandals altogether so to rob the nattering masses of their fodder.

“A rich man does not need to end the kingdom of Heaven through the eye of a needle, when he can just buy his way in” – Proverbs, Bob, Lindisfarne Dialogues, 980AD.

How do we end the lobbying scandals you ask? It is the essence of simplicity itself. We simply remove billionaires from the burdens of paying tax altogether. Then no text messages and no ensuring scandals. Simple. The additional wealth they accrue will most certainly trickle down.

A bonus will arrive too. Once the dragon of tax on wealth has been slain earnest billionaire funded press organs can focus fully on stamping out the woke. Once everyone agrees British history is entirely positive and the people who are born to rule us have earned the right we can truly make a success of tomorrow.

Envy is to be expected from Brussels as Global Britain strides the world stage like a colossus. We must take it in our stride like a lion takes the cries of despair from the ants it passes over. We must however draw a line when envy becomes naked vindictiveness.

Luckily we have a prime minister in Boris Johnson who knows when to raise his sword, heft the red crossed British shield, misremember and call out Shakespeare and turn to fight.

Now is one such moment. It is a crossroads in the glorious triumph of a liberated Britain.

It’s all very well for the unelected tyranny across the ENGLISH Channel to take its small comforts by destroying our export industries, it’s another matter entirely when they strike at the core of our national identity.

“Thou shalt not covet they neighbours Saints” – British school children imbibe the 11th commandment with the free school milk their Conservative betters generously bestow upon them. It is just a shame for bi-lateral relations between sovereign equals that the beleaguered offspring of the failing nanny, superstate are not equally nourished. Perhaps then they would show due respect.

UnoTesticular plants its banner now in the sodden soil of the red-taped battlefield with Brussels and declares “HANDS OFF OUR SAINT!”

We implore Mr Johnson to fight any attempt by Brussels to de-canonise Saint George. I would suggest sitting the EU ambassador down on the least comfortable chair available in Downing Street and threaten to no longer recognise Berlin as a city. That will see Merkel think twice.

The EU have already gone beyond the pale. Erroneously they claim the most famous of Englishmen is a patron Saint of most of their countries, and the Levant. We have turned a cold and silent shoulder to such provocation as a mature nation will. But any further moves to downgrade one of the greatest of English symbols on the world stage must be resisted. By force of arms if necessary. Long bow clearly, as that will be best to frighten Macron.

Foodbank selfies by Tory MPs are of course frowned upon by that persistent scourge of modern British life, the ‘woke’. I won’t capitalise the noun as it is neither proper nor to be encouraged.

Clearly the so called progressive forces on the map of the culture war wish to drag our great country back in time to when the food bank sector was in its infancy. In spite of all the claims to be concerned for their fellow man, this desire to rob the needy of sustenance gives the lie to their claims.

And in a pandemic too!

“If an elected official can not celebrate the fruits of his labour, what is the point of office?” – Z. Z. Zenopho, Arcadia, 324BC.

Dominic Raab is the latest to attract the ire of the filthy, dirty nailed, beggar soldiers of the extreme left-anarcho-fascist-antifa-international-snowflake-conspiracy. Or ‘Woke’ for shorthand.

Can you tell me of any other Foreign and Commonwealth Secretary of State in modern times who would have taken the time out of his busy schedule to visit a foodbank? The MP for Esther and Voltar is exemplary in his desire to make an example of himself. This can only encourage the lazy to work harder and feed themselves.

Imagine yourself as a disappointed small boy, stomach pains from hunger, holding a dry pot noodle in your hands, as your lazy parents take you shopping for freebies at the local food bank. If only they would take a fifth or sixth job, just like architect of austerity George Osborne, then maybe one day you could have a steak.

Suddenly this haze of despair at the accident of your birth is blown away by the hot wind of Raab, striding like a colossus across the very foundation stones of the caring and conservative policies that put you here to begin with!

“There is a man!” You would doubtless cry, to the embarrassment of your workshy family.

Maybe if you were very lucky Mr Raab will gift you an autographed copy of a child’s atlas? Assuming he has finished studying it.

Maybe, if the Gods have really decided to favour you this day, Mr Raab will tower over you as he raises his smart phone high and takes that selfie? Imagine your giddy thrill to see the throbbing temple veins of this titan up close?

No doubt your listless mother would find the energy to swoon.

For like the great trophy hunters of old, ridding the sub-continent of the terror of large cats and rhinoceros, a Tory MP in a food bank is indeed making a clean kill and taking a pelt to hang on their wall. If you’re just lucky enough, it maybe yours.

A. Hitler famously changed the world with only one ball. I do not mean a football, although he may have come into contact with them from time to time. Nor do I mean a basketball. That would be nonsense, as basketball wasn’t invented until 1949. I mean a testicle.

We all know the famous songs that are sung about the number of his nuts. Schoolchildren across Europe learn it before they learn their national anthems. The only exception of course being the children of the woke. The unwashed lentil munchers can not find sufficient patriotic feeling to bother. Which largely explains the terrible state of the country today.

But regardless of the efforts of the libtard snowflakes to do down Britain, the song celebrating one testicle is a song that unites the Continent in recognition of the British victory against fascism.

I encourage you to go to the White Cliffs of Dover and cup your hand about your ear, inclining your head towards France, hold your breath and listen.

It is likely you will hear Vera Lynn emanating from the chalk about you. But if you listen closely, your mind composed, you will also hear the gusty strains of,

“Hitler has only got one ball, the other is in the Albert Hall…”

You will find yourself invigorated and immediately nonplussed about the balance of trade deficit with France.

