Happiness is a warm kund

We’re not complicated, we humans, even though we like to think we are. “What, go to bed early, eat my veggies, have a walk and go easy on the booze? It’s not that simple for me! I’m very complex, actually!” Whereas in fact the sleeping, the veggies, the walking and the unbooze is probably going to do the trick for you, regardless of how special you feel. It’s just the (slightly boring) truth.

But what works for all of us is to be made feel special and appreciated. This is no secret. And yet, astonishingly, stunningly, very few of the companies we have dealings with seem to grasp this. Once we’ve signed up for whatever thing they’re offering, they basically ignore us, trusting we’ll not make the effort required to change to another company.

And what do you get when you do leave? Aggro, that’s what! I left the gym SATS recently, since my workplace has a little gym we can use for free. And wow did I suddenly become popular with the SATS reach-out team. Emails asking why I had left. Phone calls from a determined SATS salesperson, who despite being asked to stop calling, kept calling. In the end, I had to block them.

You know what, SATS? If you had showed half — nay, one tenth — of the interest in me when I had been paying 60 dollars a month (for a gym I barely used once a week, if that) then I might have been inclined to stick around. Hounding me with a stick once I’ve bolted the barn isn’t going to do it.

And then there’s all those other things I pay for. All those fucking subscriptions. When did everything become a subscription? It’s a cynical system designed to suck extra money from people through them being forgetful, or lazy, or dead. And it’s always irksome to see new customers to the same service I’m on being offered great deals. Like, hello? I’ve been a faithful paying idiot for four years over here, why don’t I get something nice? A nod? A wink? A trifle? But nope.

The only company I’ve had dealings with that recognise this are Vimla, my mobile service provider. They are genuinely great. They will randomly send me extra gigabytes of internet, for my birthday, or for Christmas. They have a great pooling system for unused internet, where it just builds up in your account until you need it. And if I convince a friend to join, both of us get a small monthly discount, forever.

Last month, Vimla informed me they were changing my monthly rate. But not increasing it — they were in fact dropping it. Yes, I was now going to pay less. How often do you get that from a supplier of anything? My electricity, in comparison, went up owing to “instability and increased demand” or fucking whatever, but did it come down again after that situation had passed? My fat hairy arse it did.

Vimla, by doing this simple, obvious thing have now hooked me as a customer (and ambassador) for life (watch me ambassadoring). Spotify — who removed entirely the Spotify Unlimited payment plan I had been on for over 10 years, never missing a month, in the hopes I would double my payment and move to Premium, lead to me instead stubbornly remaining on the free tier despite the annoying ads, now determined to never give the scumbags a red cent — haven’t. Nor has anyone else.

So, to summarise: the tiny act of giving your faithful customers something nice will turn them from customers into fans. Not doing it makes them into the opposite. (What’s the opposite of fans? Antifans? Vacuums? Sure, vacuums, why not?) You’d be an idiot not to. And are you an idiot? I’ll let you decide for yourself. Take your time. And while you’re doing it, send me ten dollars a month. Cheers.

(And if you are keen to try Vimla, do sign up using my personal link, and then we’ll both get a 10:- per month discount, as long as we both remain signed up and alive. Up with this sort of thing!)

/ Paddy

Kund is “customer” in Swedish, and also (almost) in Danish, Norwegian, and German.

Bad ad tropes

Ads are basically evil poetry. We put up with them because they are everywhere and we don’t have a choice, but we don’t ever really want them, do we? And that is particularly true for me.

There’s some ad tropes I hate extra much. Things that, if they appear, have the opposite effect than the one intended, making me want to fling the product into a lake of fire instead of buying it. And if you want to know what those things are, well, I have you covered. Let’s take them to the next level and show them to the person who matters most – you. Because you, my friend, are so very worth it.

Handmade: When something is described as handmade, it is usually trying to invoke the image of a jolly old lady, a grandma of some sort, possibly Italian, in a kitchen making traditional food. You see it, don’t you? The chickens pecking outside. The cat, probably. Then, when the dish is served, there will be laughter and fiddle music. It all makes me shiver. Because when I hear “handmade” in connection to food all I see is that Italian granny poking it with her sweaty hands, the ash tumbling from her cigg. There’s an ad for chocolate here in Sweden where we see the “artisan” in his chef’s hat pick up the chocolate to admire it, using his hands, the same hands that have just been scratching his knob, or picking his nose. Please, stop it with the handmade. I want my ultra-processed shit food prepared by nice, clean robots. “Made in a sterile and ethnic stereotype free environment”. Now that will get me to buy your product. Handmade … nah, not so much.

