The Daily “Male” Catwalk

Paul Dacre
He may be in charge of The Daily Mail, but Delectable Dacre is also in charge of our hearts. He swished into the office this morning wearing a Paul Smith suit, black shirt and shockingly sexy Salvatore Ferragamo suede shoes. His trousers gripped tightly around his expansive crotch and the crevice of his love plums shone in such detail that breaths were held. His blue and white striped Lodge tie screamed officialdom yet implied that it’s owner was giving a tender glance in our direction and saying, “Once I’ve slagged an immigrant and screamed ‘worthless cunt’ in the faces of each journalist individually, your pudenda is mine.” Dacre. Dacre. You’re my sex shaker.

Richard Littlejohn
He may be hated by liberals and all those seeking logic, evidence and reason in their conclusions but Littlejohn has a place in our love boxes. Wearing a fine herring bone tweed waistcoat by Paul Costelloe and black shirt he sashayed across Derry Street waving to his army of female fans who seem to follow him everywhere. Polishing up the outfit were a beautiful and stylish pair of heavy set Ted Baker brogues with a sharpened heel freshly coated with the blood of a beaten homeless man. Littlejohn’s unique outfit exuded style, quality and right-wing bigotry while ensuring all onlookers felt a soupcon of sexual arousal.

Jonathan Harmsworth, 4th Viscount Rothermere
Harmsworth appeared nonchalantly at the door of the DM offices in a black shirt and a figure hugging Jean Paul Gaultier suit which left nothing to the imagination. His manhood squeezed against that navy blue suit as if underneath it was yelling to be orally pleasured by the throngs of adoring bystanders. The tight curls of his hair left young women and men swooning in the morning heat. Together with his outfit he roared sexual animalistic tension while gliding across the road before entering the building and sacking a secretary for wearing a top that wasn’t low enough.

Benito Mussolini
This fascist dictator was anything but evil in his fetching uniform and black shirt. Resplendent with medals Mussolini oozed authority and imparted fear on everyone and everything he surveyed while standing in front of the army he controls completely. Goose stepping into the main entrance he gave the assembled crowds a wave and the brief glimpse of his wrist showed he was wearing a diamond bling bracelet that said, “KILLA”. You certainly killed us Benny.

Liz Jones
Liz has had a long career in journalism starting at Company magazine in 1981 and in 1989 moved to the Sunday Times to eventually become a deputy editor. This was short lived however when in 1999 she was appointed editor of Marie Claire and only lost that job when she took a stance against using bulimic models. She joined The Daily Mail as style editor in 2006.

I’m a Chortle Correspondent

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Dave Pitt writes a Correspondence Article for Popular Website, Chortle

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This is the introduction to my article. It’s designed to be a pithy and dramatic opener which draws you in. None of this is important.

Now I will expand slightly on the themes and ideas expressed in the opening paragraph. I will probably throw in a quick joke or humourous metaphor into the mix as if I were a stand-up comedian throwing out a level one put down to a paralytic heckler who interrupted at just the right point in my set. Ha ha, throw away. Unconcerned. That’s me. None of this is important.

This bit certainly isn’t important. I’m just fleshing things out a bit. Building up to a climax that will occur exactly one paragraph after you think it does and will be in bold.

Welcome to the climax. Wow, did you like it? It’s like we’ve had sex, isn’t it? We’re both lying there, vaping on peach melba USB sticks with beads of sweat clinging to our bodies. This bit pretends to be important but is utterly pointless. It pretends to be the reason the article exists but it is here for no other reason than to draw your attention to the following paragraph.

žDave Pitt doesn’t have a show at Edinburgh but if he did he’d promote it right in this sentence where these words are. What he does have is a book out which you can buy here, here, here, here and here. He also has a podcast available here. This paragraph is incredibly important. It’s actually the justification of everything that preceded it. However, what follows this paragraph is comments from readers most of which are the equivalent to someone turning on the cunt tap and then clogging up the sink with an aborted foetus.

The Strike

This is something a little different to what normally happens on this blog. As well as doing the odd MC work, the very odd stand-up gig and writing a fair bit I’m also a lowly public sector worker. Yesterday (Thurs 10th July) I went on strike for a variety of reasons. What follows is a diary account of what happened and why it happened. 

Ladies and gentlemen… The Strike.

Walking through the ICC centre in Birmingham on the morning of the strike I was hit with a scent of raw sewerage. On a day of a massive public sector strike this building, opened by royalty and which has hosted world leaders stunk of raw sewerage. The day when the government try to sneak through a bill meaning telecoms companies have to keep track of our phone calls and emails and the ICC which has hosted those Government ministers stinks of sewerage. The week it emerges that several files relating to child pornography offences committed by members of parliament which were handed into the then Home Secretary Leon Brittan have gone missing the ICC, a place that attracts these big people for big meetings, stinks of shit.