But what more can we glean from this singular example of manhood? How do we apply the wisdom received from the uno-testicular state in our daily life? Guidance can be found in the writings of right thinking intellectuals.

The famous early 20th century historian, B. Arthur Hive, noted in his celebrated tome on manly conflict, “A soldiers needs two hands to wield a rifle. But only one ball to shoot the bull’s eye.”

By which he means that if you dig deep enough, if you get your hands into the very boxer shorts of your insides, you will find a massive pair of balls. If you’re patriotic enough.

One ball on the outside, and a heaving spectacle of plenty in the spirit, is all you need to change the world.

If there’s a moral to the David Cameron/Lex Greensill saga it is that the “Woke” don’t want you to help friends in need. In spite of their fatuous protestations to the contrary.

Hardly a day goes by without some earnest snowflake handwringing about the fate of people who really just need to work harder. As hard as David Cameron.

“Narcissus does not fall in love with his reflection because it is beautiful, but because it is his. If it were his beauty that enthralled him, he would be set free in a few years by its fading” – W.H. Auden.

As we can see by the words of W.H. Auden David Cameron is not in love with David Cameron, but the prospect of greater wealth he sees when he gazes into the pond.

Who would resent him more money? And if that additional wealth comes by way of altruistic service to a needy friend, surely none but the hypocritical would resent such an outcome.

Indeed.

Can a man not build on the fortune his spermatozoon rightfully claimed when it won life’s greatest race of all? To strive that great length in a crowded field, full of sharp elbows and the occasional double-headed failure, to plunge headfirst into the egg of success only to receive no trophy?

That would be a disservice to the ambitions of all. Both the lazy, lowborn and the great and driven such as ex-Prime Minister David Cameron.

One can only wonder at what a pass our great country has come to when Mr Cameron can not phone a friend to help a friend. It is likely that it won’t be too long before a public inquiry is held to vindicate the charitable drives of Mr Cameron.

Restitution of reputation and a reward of hundreds of millions of taxpayers’ money must surely follow. It is in everyone’s interests if this is so. For once the coffers of David Cameron and friends are full to the brim, the overflow will trickle down onto the idle. Who can then spend their good fortune at Greggs.

Patriots who walk the talk do not come along very often, self professed patriots even less frequently, and this is why Britain must treasure its very own resident of Singapore.

We would do well to remember the words of James Dyson’s famous ancestor, Sir Aire Blaid, at the pivotal siege of Hoover, “If victory is to be our prize we must blow the microbes all over the place”.

Precious few billionaires have been prepared to sacrifice the home comforts of England for the more tax efficient, but decidedly less well oaked landscape of the Orient. Others have chosen Monaco or the Cayman Islands.

Indeed a case can be made to award James Dyson the Victoria Cross. A medal normally reserved for distinguished service on the field of battle, but which loyal servant of the realm has fought more valiantly to free England from Brussels than Sir Dyson? They should never have crossed him in the early 2000’s. The grey men in suits knew not the dragon, slumbering on its hoard, that they woke.

Only last year Dyson promised to make ventilators from scratch, even though numerous other domestic producers were already making proven ones and could do so much faster if given the public funds.

Where would the much needed Blitz Spirit have been found in that? Indeed, only with Dyson’s intervention did we escape the clutches of the EU wide medical products procurement programme.

The Dyson project was never completed, but that’s because the ventilators had to push and pull, and James normally just deals in things that suck. And besides, we really just needed to know his ego was still present.

Which brings us to the meat and gristle of our subject. James Dyson and his products do not suck. Such is the reputation and we are prepared to stand back and blow it across these vellum sheets.

Who else would still have the brass neck to go into the press and lie to the public’s faces about the possibilities provided by Brexit? Tim Martin maybe. Boris Johnson perhaps. But no man values his independence more than Dyson. He’s so independent he no longer lives among us. That is a Brexit benefit for you right there. One you can suck up and hold and needs no bag.

We British are made of stout oak. We don’t bend in the winds that see other races quiver and splinter. We face the truth, the call of destiny and put our shoulders to the wheel of calamities.

We thin our herds. We kill our weak. Not for us the sentimental society which harbours taxpayer burdens. Plague is a chance to rewrite social care policy. It basically does the work of the lion or the tiger in prehistory. It is the natural order. It is to be worked with and moulded to the financial profit of friends and donors of the pillars of society.

It is for this reason we will not pursue the overly sentimental pandemic strategy of complete community elimination. Where is the profit in that? Where is the gain for the national body, which is only improved by a greater distillation of the strong amongst the herd.

Lockdowns are already a way of life. So too the relief when a lockdown lifts. Our policy makers know the people will pay the price.

New Zealander’s and other antipodeans believe themselves smart by long since returning to the old ways. But where is the cultural revival in doing that? It can’t but hinder a healthy age ratio between young and old in the population!

We have watched with growing concern as Coronavirus triggered a desire for market segregation that has gone beyond what is medically rational to the point of doing real and unnecessary economic damage, to lesser nations.

But not in Boris Johnson’s Britain! Why, we have continued to trade freely, exactly at that moment humanity needed a Government somewhere that is willing at least to make the case powerfully for freedom of exchange.

We have bought PPE from t-shirt sellers in Istanbul, beauticians in California and friends of ministers who’ve bankrupted their paper plate factories. We’ve been afraid of nothing when it comes to un-tendered contracts.

We have made an example of ourselves to the whole world. We have been world beating. No elimination for us, but the carefully calibrated calculation of what politically could be tolerated by the people in terms of avoidable death for the sake of entreprise.

Over 150,000 Britons have gone into that phone box and like Clark Kent emerged transformed!

You have your packed rock concerts New Zealand. We will pay the ferryman. If we don’t, then who will?