Most sold: You see this a lot here in Sweden. “The nordic’s most sold sexual lubricant!” is assumed to be something that shift units. I guess it’s the “A million rats can’t be wrong” school of logic. But, honestly, why should I care that something has been bought loads of times? Is it suddenly more appealing just because all those saps fell for your advertising? You show me a thing that’s “most sold” I will sniff at it and go elsewhere. I am, after all — or have been constantly told by ads that I am — an individual and a free-thinker who knows what he wants. So get your story straight.

“Sweden’s most sold single malt whiskey” as if that were a good thing.

Designed in Sweden: This bugs me immensely. What this means in reality is that a Swedish company, who used to push the “We are Swedish” angle, has moved their manufacturing to a cheap country but still want to harp on about their product’s quality. “Made in Slovenia!” doesn’t shift many units (except perhaps in Slovenia) so instead they tell us it was designed here, in Sweden, by clever proper people, you know, people like you, but better. People wearing beanies that don’t quite cover their ears. Because, clearly, those Swedish designers have a bigger affect on the quality of the product that the people who actually make the thing. Do fuck off. If it’s made in Sweden, tell us that. Otherwise, put a sock in it.

Cutting-edge science: What other kind of science would you use? Old science? Second-hand science? New-age science (bring me the crystals and the brass gong, Jasmine). Again, begone. It’s a non-claim, a phrase put in an ad just to have the s-word appear somewhere. And it annoys me.

Exclusive: People rarely seem to think about what this actually means. An exclusive product is one that only some people can have. That’s what it means, you see: to exclude some group. Generally, those without money. These days, though, we’re being lead to believe that it just means “good”. I’ve even seen “Exclusive and affordable” used in ads. Nope, sorry, it can’t be both. Pick one.

Ukulele music / whistling: Ever since I saw this hilarious video by Irish music youtuber tanatcrul I’ve been aware of these massively irritating audio tropes. Clapping also fits into this category. If your ad soundscape includes any of these, you can be sure I’ll promptly close my ear-holes.

You are unique: And here it is, the most cynical of all “Buy this!” tropes. Here you’re being told that nobody else is like you, therefore you should buy this thing (maybe it’s exclusive?) that everybody else has, because you are so special. Go on, love yourself! Marketers, I beg you, please stop doing this. It’s mind-numbingly dumb. And no, I don’t love myself. Only awful people do that.

So, to summarise, if you want me to buy your shit, try something else in your ads. Maybe something funny or weird. Or how about truthful? “We’re destroying the natural world to create this thing you don’t need, which will end up in a landfill, or wrapped around a turtle, but which makes your life a tad easier.” Or: “Fuck biodiversity, here’s a barely edible industrial product made from amazon rainforest beef and palm oil.” I mean, I probably won’t buy it, but it might make me love myself a bit more.

You know, like a psychopath.

/ Paddy

The Chicken Years

Internet advertising is an odd beast. Facebook seems to have pinned me as a man who likes his golf, his Trump and his new age retreats, to judge from the ads it shows me. From my age, perhaps. Or my maleness. Or the colours and texture of my aura.

But over the last few weeks, a certain ad has been following me around the internet, at least on my mobile phone. Any website containing advertising that I open will, in seconds, be showing me the following advertisement:

These are chickens. Wearing reflective vests. One is pink. The other is yellow. You know, for those chickens who are picky about their colour schemes.

One question here is why chickens need reflective vests — maybe they’re laying tarmac, or directing crowds to fire exits? Fuck knows. The other question here is why the site lantbutiken.se is apparently so keen to have me as a customer. They sell farming equipment and I am currently not a farmer, nor an owner of chickens.

The ads they show me do push the whole chicken angle pretty hard. Observe:

This chicken is wearing a camouflage vest. No, I don’t know why either.

