No, really. Please don't hand me these things on a plate.
I have with me my gorgeous invigorating calming placating liberating pater-bating Spitfire divine, and I am in the mood to be naughty.
James Delingpole in the latest Spectator kicks off with a para close to my heart:
"A friend who teaches at an old-fashioned Sussex boarding school has a zero-tolerance approach to racism. The moment he hears one of the foreign boys claiming to be a victim of it, that’s them chucked out of the class for the rest of the lesson. ‘Well I’m sorry,’ says my friend Duncan, quite unapologetically. ‘But they’re bright kids and they’re enjoying the best education money can buy in a multi-ethnic school where racism just isn’t an issue.
I think it’s an absolute bloody outrage that they should try that line…’" [my bold type]
Hear effing hear.
La Spitfeuer doesn't like me talkin' like Fi'ty Cent or that'd've varied on the ace Team America anthem,
Delingpole - fuck yeahh!.
(It's good to have kids who keep the lingo under control.)
And now I pick up a copy of Coffeetime® and there on page 13 is news of the 16th Antye-Racism Camping hootenanny, Karousades, 31rst [sic] - 9th August.
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