Rogue Italian Priest Has Some Views About Women, Domestic Violence


They’re asking for it.

Most readers probably, like myself, read through the article linked above with a weary sigh and a tired roll of the eyes. When will people representing institutions that are commonly thought of as being arbiters of some sort of morality or other stop coming out with the tired, hackneyed and sterotype-driven victim blaming in regards to injustice suffered by more vulnerable groups in society?

To be clear here, I’m not talking about “all women” being by default more vulnerable; but I think it can be agreed that women who are experiencing unlawful assaults and psychological abuse on a frequent basis from someone they can’t help loving and caring about (or maybe just can’t afford to leave) are definitely vulnerable to a more marked extent than they would be otherwise.

The priest mentions all the classic slut-shaming tropes; provocative dress, slovenliness, difficulty in coping with childcare responsibilities, uppity-ness and the desire for personal independence. Not a single one of these things is unlawful. Assaulting a person because they behave in any of these ways is. You (and I’m talking to the stubborn handful of men, represented across a staggering diversity of communities across the globe, not the vast majority of reasonable men who I genuinely hope can read this piece and not feel attacked) behave violently when you have the choice to simply walk away and never come back. Unless you love her and can’t leave her, in which case get some help, because if you love this apparent slovenly slag monster so much, there’s more than just one screw loose in your own brain.

Idiots like this renegade priest feed you with the manure required to fire up your engines for another day of getting back into her face and trying to “correct” her ways. I hate to break it to you fellas, but you owning a penis doesn’t make you the daddy she probably disliked beyond belief as a youngster; you have no responsibility to look after her if you don’t like how she lives her life, or how she thinks and feels, and if you don’t feel bad when you see her hurt by your controlling behaviours or necessary “corrective” actions then get the absolute fuck out of Dodge, mate. Because you’re a fucking monster.

People like you – men who hit women because they don’t like their (completely lawful) behaviour, men who attempt to psychologically “punish” and “correct” women because they don’t like their (completely lawful) behaviour – are examples of the lowest and most cretinous personality types that society has to offer. I bet there’s not a lone, successful, happy achiever amongst you. Your daily failures grind and grind away, as you spend each waking hour falling shorter and shorter of the person you always dreamed you would be when you were younger and still had hope. A person with any notable amount of self-esteem does not have to stoop to hitting or psychologically tormenting the person they would also like to have sex with. You’re either a sociopath, or a loser who can only feel successful within the tiny space and limited company offered within the four walls you call home.

Stop listening to these enabling idiots spouting the same old mantras that insinuate that you men are all too stupid to know where the front door is, and how to exit if she’s making you feel like hurting her. If she makes you feel like hurting or controlling her, and you simultaneously can’t be without her or stand to leave, then you have a responsibility to understand that you are being influenced by deep emotion that contains hatred, and there is more than a good chance that it is coming out in horrible ways that you don’t intend and are unable to perceive. You should leave anyway. You’re not helping, and you’ll destroy either her or yourself, and everything you ever thought you might have had.

This isn’t about who did the dishes, who wore what, or how late anyone stayed out. They’re ridiculous excuses drummed up by people who do not want to take personal responsibility for their actions, who feel jealous, weak and underappreciated, and cannot turn the spotlight upon themselves and their own failures; and instead attack those around them with violence and controlling behaviours.

And (back to the idiot Priest) no amount of thumping your Bible on the subject is going to magically rearrange the words within into a divine edict for you personally, Mr Righteous Angry Man, to physically hurt her or attempt to become invasive and controlling with her property or social life.


Nouveau Pauvre

A 250ml bottle of Marks and Spencers Chardonnay – retrieved from a selection of New World wines gifted to me at Christmas by my mother – sits jammed in a crevice that my crossed legs form as I sit, stoned but not nearly stoned enough, idly clicking through news feeds online and intermittently stopping to watch, hypnotised as the bruising on my right knuckles deepens and reddens as the minutes go by. I pause now and then to take a gulp from the bottle, the way I used to with a Smirnoff Ice or Barcardi Breezer when I was a child being drunk on a field. I’m waiting on more tobacco so I can skin up the last of this weed.
The section of wall beside my rotting window is fine, and I’ll be fine too.

