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Baby P: Child Abuse, Social Services, and socialist boroughs. This is quite interesting in a macabre and sinister way. Guns and children. Let’s smell some rats.


David Davis

(Here’s what we are gong to say tomorrow, about Baby P.) This is what’s commonly and Stalinistically called: “a leak”.

I don’t quite know how far to come out in the open and risk enemy fire, here. But I am sort of intrigued in a Sherlock-Holmsian way, you know, sort of, by the seemingly endless trail of poor wretched children, mostly from inner cities and under the care of Stalinist New Labour Soviets boroughs, who seem to be left to die, by “Social Services” while “under their observation”. The news only gets out after the poor child’s terrible death at the hands of a violent male or some other feckless “carer”. there was the Victoria Climbié business some years ago, and now this, from Obnoxio, but also reported on Guido.

I decided not to pick it up as the issues are not strictly theoretical-Libertarian, but I do begin to smell a rat, and, er ….. and see it floating in the air.

Could it be that a regime of draconian State “Child Protection” (and State-child-databasing) is being engendered (and by whom?) through a series of “regulated and allowed” high-profile cases of the death of a small child, in which the “Social services” are instructed actually NOT TO intervene until it’s too late?

Are the “pretty children” who occur from time to time in these scenarios, (who of course will need to be saved immediately) being farmed off quickly somewhere (and by whom, and for whom?) which is why we never see any?

Or hear about them?

And why the poor dead ones have been those few who were really in the soup beforehand? And about whose deaths “lessons can be learned”?

Is this rather like the Dunblane business and guns?

Metro Hotel Woking soldier – Rudyard Kipling Comments (he is a blogwriter here sometimes, although dead.)


WENT into a public ‘ouse to get a pint o’beer,
The publican ‘e up an’ sez, “We serve no red-coats here.”
The girls be’ind the bar they laughed an’ giggled fit to die,
I outs into the street again an’ to myself sez I:

O it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, go away”;
But it’s “Thank you, Mister Atkins,” when the band begins to play,
The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,
O it’s “Thank you, Mr. Atkins,” when the band begins to play.

I went into a theatre as sober as could be,
They gave a drunk civilian room, but ‘adn’t none for me;
They sent me to the gallery or round the music ‘alls,
But when it comes to fightin’, Lord! they’ll shove me in the stalls!

For it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, wait outside”;
But it’s “Special train for Atkins” when the trooper’s on the tide,
The troopship’s on the tide, my boys, the troopship’s on the tide,
O it’s “Special train for Atkins” when the trooper’s on the tide.

Yes, makin’ mock o’ uniforms that guard you while you sleep
Is cheaper than them uniforms, an’ they’re starvation cheap;
An’ hustlin’ drunken soldiers when they’re goin’ large a bit
Is five times better business than paradin’ in full kit.

Then it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy how’s yer soul?”
But it’s “Thin red line of ‘eroes” when the drums begin to roll,
The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,
O it’s “Thin red line of ‘eroes” when the drums begin to roll.

We aren’t no thin red ‘eroes, nor we aren’t no blackguards too,
But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;
An’ if sometimes our conduck isn’t all your fancy paints:
Why, single men in barricks don’t grow into plaster saints;

While it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an “Tommy, fall be’ind,”
But it’s “Please to walk in front, sir,” when there’s trouble in the wind,
There’s trouble in the wind, my boys, there’s trouble in the wind,
O it’s “Please to walk in front, sir,” when there’s trouble in the wind.

You talk o’ better food for us, an’schools, an’ fires an’ all:
We’ll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.
Don’t mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face
The Widow’s Uniform is not the soldier-man’s disgrace.

For it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Chuck him out, the brute!”
But it’s “Saviour of ‘is country,” when the guns begin to shoot;
Yes it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ anything you please;
But Tommy ain’t a bloomin’ fool–you bet that Tommy sees!

Rudyard Kipling (learn about him.)

GOLF: It’s the “British Open”, at the Royal Birkdale


David Davis

ITEM: I’ve just been castigated by the same chum (mentioned below) for calling it the “British Open”. it’s the “Open Championship”, and then if you beat everyone, it is indeed a bonus because you get £750,000, and it’s all yours. No team mates as in “Foot Ball” (see “Foot Ball”  wikilink below, if you don’t know what that stuff is.)

Traffic chaos in town, espec round the Royal Birkdale, where the Open is going on now. Even so, parts of it looked very exciting on the Wireless Tele Vision. (The Golf, that is: not the traffic…)

Golf, although I can’t begin even to know how to play it, seems to me a more libertarian game than “Foot Ball“. None of this “team” stuff and all that collectivist nonsense, to worry about. You just try to play better and better, and if you beat somebody else, it’s a bonus.

It is to be hoped that all our local traders will take the opportunity to make plenty of money.

Oh, and the British Police will just have to go. One made an issue of my waiting (with engine on and flasher lights going) at a pre-arranged rendezvous in Gainsborough Road to pick up my old friend, a golf fanatic, and fined me £30 (about $60 USD.) His Gestapo chum, at the junction, had let me drive down there 3 minutes before. I had the purpose of plastic yellow cones explained to me, in public, in front of 20,000 exiting visitors.

If the Police in the UK have nothing better to do than to issue parking tickets to non-criminals, then they really have served out their usefulness. I think that a “Libertarian administration” – if that is not tautological – would find better things to do with policemen, or maybe it would contract out Law & Order to real householders.

VOTE OR EAT … Ahhhhhhhhhh….. BISTO !!!! … That’s the way to do it!


David Davis

Vote or eat. Zimbabwe (that is to say, Southern Rhodesia.)

Stalinist bastard, that Myooogaaayb person.,,…. He won’t be allowed into hell, you know.

Know why?  He’s, er, too bad.

Lucifer (MORGOTH) won’t let him in, he’s er, rather bad.

He’ll be handed a brazier, a fag-lighter, and some paraffin, in a thingy, and he’ll be, er, set adrift, into the outer Void. He’ll have to join Hitler, Stalin, Pol Pot, Castro (who is dead too) Bin Laden (who will continue to remain dead this year too as well and also next year) the Sendery-Luminosy-man-whose-name-I-can’t-remember-coz-he’s-a-saddo-who-chopped-off-living-people’s-faces-while-alive, Kim-Il-Sung, and the others.

How absolutely stupid and myopic of us all here, not to notice, about the connection between voting and eating, if there is a “government”.

He who does not work, neither shall he eat. For “work”, read “agreement”. Marxist Gramsco-Eagletonians, all. Again. As ever.

Tony, my dear chap, you can ask me again about these sub-human droids, and about a diagnostic test to distinguish what kind of machine they appear to be when going about in the world, and how to characterise this machine so as to eliminate it, but you yourself ought to know what I point to.