Wednesday, 30 March 2016

Support Misandry At Oxfam

We thought that Oxfam was hiding its light under a bushel when we saw the shop sign in the picture above. So, we added another of their most keenly pursued activities and expanded on the final one to give a more truthful sign below it. All according to their own male-hating ethos, of course. Don't be so bashful, Oxfam! Come out, reveal yourself for what you are. Hiding in the shadows of cooked-up statistics and blatant lies really doesn't become you. Your agenda becomes plain as soon as anybody with two brain cells gives it a cursory glance.



Men = PIGS



Girls = LOVELY


Read our blog post on feminazi Oxfam here -

Monday, 21 March 2016

Oxfam Joins The Feminazi Misandrists

You have a penis? You're a starving baby boy? A poor old man who has worked hard all his life and now has nothing to eat? Well tough! Oxfam has made women their priority - based on man-hating propaganda. 

Oh dear! First Cancer Research, now Oxfam! Dear old Oxfam has diverted its attention from famine relief to shoring up the gender pay gap myth and ensuring that men are presented as baddies. As always.

Basing press releases like the one below on research from the feminist (some might say feminazi - a word coined in 1989)  Fawcett Society is surely a bit one-eyed.

Oh dear.

Let's quote the press release:

Fee Gilfeather, Head of Marketing for Oxfam Trading, said: "This one-off, four-day sale will offer customers to Oxfam's Online Shop a discount of 13.9% - the same as the average gender pay gap in the UK. It is important to get the message across that women in Britain and around the world still earn less than men and highlight the inequality that women face. We're launching this quirky sale to raise awareness and get people talking about this inequality."

But it's untrue. and Oxfam is also apparently combating violence against "women and girls". Despite the fact that domestic violence incidents are about equally divided between the genders, and the difficulties men face in being taken seriously when they do speak up. Men and boys? Oxfam says GET STUFFED!

Oxfam has been hijacked.

The trouble is, that so many organisations - including governments - have been hijacked in the same way. Male politicians, out of old fashioned chivalry, simple brainlessness, or severe mother complexes, seem content to echo the voices of the feminazi. And that's all they do. There's no attempt to think, question or reason. Many statistics right up to the UN are as questionable as those provided by the Fawcett Society. The politicians' attitude is all very well for them as well-heeled vote-seekers, but not so easy when you're a poor male down here on the ground, looking for representation.

There are many articles online about the Gender Pay Gap Myth - take a look at this -

Or this from the Washington Examiner -

Or this from Time -

You read it in the paper or saw it on TV - so it must be true? Did those days ever exist? Least of all now. Some interesting thoughts on male feminists and modern journalism -

What about this little gem of Oxfam rampant anti-male sexism?

Women are at the heart of everything we do – because we know they’ll go to extraordinary lengths to feed their families [Andy's note: I know from personal experience that this is an outrageous generalisation]. With your help, even more of the world’s super women will get the simple solutions they need to change the future.

How does Oxfam know that women will go to extraordinary lengths to feed their families? Why only women? There are examples very close to me in which women have been very feckless when it comes to caring for their families. But, in the misandrist Oxfam mindset, it's men who obviously don't give a damn, of course, although Sabina Saru, the woman featured in this appeal, actually says "WE" twice, implying the presence of an equally concerned male parent:

"We have no means of growing food. We have to think of our child's future."

So, Oxfam are putting their own male-hating spin on the situation.

Avoid Oxfam. The misandrist cancer is spreading... There are other ways of donating - without promoting bigotry.

Back to our original subject, and if anybody can quote examples of individual women doing full time work and getting paid less than a man for doing the very same thing within the same organisation, please provide irrefutable evidence. I'll publish. And where are all the articles screaming "FOUL!" at these organisations - naming and shaming?

I'd be fascinated to see them. Much better than cooked-up statistics, surely?

Do read this about the Fawcett Society -

And off to the UK Parliament - where misandrist Birmingham MP Jess Phillips thinks the idea of discussing men's issues - health service underfunding for the gender, suicide rate, etc - is funny -

Link to the full Oxfam press release -

Tuesday, 27 October 2015

Snoopy The Cowboy Says "Howdy" On My 50th Birthday...

1980s cowboy Snoopy. Or is he a farmer? Or a hillbilly?

Strange, turning fifty. It's almost certainly more than middle aged. Who lives to be a hundred? Still, I feel quite positive. Lots of kind cards and presents for me on 18 October, featuring memories of the past with some lovely CDs of 1980s music, and Snoopy the cowboy - a very similar print - with its red and black background and orange frame - to the one I had in my bedsit thirty years ago.

When I was young and happy.

Today, although not exactly young, I'm still pretty happy. Not as idealistic. Not as lively. Not as fit. But still OK. Rather wiser. Less easily stressed. Not as impulsive.

Here's to the future.

Howdy to my 50s!

Saturday, 26 September 2015

Cancer Research UK: Race For Life - So Sexist It's Evil!

I sat on the bus a few years back and saw a poster on there for Cancer Research UK's Race For Life. Two women, in boxing gloves, about to punch a man. The message was horrendously explicit: Men are a cancer, women are fighting it.