Monbiot Hates Imaginary Anarchist Who Made Him Liberal

"Gyppos and anarchists, Dick... how spiffing!"

“Gyppos and anarchists, Dick… how spiffing!”

George Monbiot decided yesterday to share with us all how he stopped being an anarchist. It was because a handful of anarchists were mean to him once, on one occasion. Seriously. He regales us of the tale where he was in A&E, and met a dirty, tattooed, trampy-looking man. He describes how, as there were no magazines available, he attempted to orchestrate conversation with the dirty fellow. He describes the anarchist’s “filthy fingers” and “black teeth”, and denigrates his attempts at conversation – conversation that Monbiot purposefully initiated – then patronisingly suggests that as all other conversations were a dead end, he’d try to talk about ruddy dogs with the useless filthy fucker.

Rather than, I don’t know, shutting the fuck up and realising he was a boring cunt who was incapable of even keeping an imaginary caricature of a reeking, stupid man entertained.

The conversation about dogs gives Monbiot ‘Nam style flashbacks to when he was a bright eyed, bushy-tailed little fucker; trailing anarchists round like a confused, abandoned pedigree puppy. Apparently, camping out with the gyppos and anarchists wasn’t as easy as simply tally-hoing, pip-pipping and what-whatting like in the Famous Five books. He mentions that as he and his chums showed a group of travellers basic courtesy, they “…must have thought they had died and gone to heaven.” It’s there. In black and white. George Monbiot and his liberal pals were so nice to the gypsy fuckers who everyone else hates that they, according to him – to his very words – must have felt as grateful as if he were God on High unlocking the pearly gates of Heaven itself.

It’s a wonder he never got seriously twatted; the silly, silly man.

This anarchist fella was apparently one of a pair of brothers who kepts dogs on ropes or something, in the old days near as gypsy camp. Near the abandoned haunted mine. All of the dogs called Bullseye. They all hated the preening pipsqueak Monbiot and his chums, and wouldn’t be mates. Monbiot and pals got all butthurt but it was okay, as eventually his other mates the rozzers came round.

He praises the police for eventually sorting the “problem” of the ungrateful anarchists who wouldn’t be mates out, and then, as some sort of denouement, springs it upon the reader that the poor, dirty man he has been sneering about for the last page or so is wearing a coat he lost, back when he originally was hanging around with the guy.

George, even if that imaginary man took your coat, doesn’t it say a lot that in the intervening years he hasn’t discarded it? As in, maybe he needed the fucking thing; while it took you countless painful minutes of forced conversation and a massive fake flashback before you even remembered the imaginary coat you lost?

If I were to somehow, horrifically, end up with the same thinking patterns as Monbiot, I would have to stop ever reading the Guardian, as one of their columnists is a lazy, stereotyping hack. I would have to change my entire politcial compass and stick to wanking off over Royal weddings in the Telegraph. Because someone was mean, once, and they and their mates are in with the Guardian. Fuck that noise. Monbiot’s crappy little OP was the final nail in the coffin of me turning by back on mainstream liberalism.

And it was an actual event that actually happened.

Iain Duncan Smith Cares About Drug Addicts, Tesco

There is an interesting snippet tucked away at the end of this Telegraph piece regarding Iain Duncan Smith’s decision that use of the Universal Jobmatch site will now indeed be mandatory for Jobseekers from the New Year (the title, incidentally, was changed from the original “Government to Spy on Computers of the Jobless” to “Jobless to Be Remotely Monitored by Government” by the internet fairies at some point between the publishing date of the 20th December and now, with the original showing on Google and linking to the same piece with the new title).

"We’ll just switch the subject and object around. We’ll just blatantly do that.”

“We’ll just switch the subject and object around. We’ll just blatantly do that.”