It’s possible, I suppose, that I accidentally clicked on an ad for chicken stuff one time. So now lantbutiken.se is convinced I’m a chicken accessory collector just waiting to come out of the coop. Or maybe their calculations show that a 40+ man with an Irish surname simply must be interested in chickens, and that’s all there is to it.

Here is a water feeder for chickens. And some kind of … chicken-proof apron?

So, lantbutiken, I’m afraid you’re clucking up the wrong tree here. Save your money and advertise to someone who doesn’t live in a second-floor flat, in a city. Although if I ever need to kit out an all-chicken army or building crew, I do know exactly where to go.

/ paddy

The Leaving Of Twitterpool

So here I am, then. Sneaking back in to do a blog post. With my tail between legs.

After that debacle in the US in November, I pretty much left Facebook and Twitter and stopped reading the news. The world is sinking into bubbling shit and knowing exactly the volume, depth and consistency of that shit makes me feel only depressed and hopeless. Also, the less I see of that fat orange mouthy fucker with the hair, the better.

But I realised a thing — blogging is now old-school. It’s practically vintage. The kids are all up in their Snapchats and their Instantgrams, but blogging is hard-core, with text measured in pounds and feet and not characters. Something requiring effort. Like a thing your old grandad would sit in an armchair and reminisce about.

Being (almost entirely) social media free is also great. You sleep better. You are less worried. You don’t know who just died. And when you meet friends in the pub, you actually have something to tell them that they haven’t already read in minutely commented detail. Just like it was in the past.

But the social media itch remains. So you know what I did instead? I started, to my eternal shame, to use Linkedin as a social media site. I know. Yes, I know. I scroll through that sleazy little feed, nodding at people’s new jobs and titles and what motivational videos they recommend. And I feel so dirty. Plus, people even there are going on about fucking Trump. There is no escape.

Due to my shameful presence on Linkedin, and my having clocked six years at the same company, I’m a tiny bit keen to get myself a new job. So I’ve been looking at lots of job ads. And apart from being over-wordy and packed with awful English, there is a thing I’ve noticed. Passion.

When did having “passion” for a thing become required to get a job with said thing? Why is it no longer seen as okay to just turn up for the money? In the old days, were people looking for carpenters with a passion for chisels? Or plumbers who were team players? Or cooks who burned for, um, not burning things? I don’t think I’ve seen a game developer job ad where passion doesn’t appear in the first two sentences.

My good lady has the theory that the whole passion thing emerged from the middle class. Once people of all social classes had to go to work, it became nice to pretend that fancier people did it mostly because it excited them. The thing about paying the bills was secondary. Only riff-raff worked just for the money. But we work because it sets out hearts and minds on fire, and not because of the paycheck and free buns.

Maybe that’s the reason. Or maybe it’s just the way you advertise jobs these days (although I’m fairly sure that ads for more mundane or unskilled jobs aren’t all about the passion). I don’t have passion for my work. I enjoy it. I happily do it. But they’re getting my hours, and not my soul. Should I happen to have one.

And that’s it. End of post. Now, you may notice I’ve turned off the comments. That’s because I don’t want any. Comments have done enough damage in the world already and nobody ever came away from a comment exchange feeling any better.

So if you have something to add, send me a mail. Or a telegram. Or a nice big cake. Or just take me to the pub and berate/hug me in person.

/ paddy

Totally Not Gay

Advertisers (may the good Lord have mercy on them) are skilled at creating need where no need exists, and will spin the most incredible lies to make it happen. I’m particularly interested in how they pretend to “break taboos” to make new markets for their shiny bullshit trinkets. Like, oh let’s say, cosmetics aimed at men.

Razors and shaving gels are basically cosmetics and are sold in a very specific way. Which is the following. Show a rugged NOT GAY man in his clean and shiny AND NOT GAY bathroom. He’ll be shaving and – NOT GAY! – moisturizing and occasionally slapping himself in the face in a very NOT GAY manner. Probably while thinking of fighter planes or racing cars or horses – NO, NOT HORSES! GAY! – sorry, sailing ships, all while wearing a self-satisfied grin. Maybe some teeth will be broken. You know, from all that manly fighting.