"Don't talk so daft!" you might say.

OK, let's reverse the idea.

A poster for a male-only charity run, showing two men about to punch a woman. The are men are running to help "beat cancer".

Would that be all right?

Of course it wouldn't.

So much of the feminine saintliness and past oppression "facts" beloved of many "women's rights" activists is built on shifty statistics and twisted facts.

Take Emmeline Pankhurst. Such a heroine! Really? Then why did she support votes for wealthy women only? Why would she never go into prison for activist misdeeds, but let others do so? Why did she harass men to go to war?

Just what was this woman?

Not a saint, not by any means.

In fact, far from it -  if an objective study is made of her character and activities.

This is where the whole thing falls down - whole chunks of the "women's rights" thing. It depends heavily on women deluding themselves into false sainthood, degrading men, and men being too chivalrous (or being too bound up in severe mother complexes/Miss Whiplash fantasies) to challenge the nonsense.

And of course if men do object, they are just "sexist", or should stop whining and "man-up".

And yet women supposedly want sensitive men around.

My own belief is that gender politics are immensely complicated.

Many centuries ago, men went out to hunt and fight and women bore and looked after the children.

That was then the natural way of things.

As time went on, and things changed, some women began to howl about men's role as the hunter and protector - the so-called "head of the family" - although, if my family is anything to go by, men cooked, cleaned, emptied the "privy" containers and the role of the "head of the family" was often shared, or was down to the strongest personality, regardless of gender.

Of course, we needed change. But for both genders.

I still wonder why the whole gender issue is often viewed by some as being all men's fault.

And as for feminists like Germaine Greer - "women don't realise how much men hate them" - where on earth did she get that idea from? And if it wasn't for rabid misandrists and men being too chivalrous, under the thumb, or whatever, to protest, there would have been an intelligent debate.

But, of course, there wasn't.

Ms Greer became a bizarre "intellectual" celebrity.

So, in the old way of things, women stayed at home and looked after the kids.

The hand that rocks the cradle rules the world...

Both men and women were responsible for perpetuating the system apparently so hated by any right thinking woman.

For instance, my mother told me "boys don't cry" and displays of emotion on my part were frowned upon by her.

But my half-sisters were free to cry and get cuddles.

I felt forced into a straitjacket. I felt that my natural instincts as an emotional, sensitive human being, were being suffocated - by female expectations in my family circle.

Years later, I questioned my cousin Sue about buying toy guns for her little sons.

"I like my boys to be boys," said she.

So, based on her expectations, boys have to like guns to be boys.

Which comes first? Feminine expectations or male realities?

All very complicated.

Cancer Research UK is very, very wrong. Even searching for information on their web site about male cancers - like cancer of the prostate - is more difficult than finding info on cancers which predominantly, or only, affect women.

Sexism is a cancer in itself.

And it affects everybody.

So grow up or "Woman Up" if you prefer, Cancer Research UK, and organise people friendly fund raising events so that all people can play an equal part in helping to advance funding for research and treatment against the disease.

Cancer Research UK is a complete and utter disgrace.

I used to work in a cancer hospice, and donate happily and often to the MacMillan Nurses.

But not to CRUK.

Fighting an evil disease with evil attitudes does not sit well with me.

Friday, 18 September 2015

A Friend I Can Lean On...

"It would tear me apart, to feel no one ever cared for ME!" as the Mission sang back in the 1980s.

Quite right. We all need to be cared for.

And this Snoopy and Woodstock pic says it all.

"It's nice to have a friend you can lean on!"

I'm very fortunate.

I lean on my wife.

She's the best person I could ever wish to have in my life. She's my very best friend.

She is the centre of my world.

Thanks, Debbie.

For everything.

I love you.

And I hope you feel you can lean on me too.

Sunday, 30 August 2015

I Am Snoopy!

I did one of those fun on-line quizzes the other week, only to discover that I am Snoopy! Well, I suppose I am a bit of a Walter Mitty type!

Actually, I was quite pleased.

And as for being another species, well, I like dogs!

Which Peanuts character are you?

Saturday, 29 August 2015

Brighton Past: Croham Guest House And The West Pier - Tales Of A Holiday And A T-Shirt...


 Dear old Croham Guest House in Devonshire Place. Our room was the bay windowed one at the top.

Back in 1999, me and my wife visited Brighton for a week-long break and stayed at a guest house called "Croham". We'd stayed there before, and had found it very much to our taste. The landlady, Mrs Mason, was kind and unobtrusive  - she'd bring us refills of teabags and milk with a cheery "It's only me from over the sea!".

Being dedicated tea drinkers, from first thing in the morning to last thing late at night, we felt very well looked after.

Croham was situated at 12 Devonshire Place - a lovely old house, close to the seafront, and all-in-all we couldn't have asked for anything better. Well, not on our budget anyway!

Our second visit was as happy as our first.

I'm interested in Brighton. My great-great grandparents had lived there for some years. Great-Great Grandad had been a Punch and Judy "professor" on the seafront back in the days of the old Chain Pier, and so I traced a bit of family history on our holiday. We also sought out the site of the Chain Pier, indulged ourselves on the fairground rides of the Palace Pier, ambled around the Lanes, and admired the still beautiful remains of the West Pier, closed since the 1970s.