Iain Duncan Smith has confirmed that he and his pals have been taking some more time off to don sackcloth and ashes; to pray and fast around the clock until the problem of Drugs and Poor People Using Them is solved. Reports that the giant, golden, jewel encrusted calf that they had been prostrating themselves before actually came to life – eyes blasting out laser beams – and bellowed “SMART CARDS!” as its nostrils belched out pure sulphur and baby screams are as of yet unconfirmed; but it has been confirmed that these jokey little scraps of plastic (“smart” cards preloaded with an allowance to spend on specific essentials from specific stores only, replacing existing JSA cash payments to benefits recipients who happen to also be addicted to drugs) are exactly what the pious parliamentarian and his chums have offered as a solution to the complex and multi-layered issue of drug addiction on the breadline.

As he mentions himself, they can’t actually do any of this, but the very fact that he could bring himself to shamelessly attempt to sell such a thoroughly stupid idea to the public is breathtakingly insulting. People who are dependent on drugs (including alcohol) will not magically “get better” and stop feeling like they need to take drugs just because their bank balance says “zero”. Without additional measures such as decent rehabilitation programs for those who’d take them, medical support for those suffering the acute physical and mental illnesses brought on by abrupt cessation, and increased police numbers to deal with the subsection of people who will in their desperation turn to theft and violent crime; the overall impact on society would be very obviously negative. The social burden of supporting these cashless addicts would fall on the surrounding community – likely as not a less prosperous one – through increased council tax charges or reduced council tax benefit to cover the cost of increased social services, while more prosperous communities would be shielded from the impact due to not many dirty smackheads being able to afford to live in nice houses, in nice towns.

This approach shifts the eventual cost of dealing with drug addicts onto the people in the local community anyway. With that in mind, wouldn’t it be saner to at least allow them cash that could be spent in any local business as opposed to cards that are only allowed in a tiny selection of big chain stores? If the Azure cards, currently being issued to failed asylum seekers temporarily unable to leave the country – are any indication of what Iain Duncan Smith would have to offer, then frankly, as an at least somewhat responsible member of my community, I’d respond with a great big “piss off, Dunky”.

The free market is for citizens, not foreign scum, get it right guise.

The free market is for citizens, not foreign scum, get it right.

As far as Iain Duncan Smith is concerned, he’s not going to be affected either way by the results of his crazy schemes, he’s far too far above us to ever have to consider actually coming face-to-face with a stupid useless junkie anyway. This is the cynical scapegoating and proposed tormenting of a group of vulnerable people, in order to satiate a public simply salivating over the prospect of seeing yet another group of disempowered individuals kicked to the gutter, and gleefully stamped all over in the name of “tough love”. And it wouldn’t even do a damn thing to fix the problem for anybody. Fortunately, as mentioned before, they can’t do it yet, and won’t be able to for a while.

Don’t buy into the bullshit. Drug addiction and poverty, especially when happening simultaneously, are serious and terrible, and the right sorts of confidential support should be in place. The invasive, expensive and humiliating ideological experiments of a handful of chinless wonders are not, I expect, what the doctor would order.

Unless you're me, lol.

Unless you’re me, lol.

Revisiting old posts and a thank you to my Christian friends


In 2008 I started using the same online pseudonym for debating that I keep today. I was 21 then, 25 now, and have four years’ worth of argumentation on the public record that I or anyone else has access to at any given time. This means that for as long as I want to be known under my nym, I’m accountable for the content and quality of my previous posts. All of them.
This can be a horrible thing! My political attitudes have changed quite considerably over the last year especially, with a much stronger pull towards anarchism and free market ideologies. Simultaneously my social attitudes have become markedly more thoughtful – at least I’d like to flatter myself so, har har – and I can only apologise unreservedly for any ignorant, arrogant-sounding “othering” towards groups of people whose culture I was unfamiliar with; either from past history, or if I’m still stupidly – and embarassingly – doing it now.

I’ve been having a difficult time recently, and support has come from some of the unlikeliest of places, as well as having been sadly missing from the places where I’d always expected it would come from. This grouchy atheist would like to especially thank my friends in the Christian community who have always been vivacious and rigorous debaters – often at loggerheads with myself over religious/political issues – but have also been so unexpectedly kind and supportive in this time of trouble. I appreciate your goodwill tremendously, you know who you are and thank you all so much.