And then – and here’s the crucial part – a hot chick will appear in time to smile and kiss him and rub a very definitely feminine hand across his clean manly jaw. This scene is vital just to dispel the final shreds of doubt about this guy POSSIBLY BEING GAY. And then maybe an explosion, just for good measure. A good orange and red and pi – NOT PINK! – explosion. Yeah. Yeah! Fuck it YEAH!

But now these ads have been vastly out-manned by the manly, masculine, macho, straight and quite definitely hard ad for this new product – nail varnish for men. Here’s the ad. It pretty much speaks for itself. Drop your jaw now, it’s easier that way.

(If the link’s broken, just do a search for Alpha Nail. Yes, you heard me. Alpha fucking Nail.)

What an utter and total cock. He’s NOT GAY though, as shown by, oh, pretty much everything in that ad. Now I’ve been dabbling with using nail varnish for years, for special occasions. I quite like it. I know other men who do too. And we don’t require a 5o-megaton high-octane flesh-neck-screaming moron to get us to do it.

I hope this product fails. Because buying a ballsy for-men product isn’t “hard” or “manly”. You know what’s ballsy? Walking into a shop and buying “ladies” nail varnish just because you want to. And putting it on, just because you want to. And ignoring what rugged insecure nitwits on TV are telling you about how and in what way you should “be a man”.

And hey, why not finish off with this, which sums up marvelously how ads aimed at men and women are different.

/ paddy (as gay as the next man)

Ikea’s Invisible Woman

Today there’s been a storm in the Swedish media (and most others too) about Ikea. Apparently they’ve been airbrushing women out of their catalog for the Saudi Arabian market. The Saudis don’t like looking at photos of women. Especially not women hanging out at home and having the audacity to WEAR PYJAMAS. The filthy tramps. Pyjamas! What will the children think? Or maybe they’re not allowed to think at all? Phew, close one.

So, anyway, Ikea doesn’t feel it should take any responsibility for the way their oil-rish customers would very much like to shit on human rights. They’re just there to sell furniture, they say. Very nice, Ikea. How useful that your corporate “ideals” are exactly the same ideals that will earn you lots of money. What a very happy accident. Let’s suck money out of a country that oppresses half of its population, while rabbiting on about “female empowerment” in other areas. Areas, by another amazing co-incidence, that will ALSO earn Ikea lots of money. Wow!

Screw you Ikea, you corporate slug with your shitty furniture and your high opinion of yourself, using your power and influence for nothing good whatsoever. Take your carefully constructed “we care” bullshit, insert it firmly into slot B and turn it a full revolution. Either direction is fine.

Click through the photos in the Swedish newspaper (first link above). There’s a photo showing some Ikea designers, and the same one in the Saudi catalog but with the single woman removed. I bet she’s happy about that and can’t wait to work for Ikea again.

But I have a solution for Ikea. Just release the catalog without women or men or any people at all, and instead put all the people on separate stickers. Then we can have a jolly old time putting in people of whatever race, sex, or flavour into any situation we desire. Imagine it! Grinning babies in ovens. A line of men’s heads on the top shelf of a Billy. A woman showing her hair. A scary man hiding under the children’s bed.

And presto – suddenly nobody is offended! Endless fun and chuckling for all! Except for the ones who have to suffer for it, in a country Ikea will do nothing whatsoever to improve. Unless, of course, there’s a profit in it for Mr. Kamprad. Then it’s all steam ahead, and corporate bullshit to maximum. Cash ahoy, mateys!

(Photos above were nicked from here, where there is also lots of other good photos.)

/ paddy

Prometheus – Space Turd

What do you get when you put the most incompetent bunch of idiots ever assembled on a spaceship, and team them up with the most moronic and lazy scriptwriters money can buy? You get Prometheus, is what you get. The latest nail in the coffin of movie science fiction and intelligent cinema. And the latest reason to keep old men away from the good things they made in their youth. At all costs.

This film is a joke. It pretends to be “deep” and “philosophical” but just throws together random and badly thought-out space-movie tropes in any order. None of it makes sense, even in the logic-sparse world of big-screen science fiction.

Every single thing the characters do is unbelievable and stupid. They expose themselves to alien environments and substances at the drop of a hat. They show no curiosity about the things happening on their own ship. They all seem incredibly unsuited to their jobs. They are scared by pointless things, and completely not bothered by, oh, actual aliens.

