Would-be football stadium developers, you know what to do.
Soliciting and kerb-crawling are illegal in the UK. But being a prostitute is not, and visiting a prostitute is not. Visiting a prostitute is legal even if they’re working in an illegal establishment (and it would seem Mark Oaten’s acquaintance was legal here anyway). And opposing street prostitution while visiting a non-street prostitute is perfectly logically and morally consistent.
Sure, feel free to slate Mark Oaten. But if you do, be aware that you’re condemning him either because you don’t think people who (legally) visit prostitutes should be allowed positions of power, or because you don’t think people who (legally) commit adultery should be allowed positions of power. These are the only two arguments you can use; the one about hypocrisy is bollocks.
Anyone who says Japanese people pull out people’s fingernails for fun is a filthy liar.
I’ve been trying to work out what the daft cunts getting upset about the “ooh, there are a few nonces in schools” non-scandal most remind me of. “A herd of retarded sheep, trained by Pavlov to react to certain buzzwords by forming a lynch mob” is one. “The Crucible” is another.
Today is, according to some dubious hack academic, the most miserable day of the year. This feels right: it’s bleak, it’s dull, it’s miserably cold, there’s no prospect of anything interesting happening for months, you feel rubbish, the Tube breaks down, and there are another four working days to go.
However, I’ve discovered an amazing miracle cure. When you get home of an evening, simply run a hot bath, then drink a stiff gin and tonic in it. Suddenly, the day’s miseries melt away. The world seems surprisingly agreeable. Going through tomorrow seems like a better alternative than suicide (although spontaneous suicide is never really an option: it would be a shame to go for suicide without taking a few terrible bastards with you, and that kind of thing doesn’t just plan itself…).
So, gin, quinine and a hot bath. As recommended by Pigdogfucker. It’s not just for unexpectedly pregnant women any more.
Their coffee tastes like warm milk and costs Â£2: bunch of larcenous bastards. Why the hell can’t you get WiFi in a place which serves something you might actually want to drink?
First with the stories that matter: “Which Lib Dem wannabe leader used to be a regular visitor to a brothel in Paddington where he used to pay girls to shit in their knickers for him, and would then put the dirty pants in his briefcase and take them home?”