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:D I always value your contributions in this thread, rare though they are.

:good:

Can't be arsed with Tubs' crack most of the time, however, see below ;)

 

 

Am the same, 47 this month and being completely honest my life is fuckin great. But others of our age have a world view that starts and ends with what Murdoch and Dacre tell them, and if they do see the the social problems that 40 years of globalised horseshit has caused the aforementioned members of the third estate are on hand to reassure them that these sad souls only have themselves to blame.

I've often wondered how someone of our generation and upbringing could be a Tory, and I've been about pondering Jar Jar the Cabby in particular this afternoon.

How could he grow up under Thatcher, in the North East, and think she and her various Cabinets were anything other than grade A cunts?

I thought it from the moment I was capable of political thought, probably helped along by my older brother who was heavily involved in supporting the miners during the strike( he performed in the Concert for Heroes at the Albert Hall in 1986, as did Lindisfarne, Weller, etc).

I realised it (their cuntery) then, and I recognise it now, if anything they've upped the ante.

Then I realised, CT is different to me and you.

For a cone-headed, buck-toothed, sparrow-shouldered ginger, the 80s must've been a tough time.

A bloke can only take so much rejection, and after yet another night spent sitting in the corner at Walkers or the Mayfair, watching the likes of me and PaddockLad fighting off the blart, it's easy to see how he'd come to hate his more handsome, less ginger contemporaries.

And then...... the conversion.

The new manager at SCS arrives, a former RGS boy called Marcus, or fucking Jeremy, whatever, and he's different.

He's posh, wears pink shirts blazers and chinos, (rugby shirts on dress down Friday), and, importantly, he doesn't ignore our Ginger Golem.

He cracks jokes with Tubs, calling the punters Plebs and Oiks ( out of earshot, naturally), brings Blue Nun for the staff tombola, gives him sales tips on flogging the utterly pointless Dralon Stainguard Treatment to grannies who can't afford it ( " fuck 'em, think of the commission Smeagol).

And idolises Thatcher.

Granted, he's shagging Debbie from Accounts and Customer Complaints that CT has secretly loved from the day he saw her, but hey, Marcus/fucking Jeremy gives our boy some attention!

A few years on, a promotion to deputy part-time managers assistant in the Leather suites and Pouffes section, the Tory conversion is well under way.

When MfJ gives the Goober tickets to a sportmans dinner where he meets Beardsley and other players ( and gets a Polaroid taken! The roughnecks in the warehouse will be soooo jealous!) it's a done deal.

Tory Boy is born.:lol:

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:good:

Can't be arsed with Tubs' crack most of the time, however, see below ;)

I've often wondered how someone of our generation and upbringing could be a Tory, and I've been about pondering Jar Jar the Cabby in particular this afternoon.

How could he grow up under Thatcher, in the North East, and think she and her various Cabinets were anything other than grade A cunts?

I thought it from the moment I was capable of political thought, probably helped along by my older brother who was heavily involved in supporting the miners during the strike( he performed in the Concert for Heroes at the Albert Hall in 1986, as did Lindisfarne, Weller, etc).

I realised it (their cuntery) then, and I recognise it now, if anything they've upped the ante.

Then I realised, CT is different to me and you.

For a cone-headed, buck-toothed, sparrow-shouldered ginger, the 80s must've been a tough time.

A bloke can only take so much rejection, and after yet another night spent sitting in the corner at Walkers or the Mayfair, watching the likes of me and PaddockLad fighting off the blart, it's easy to see how he'd come to hate his more handsome, less ginger contemporaries.

And then...... the conversion.

The new manager at SCS arrives, a former RGS boy called Marcus, or fucking Jeremy, whatever, and he's different.

He's posh, wears pink shirts blazers and chinos, (rugby shirts on dress down Friday), and, importantly, he doesn't ignore our Ginger Golem.

He cracks jokes with Tubs, calling the punters Plebs and Oiks ( out of earshot, naturally), brings Blue Nun for the staff tombola, gives him sales tips on flogging the utterly pointless Dralon Stainguard Treatment to grannies who can't afford it ( " fuck 'em, think of the commission Smeagol).

And idolises Thatcher.

Granted, he's shagging Debbie from Accounts and Customer Complaints that CT has secretly loved from the day he saw her, but hey, Marcus/fucking Jeremy gives our boy some attention!

A few years on, a promotion to deputy part-time managers assistant in the Leather suites and Pouffes section, the Tory conversion is well under way.

When MfJ gives the Goober tickets to a sportmans dinner where he meets Beardsley and other players ( and gets a Polaroid taken! The roughnecks in the warehouse will be soooo jealous!) it's a done deal.

Tory Boy is born.:lol:

:D that has such a ring of truth to it

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It's just crossed my mind about the foreign doctors that it may be a tactic to hurry along full NHS privitasation; " can't recruit enough doctors here in 2020, but this nice man from PPP can supply enough to run that entire hospital" :glare: Edited by PaddockLad
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