Two crew members die in the alien structure, and nobody knows about it. Despite having a fucking massive high-tech console with every possible kind of feed. Apparently there’s no “record” function, and the guy on duty heads off for a quick shag. Nobody misses them until the next morning, and still they can’t figure out why they’re not saying anything.

Don’t even get me started on the alien structure’s very handy holographic projector, which replays only scenes that are extremely relevant to the plot, for no fucking apparent reason. Or the “archeologists” who’ve crossed thirty light-years for this mess and decide to take the first night off and hang out a bit. In their bedroom. Or the inane warbling about alien and human DNA being the same, while ignoring the fact that human DNA is similar to that of every creature on the Earth.

I can forgive a little hand-waving in movies, a little glossing-over of plot points for the greater good. But not in every single fucking scene. This movie was one long pointless chore. A chore made much worse in that I had to watch the fucking thing in 3D. And pay 50% more for my ticket for the fucking privilege.

Basically, I require the same from my science fiction movies as from other kinds — that they make sense. Why is this very basic demand so often disregarded? Do they assume we’ll come for the fucking flashy CGI and turn our brains completely off? Just because there’s spaceships and, oooh, aliens? Fuck you Hollywood, you lazy arrogant pricks.

I want to shove a spear up Ridley fucking Scott’s arse for treating me like a moron. That’s what he did with this movie. He charged me money for this dirge and sprayed diarrhea on a screen and said, “Look! It’s an alien, see?”

Don’t see this. It makes science fiction, the most intelligent and far-thinking of genres, into shit pudding. And please, somebody stop that bastard Scott from ruining Blade Runner in the same way by doing a prequel or a fucking remake or whatever the fuck he might be planning. For all that’s good and fine, please stop him. With a crowbar if necessary.

/ paddy

Japan Pearl Harbour Earthquake Fuckwits

It’s pretty hard to miss the news coming in from Japan. If a crushing earthquake wasn’t enough, the country was ploughed by tsunami and now faces nuclear fallout from its aging reactors. Thousands are dead, more are missing and millions are homeless. Watching the news for just five minutes is pretty heart-wrenching.

You would think the world would show its sympathy for Japan in the same way that most of us showed sympathy for the events of September 11 2001. Unfortunately this wasn’t entirely the case as shown by this image doing the rounds over the last day or two. I’ll link to the fucking thing, but I won’t give it any column inches. It’s basically a collection of retarded moronic red-neck comments made by idiot Americans on Facebook. Have a look, if you must, but hold your breath.

These brilliant samples of humanity are pointing out how the Japanese deserve this horrendous situation because of Pearl Harbour. They bombed us, yeah, de sure did, so fuck ’em. Well pass the shotgun ma there’s a squirrel on my knee and my dick is the sick of an acorn, ha-yuck.

These people. These fucking people. There’s not much to say really, is there? It’s just mind-melting that useless pieces of crap like this can live and breath and share the same planet as the rest of us. Even if their little comments were accurate, it would be a very nasty thing to say right now when the Japanese are suffering like this. However there is very little that can be considered true in their Pearl Harbour comment. Let’s just throw a few facts out there, shall we.

A good many people died at Pearly Harbour. Mostly soldiers though. Soldiers in a war. At Hiroshima and Nagasaki civilians were targeted (which I believe is called terrorism) and vastly more were killed. And there is plenty of evidence to suggest that the atomic attacks were not actually necessary to stop the war at all and were only done to show the world what the American atomic weapons could do, and also to crush Japan quickly so the USA wouldn’t have to share it with the Russians as they did with Germany. “Saving American lives” wasn’t really a consideration. It was about power and posturing, and as for dead civilians… fuck ’em.

Then of course Pearl Harbour wasn’t really part of the US at all, but annexed by them, which means basically stolen, in 1893. Do our fantastically thick Facebookers know this? No, of course they don’t. By all means, prove me wrong people, please do.

Finally, of course, being Americans, I would guess that the majority of these fine people would describe themselves as Christians. And not at all understand why that’s ironic. Because, as I’ve mentioned, they are as fucking thick as a shit slushy.

