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Good day to you all
and firstly let me say a very big thank you to all the chaps at
The New Site
of the Weird for giving me this online presence to express my views on this glorious nation.
I believe they call this blogging or some such
thing, dammed if I know the correct term for it, I'm writing this on my trusty
typewriter as computers were never one's
thing, too busy with the fillies for all that nonsense.
March 2008
The Chaps on this
site wanted to know what my first journal entry would be about, well, never one
for holding back on my views I've decided to write about a problem that's really
getting on one's goat at the moment - Scumbags or Chavs as I believe there're
more commonly known. This bunch of total cretins should all be sterilised at birth,
drowning is too good for them let me tell you!.
I had the grave
misfortune to bump into a couple of these young miscreants as I was out shopping for cigars
and cologne some while ago. One of them had the audacity to call me a wanker.
Well let me tell you I am certainly not!. I have a lady who does if you know what
I mean! A swift whack in the family jewels with my trusty
walking cane was all it took to
bring the blighter to his tracksuit wearing knees, I can tell you. The chav's
girlfriend tried to make her escape while he lay in a pool of blood clutching
what was left of his right testicle. Of course I was having none of this and
made chase, I eventually had her cornered in an alleyway next to my cigar shop where I gave her an
almighty crack over the head with my cane, or should I now call it my chav
suppressor? - ha ha what fun!
Well, that's it for my first journal
entry - until next time happy filly hunting and God save the Queen
April 2008
A big thank
you
Hello and welcome again to my
second journal entry. Firstly I'd like to say a very big thank you to all the
readers of this page for supporting my views on chavs. It seems as though
most of you agree with me that they should all be obliterated from our glorious nation.
March 2009
On Her Majesty’s Pleasure
Well it’s been quite a while since my last blog entry. Been away you see at Her
Majesty’s pleasure. The money would have been mine eventually so I don’t know
what all the fuss was about. Only taking what I would have inherited anyway and
saved the family a fortune in inheritance tax. Had the last laugh anyway as part
of the money I’d already stashed offshore, ha, so I can still finance my lavish
lifestyle!
My time was put to good use though. Managed to find myself a new business
partner whilst inside. Going to set ourselves up as a security firm for the
affluent. Got to look after our own type I tell you and stop those scumbags from
pillaging what is ours.
Must dash, got to write my business plan. Think I should leave out details of
our ‘unique selling point’. What’s that I hear you say? Well it’s mustard gas
and sheer brutality for any miscreants that are caught, ha, that will teach them!
What’s it all
about, Alfie?!
Hello Snuffington-Smith here again, what-oh!
What is this country coming to I ask you? I’m disgusted to call myself British.
Children having children; it’s an absolute disgrace. Yes, I’m talking about that
Alfie child, fathering a child at the age of 13. Have you seen the little scroat?
He doesn’t even look 13; more like 8. No way is that little bastard his as I
doubt he’s even reached puberty, or even able to get it up. Do you honestly
think he’s firing anything? I doubt if he’s even able to pleasure himself, let
alone a girl. No, it’s all a set-up to make money. By all accounts it could be
half the male population. They’re coming out of the woodwork, claiming they’ve
all been there. Who would want to lay claim to that, I ask you? If it was me I’d
want to keep that one quiet, by gosh. Just looking at that pig face of hers
would make any male deflated immediately. She’s like the back end of a bus. They
should use pictures of munters like her to promote safe sex.
The Snuffington-Smith theory is that the boy’s father is the father, or even her
own father or uncle; you know what it’s like in these types of communities.
Incest and promiscuity is rife. Anybody can have them for a fag and bottle of
WKD.
Back in my day we were just happy with a grope behind the cricket pavilion
with a filly; finger licking good, eh!
Just imagine it; if Alfie is the father and history repeats itself he could be a
grandfather at the age of 26 and a great-grandfather at 39. To cap it all when
interviewed he didn’t even know what finance was. He doesn’t even get pocket
money so can’t afford nappies.
The kid will grow up just the same, pushing out a bastard as soon as possible
and then demanding hand-outs to finance more bastards, velour lounge suits and a
slum with a load of junk in the front garden. It just doesn’t bear thinking
about and makes me so outraged I want to batter any scumbag I see. They’re
taking over and bleeding this once mighty nation dry. Nippon the lot. Bring back
the workhouse and National Service, that will sort them out.
Hitler had the right idea. Mass sterilisation. That would stop this drain on
society. If I could get my hands on this crowd I’d sterilise them myself. I’d
chop the boy’s knob off with a very blunt knife. I’d then tie binder cord around
his peanut-sized bollocks and pull him along the road in my Jag until they
became detached from his pre-pubescent, scrawny body. He could then give them to
the little slapper as earrings. Knowing her she’d then sell them on Ebay!