In contrast Victoria Square smelt of freedom, celebration and joy. I’m unsure what has be reported as I have avoided the media since the strike but the turnout was massive, party-like and peaceful. By the time I arrived there was already protest songs being belted out by the wonderful Banner Theatre and the number of strikers in attendance was high. I snaked through the crowd and found the GMB stand located to the side of the stage. My regional rep hugged me, thanked me for coming and the conversation pretty much ended there. The noise of chanting and slogans drowned everything else out making talking far too difficult. I got myself a flag, wristband, whistle and in a touch of genius by the GMB organisers, a vuvuzela. Sure it might sound like you’ve imprisoned a thousand angry wasps in a blender and are teasing them by putting your finger over the start button but a vuvuzela makes a lot of noise for not a lot of effort.

By midday the Square was packed and everywhere you looked where people flying flags, blowing whistles and chanting slogans. The speeches had started and it was all going wonderfully until they said that up next to do a speech was Dave Pitt. There was a moment where I questioned if I’d volunteered to do something at the event when they then revealed that Dave Pitt was a striking fireman. There was no mistaking us. He was black, had muscles that looked like someone had just poured bowling balls into a sack and was Adonis handsome in a way that made everyone swoon. I, on the other hand am none of these things, I’m even scared of heights. This working fireman cared so deeply for public safety and spoke eloquently about the dangers his service is facing. Behind his dark shades you could tell he was crying and it was an openness and honesty that none of our political leaders could hope to match. When he finished the cheer felt as if it would collapse the council buildings around us. If anyone passing were in any doubt as to the legitimacy of this strike and its aims my namesake would have convinced them in a heartbeat.

We then moved down from Victoria Square and began the march. By now the numbers seemed huge and it was impossible to see the back of the crowd. We walked through Birmingham and our path seemed to be lined with smart phones capturing the procession. Bhangra drummers joined us and soon we were all whistling and vuvuzellaing along with them. The public seemed supportive, lots applauded as we walked past and many reached out to shake hands.

The only glitch seemed to be outside Waterstones by the Bullring Shopping Centre. Two guys appeared with a banner. I tried to read it but couldn’t before police moved them away. The colours suggested a hard right wing, anti-immigration extremism. I felt queasy as they were moved away. While I find the opinions of such people vile freedom of speech isn’t about saying you want to say. It’s about hearing what you don’t want to hear. It’s easy to defend the speech of someone you agree with. Real freedom of speech is defending the person standing next to you who is saying things that you completely disagree with. Therefore, I feel they should have been allowed to stand beside the route with their banner.

Soon we arrived back at Victoria Square to more music and some more speeches. As we stood around a guy, probably in his 50s walked past. He stood beside me and I watched him survey the crowd. Then he shouted, “get back to fucking work you lazy bastards.” This made me laugh because my feet were sore, my legs were killing me and I needed a wee. If I’d been lazy I’d have just stayed at home where I have DVDs, slippers and a toilet.

This guy had a set of false teeth in the top of his mouth and such was his vitriol they rattled loosely around his jaws. He launched into some more shouting which seemed to be solely swear words and then quickly shot his hand to his mouth as his false teeth nearly went flying. After catching them just in time he repositioned them and wandered off, chuntering. I thought about this for a moment. If those falsies had fallen from his mouth, and shattered on the floor then he would have had quite a bill to repair them. If this Government cut out tax avoidance the NHS would have the money to fix those teeth for free. All our teeth. And our backs. And our knees. And our schools, libraries and youth services. Everything. It would all be so much better for everyone.

And that’s the point isn’t it. Among all the negative things written and said about the strikers we have to remember that we have a political class across our parties who over generations have let the rich get richer, the poor get poorer and have systematically put in place the destruction of public services. Today 1 million people stood up and didn’t just ask for decent pay for public sector workers but decent public services for all you. We 1 million, on the front line, see the waste, the corruption and the auction of these services everyday. PFI, BSF, Free schools, academies. These things don’t exist to get good deals, educate your children or nurse you when you are sick. They exist to make money. Tons and tons of money. And it’s Money for the top 1% who already have over 90% of the wealth. Money that we’ve been told will “trickle down”. It will never trickle down. The fat cats are drinking every drop that comes near them.

We are run by political classes who want to know what is in your email but can’t find their own files which provide evidence of child sexual abuse at the top of their own ranks. We are told that our country is in debt and as floods destroy towns up north nothing can be done. When those same floods reach the weights room at Eton and can be seen from Windsor castle suddenly we have unlimited funds. 

There is, we are told, no money for libraries, the NHS and schools yet we have more than enough to drop bombs on little brown people. So many massive companies and individuals earning billions use tax evasion and tax avoidance to ensure they don’t pay their fair share. The money is there but it’s sitting in the pockets of the super-rich. 

I was proud to march today. Standing amongst my striking colleagues I realise that I’m not alone in being fed up of the lies we are told by our so called leaders. An army is amassing, we are prepared, we are a million strong and growing and we’ve had enough. Enough of being blamed for a financial crisis we didn’t cause. Enough of having our pay squeezed while the super-rich wrap themselves around our politicians like sycophantic children trying to impress a school bully continue to get richer. Enough of seeing our public services eroded and sold off by the lie that a company chasing profits which get squirreled offshore can do things better than us.

For us, for our families and for you we will fight. 

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