I’ve checked a few people on this image, and they do indeed have real Facebook accounts. This is possibly the most scary thing of all, that this is actually for real. If anybody wants to harass them and send them naughty words, you have my blessing. They deserve nothing less, the rancid malevolent little turds.

Ignore those morons, Japan. They don’t represent us. We promise.

/ paddy

The Golden Shower Solution

Goodness me, is that the time? Three weeks since my last blog entry? I think my brain is entering some kind of hibernation period. It’s the weather, I say. Perhaps a catastrophic lack of tea and biscuits. Or maybe I’m just in need of a good, hard, proper… oh yeah, my family might be reading… bugger… urm, a good hard proper… crossword…

But alright, for your titillation allow me to present a story from that shit-house of a newspaper, Sweden’s Aftonbladet. The title? “Cold-weather expert says to piss on the tongue”, which pretty much sums it up. You see, this ex-army no-nonsense dude suggests that when the wee ones do what wee ones do and get their tongues stuck to metal poles in winter, that the only solution is to produce the old fleshy hose-pipe and piss on them.

Now I’m not saying it doesn’t work but I am pretty sure that, along with me, everybody out there shudders when they read this. And now I have a permanent image of the old chap popping open his fly with a grim look about him, turning to the tongue-stretchy kid and saying – “Hold on there now Timmy, this won’t hurt a bit. Wait… wait… hang on… ah there we go, better in than out, eh lad?”

And yes, I know I should be talking about serious things like suicide bombers and whistle-blowers but fuck it. That shit’s far too depressing. So if you want some good old-fashioned and non-lethal pee humour in these dark times, you know where to come, and keep on coming… oh crap, wait…

/ paddy

Too Much News

Today I made the classic mistake of watching the news at breakfast. Bad idea. I am not normally know for my pleasant demeanour in the mornings, and watching that carnival of inanity pushes me way over the edge into proper “grumpy old man” territory.

Article one that lit my fuse was a collection of total fucking morons in Belgrade who turned out in their Soviet-era sweats to protest the fact that other people had the nerve to exist. In this case, they were showing their displeasure against the upcoming Pride parade. And, as homophobes always do, the people interviewed went on about “traditional values” and “family values” and “religious values” and other such steaming horse shit to justify their actions.

I mean, when will these people grow a pair and actually say what they are thinking instead of just hiding behind religion and tradition? Fucking tossers. I would have much more respect for them if they turned out with signs simply saying “I Hate Homos”. Fucking cowards and fucking idiots all in one, with their tiny piggy eyes and their big penile compensation signs. It almost makes me glad that there is no heaven as, if there were, I might have to share it with gobshites like that.

Article two that inflamed my wrath is this one. A divorced man in Sweden takes his two kids and hoofs it. The article tells us there is a risk he might take the kids illegally back to his own country and then asks for our help in looking out for them. Whereupon the “journalists” tell us what kind of dress the little girl is wearing and then stop talking. They completely don’t tell us what the guy looks like, surely the most important piece of data here. They have pretty much told us he is not a white Swede, but then don’t dare to tell us his actual appearance.

This, I imagine, comes from the classic Swedish fear of being portrayed a racist. But in this case, I just don’t get it. Just what is wrong with saying “It’s a Middle-Eastern dude” or “It’s a Kenyan dude” or “It’s a white dude from South Africa” or whatever. Don’t they want the kids to be found? And, if so, shouldn’t they actually just give us the info and let us make our own minds up?

Seriously, saying that the dude is from country X and looks like Y is not racism. If the press really cared about those kids being found, and not just about looking PC, then they would tell us. But I guess they don’t. It’s just news, something to fill the seconds with.

I could go on, oh yes I could, on and on and on. But I won’t. There’s a nice day ahead full of things that won’t annoy me, so I’ll think about them instead. And I’ll have my trusty TV-B-Gone at the ready, just in case a TV tries to sneak up on me when I least expect it.

/ paddy

Stupid Razor Names

I hate it when I give away all the tension directly in the title of the blog. Like I just did now. Damn it. So, yeah, men’s razors have daft names. Really incredibly daft. As if all the meetings take place in day-care centres and involve Duplo and modelling clay. Examples? Oh you betcha.