A special Merry Christmas to you lovely lot, and Happy Holidays to all.


Take the pictures down
The ones in your mind
Take them down, as if they weren’t
Yours to be kept as a souvenier


Take the times in your mind
Paint them, like I painted you
Make them heroic, beautiful
And remember I was always true.

Brutus I loved you
Love you still
Pierce me again
I love you still

I loved you always
I love you still
When my heart stops beating, I won’t die
I see your eyes, locked onto mine
You whisper
“It’s time.”

New Jobseeker Claim, Universal Jobmatch and Anonymity

jcwalkLast week I put in a new claim to Jobseekers Allowance after a period of sickness. I applied online so as to avoid the endless queueing on the telephone, and left my contact details so they could text me an appointment time at my local Jobcentre to set up the new claim. Somewhat perplexingly, the online application requested that I supply – in 30 characters or less – the times I would not be able to attend the office during the next few days. Mutually convenient appointments are not usually set up this way. It’s “When are you free?”, not “When are you not free? IN 30 CHARACTERS OR LESS!!”. And I stand by that.

I gave the times within office hours when I would not be available, and two days later received a text message telling me that I had an appointment at the time I said I would not be available.

I wrote a letter to the Jobcentre (that my friend kindly hand delivered for me on the same day) detailing my appointment mix-up plight. My friend returned with the glorious news that he had spoken to P who had spoken to his manager J, who sent her assurances that she would call the next day to reschedule, within the times I had stressed would be convenient.

The next day, the Jobcentre rang outside of the times I had stressed would be convenient. It wasn’t J, and when I asked, I discovered that no note had been put on the system about contacting me to reschedule my appointment. I reiterated my situation and gave the times I was free for an appointment. I was offered an appointment at a time that wasn’t convenient for me. I refused again! It wasn’t convenient! What a silly game. I explained about how the times I give that are convenient are the most convenient times to make appointments, and she eventually relented and arranged a mutually convenient appointment, though she sounded very annoyed at the inconvenience of it all, I must say.



At least she was efficient! When I arrived at the Jobcentre, the appointment had been successfully altered. I only had to get past one weirdo asking me whether my friend was my partner, just as I was on my way in, just this goggle-eyed goon with a DWP badge telling me that only my partner could go up with me; and I was like “that’s not even true” and both my friend and I went up, and no one stopped us. Bloody freaks in there, some of them. My friend comes to help with filling in the forms, that’s all. Anyway, I filled in the form I was handed and sat waiting for the best part of forty five minutes; staring at a poster saying simply “New Deal” (it should have probably been taken down by now), with an unrelated picture next to it of a tired looking woman nervously smiling. G4S security guards patrol the room full circle, multiple cameras punctuate the ceiling tile; a poster has been put up once in colour and then photocopied and put up a few more times for good measure: “Do Not Use Mobile Phones”. A few stray fronds of tinsel lie limply over computer monitors mounted on pivoting frames. Across the way, another poster invites people who are struggling with Class A drug addiction to solicit help through the Jobcentre.

I can't wait!

I can’t wait!

Eventually T calls me over. We go through everything, and everything is fine until we get to Universal Jobmatch. He hands me the leaflet and tells me that I have to set up an account and bring the details in with me next time to show my advisor. I advised that due to concerns about maintaining anonymity I would not be electing to choose to use the service. He tried to explain that this is something I have to do for the DWP because I want their help. I explained that it doesn’t work like that until I am given a mandate. He advised that I would be mandated to use it on my next appointment. I said that I would use it only insofar as preserving online anonymity would allow, and had this put on my signed Jobseekers Agreement after he went to consult with his manager. If I don’t get a job before the 2nd January, I look forward to more JC shenanegins.

Currently it is not mandatory to sign up for Universal Jobmatch, an advisor must first mandate it, and the customer has the right to dispute the decision, and indeed competency of the advisor to whom they have been assigned. As the article linked above details, many advisors are under Jobmatch sign up targets from their local managers; as compulsory redundancies loom on the horizon and they feel the hot breath of unemployment on their own necks.