I must go as I’m seething and my blood is boiling. Off to find myself a little
filly myself to show her what a ‘real man’ can do - Ding Dong!. I shall wear a condom of
course; you don’t know what these ferrells have been up to in the playground,
but at least they will do anything you ask, not like upper-class fillies.
They’re a damned lot cheaper too and you won’t have some father knocking on your
door demanding you marry them, because most don’t know who their father is.
What’s become of
the Working-Class?
Snuffington-Smith here again, what-oh!
The working-class of today I ask you. They don’t know what an honest day’s work
is. Going around in their scruffy chav clothes, slouching and grunting, they’re
surely not human are they? Back in my day the working class thought they were
honoured to have a job, especially on my estate. They would doff their caps as I
passed and were grateful for the pittance I paid them. Now they just don’t give
a damn and all they want to bleat on about is rights, equalities and a fair
wage. They turn up late, their appearance is an absolute disgrace and all they
want to do is this texting and
twittering lark to their mates. What’s all this
nonsense about I
ask? Don’t they know the Queen’s English? I wouldn’t employ any of them.
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My beloved Aunt, Dame Dorothy
Snuffington-Smith
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I had one young miscreant come for an interview with me the
other day. He turned up with his jeans halfway down his
backside, trainers far too big for his feet, baseball cap and
tattoos all up his arms in what I believe they call ‘sleeves’.
Had to take him on as he was the only one the blasted Job Centre
said was suitable, and I needed someone to clean up after me. He
only lasted one day as I caught him behind the potting shed
pleasuring himself over my aunt’s picture. Her a 93 year old
Dame too, how dare he. Didn’t take too kindly to me taking my
cane to his privates and battering the hell out of him. He had
the audacity to call me an upper class masochist peodo. Now I’m
up before the courts on a charge of unfair dismissal and child
abuse.
Bring back corporal punishment I tell you. Never did me any harm. I can still
remember the sting of that cane over my buttocks and the look of sheer enjoyment
on the house master’s face. However, that may have just been because he liked to
see us boys stripped from the waist down bending over his desk, but that’s a
story for another day.
Until then, remember, the aristocracy is what puts the great in Great Britain,
not the working class and any good person should take it as their duty to keep
the working classes down where they belong in their ghettos. Cheery-pop!
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June 2009
A chip off the old block
Good day to you all and let
me start this entry by thanking you all for your letters of support over
the last few Months. It's very uplifting for me to realise most of you
agree with my thoughts on this glorious nation of ours.
I had some very unexpected but most welcome news this week when I was
reunited with my son Barrington. I shall describe how I became
reacquainted with him soon, but in the meantime here's a picture of him
A chip off the old block -
My beloved Son Barrington
May 2010
On Her Majesty’s Pleasure
(again)
Good day to you all and let
me start by apologising for the lack of blog entries over the past
months,
Been away at her majesty's
pleasure again you see. I'll let you know all the details soon but in
the mean time here's a picture of my new dog. I don't have a name for
him yet so maybe my loyal readers could come up with a name for him.
Please electronically mail your suggestion
here
September
2011
Felchem Hall opens
to the public
Welcome to my latest update. I’m sorry it’s been a long wait but I’ve
been having a spot of bother at my ancestral home of Felchem Hall.
Due to financial constraints I’ve made the bold step of opening up the
old family home to the masses. Not what I wanted to do I can assure you,
as I didn’t want hordes of chavs walking all over the place ruining the
carpets with their grubby trainers, school parties of disobedient
illegitimate children running amok and obese old slags sullying the
antique flooring with their stiletto shoes. Still, needs must, so I’ll
just have to make do with the situation and hopefully watch the money
roll in.
I’ve recently converted the stables into a charming tea room where I’m
hoping to make a killing selling hideously overpriced beverages, cakes,
light lunches and sandwiches to the gullible public. One of my employees
gets all the basics range food at the local supermarket and then decants
the crap into packets with our own ‘Homemade at Felchem Hall’ branded
packaging - money for old rope. Ha ha!
Things have been going swimmingly at the old place, well, except for one
rather unsavoury incident. I managed to get into a scuffle with one
idiotic old pensioner who took it upon himself to pick a fight with me
over the fact that I charged him £12 for a cup of tea and scone. He said
I was ripping him off and tried punching me in the face; I was having
none of it and struck him rather hard across his jaw with my trusty
walking cane. It’s not my fault he didn’t see the price list, even if it
is rather small and obscured by a painting of my great aunt. Suffice to
say that deed landed me in some rather hot water with the authorities,
thus explaining my lack of updates recently.
I’ll let you know how things are shaping up at Felchem Hall in my next
update. Tally ho for now and God save the Queen.
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