• Fusion ProGlide Power
• Fusion Power Phenom
• Mach3 Turbo Champion
• Quattro Titanium Precision

See? Now Dara O’Briain below says it rather better than me. Note there are Greek subtitles because some kind moron removed the swear words in the English version. Because we are so delicate. (For the sake of completion, here’s what they removed: shit, fuck, fuck, fucking, Christ, shit, Jesus Christ, fuck, Pope Rat’s Arse).

The reason, I imagine, is because advertisers are idiots. Yeah, actually, that’s it right there, dans une nutshell. Advertisers are complete fucking morons who should be whipped to within an inch of their lives, and regularly. That’s been established by me, Bill Hicks and pretty much fucking everybody. QED. From the Latin: Quadvertisers Er Diotes.

And what do I shave with? A simple honest Protector. Twelve years old and still going strong. And therefore to the advertisers I say – shove THAT in your arse and smoke it. Or shave it. Whatever.

/ paddy (Turbo Laser Ultra 4)

The Swedish Democrats

There is a big fuss in Sweden at the moment about the Swedish Democrats. These are a far-right party, peopled and supported mostly by thick people from the country. Well, they are. All the other parties are now in a tizzy about the fact that they might win seats in the parliament and they are falling over each other to say how they will not, on any account, work with them.

Sigh. Let me just point something out here. This is a democracy, and central to a democracy is allowing people the right to speak even when you don’t agree with them. ESPECIALLY when you don’t agree with them. Tell this to the upper middle-class leftish louts who regularly turn up when far-right parties speak in public and shout them down. You know what would have a bigger effect, you daft shouty dread-locked irritants? To let them speak. To allow us to see their logic and make up out own minds. I don’t want the information I get to be filtered by bigots (and the far left are clearly bigoted in their own way). I want to make my own mind up.

As an example I think another party, the Christian Democrats, should be removed from politics since their ranks are awash with homophobes and deluded people. But I understand that they won’t, because many people like to vote for them, so fair enough. Any political party with the support of people should have the same rights as any other political party, as long as what they say isn’t illegal. So get fucking used to it. Again, democracy, remember?

So if you want idiots to show that they are idiots, you let them talk and you ask them questions. Here is a perfect example of that. A far-right dude from the country (previously, and clearly currently, a neo-Nazi) is interviewed and it turns out that he can’t put two words together without saying “umm” or swallowing his own snot.

Brilliant! And here, to prolong your chuckle, is an excellent tune by the very same guy. This dude is great. He’s a complete brick-head who fears for Christmas eve and Midsummer at the hands of marauding foreigners. And he is also a perfect example of why idiots whould be allowed to speak as much as possible. For entertainment, if nothing else.

Personally I am very much in favour of immigration (duh) but I expect those who immigrate to accept the laws and traditions of the country that accepts them. Isolation, religious law, religious clothing, circumcision – all this bollox should cease. Nothing makes me as happy as seeing middle-eastern women in secular clothing, or happy immigrant families on their way to Skansen. Nothing makes me as angry as seeing women wearing full-body burqas and walking four steps behind their fat men because of some ancient tradition of oppression. Cultural rights my fat arse; civil rights come always first.

What’s the point of leaving a nasty country where you are oppressed in one way and coming to another country where you are oppressed in another? Screw that shit. Sweden needs to break the power of traditonal religious cultures inside its own borders. It should not be afraid to put its foot down and say “Welcome, but please observe the rules”. Go to your Mosque (or your Church), by all means, but that bearded gobshite who runs the place shall NOT have any say in how your life goes.

I am quite openly a culturalist. I do believe that my culture, with its emphasis on openness, fairness, and secularism, is clearly better than many other cultures. And what’s wrong with saying that? Plus anybody can join my culture, regardless of race, sex and colour. Come one, come all, but let the force of law dictate what is right and acceptable, and not some random magic book and a room-full of secretive bearded men.

I mean, look at me, previously a rabid Catholic potato-eater, and now after only 13 years in Sweden I eat pickled fish and pasta, I take my shoes off when I enter a house, and just a few days days ago I bought an IKEA throw-cover for my bed.

Who says miracles can’t happen?

/ paddy