We displayed a touch of the Howard and Hildas and bought matching West Pier t-shirts to wear.

We had high hopes that the pier would be restored.

Back at Croham, in our lovely bay windowed room at the front of the house, I awoke one morning to find cold water splatting onto my face. It was coming through the ceiling and my wife, right beside me in the bed, was doubled up with laughter. Torrential rain was falling outside, the roof was leaking, and the leak - the only leak - was right above my face!

The landlady allocated us another room and her partner dragged some protective sheets of asphalt or some such around on the roof to stop the leak. So nice were they that we did not feel any inclination to cut short our stay at the house. Indeed, talking of the incident still gives rise to amusement even today.

The West Pier t-shirts must have been amazingly good quality because they lasted and lasted. It was thirteen years later when my wife, who had grown very fond of hers, found it was going home and requested another. Try as I might, I couldn't find one on-line or anywhere, so I had a brainwave and scanned the design on the computer, took great pains to clean it up, and had fresh t-shirts printed.

Scanned and cleaned up - the wonderful West Pier t-shirt image. The image dates from the late 1980s and adorned our late 1990s t-shirts.

The finished article!

I was a slow convert to the world of computerdom, and couldn't have imagined such a thing when we bought the shirts back in 1999.

We returned to Brighton for another holiday in 2003, and tried to book into Croham again beforehand, but it had closed and become private flats.

The West Pier had burned down, and we sat on the beach near its skeletal remains, feeling that we were somehow keeping a desperately ill old friend company. It was very sad.

The boarding house we selected in Croham's place had no leaky roof, but the landlady let out us run out of milk and teabags.

We haven't been back to Brighton since.

Tuesday, 25 August 2015

The Weekend Demolished... No More Day of Rest... Sunday Now STARTS The Week... Not With Me - Never In A Month Of Sundays......

I'm tired of the way things seem to happen insidiously. Things are craftily slid in with no consultation at all and we're all expected to "adapt, adapt, adapt"! That's not democracy. Well, I rebel. The lastest nonsense is the idea that Sunday is now the first day of the week. Piffle. In England, Wales, Scotland and Northern Ireland Sunday has long been regarded by the majority of people as the last day of the week, the Day of Rest.

I don't mind if American people or Jewish people think differently and practice differently, or any other nationality, creed or religion, but the vast majority of people in the UK, even those with no religious convictions, regard Sunday as the last day of the week, and believe me this new system that is creeping in amongst employers here can cause confusion and disruption in the workplace for employees who book annual leave and who actually work on Sundays.

So, whether it's the forces of capitalism - who have already stopped paying enhanced rates for Sunday working - or politically correct appeasement of minorities - and stamping on the majority - which has brought this about, let's think again, eh?

I won't even start on the thoughts of modern Christians on the matter. After all, in our PC UK, they don't count for much, do they?

Bizarrely enough, whilst this bilge is happening, everybody is still happily referring to the "weekend" - and, of course, they mean Saturday and Sunday.

So, perhaps the general public is just saying "go swivel" to the forces that rule us?

I certainly am.

Monday, 24 August 2015

Snoopy - For The Whole Of Your Life...

When I was a young man, living in a bedsit, I had a little framed picture of Charles Schulz's famous Peanuts character Snoopy, the beagle, dressed as a cowboy (rather similar to the picture above), with his thought bubble proclaiming "Howdy, Pardner!"

Thought bubble? Yes, of course, Snoopy is a dog and dogs can't talk, silly!

It was bought for me as a gift, I can't remember who by, but I really liked having it around as I was taking my first brave steps into the world, and, as I was a man, I had to be particularly brave. My mother had always told me: "Boys don't cry!" So, the Snoopy pic served as a little comforter and cheerer as I put on my bravest face and took my first steps into the Great Wide World.

Now, facing my fiftieth birthday, I find that Snoopy is still relevant - and still a comfort. Look at the Peanuts strip from 1982 below. Isn't it wonderful? The beautiful, childlike logic of Snoopy, after he's pondered the subject of ageing and vanity, is mind blowing.

Accept it! Or don't be born so soon.

No amount of expensive jollop is going to save you.

I love Peanuts, and particularly Snoopy. This all-American comic strip is one of those rare things that travels the world, appealing to anybody who happens to be human. And you don't have to be an English speaker either. The strip has been translated into many languages.

Snoopy gives hugs - and some very pithy advice!

My life would certainly be a little more austere without him.

Nowadays, I've progressed from my youthful Snoopy the cowboy pic adorning my bedsit wall, to a framed print of the strip below adorning my hall wall.

Whatever age I am, Snoopy is always there for me...

Sunday, 23 August 2015

Evil Edna - My Computer

Meet Evil Edna, my not-so-dear old computer. She freezes, crashes and basically tries to thwart all my attempts to access the World Wide Webby. Actually, the computer is eleven-years-old, so I suppose I shouldn't grumble too much, but when I came across the Evil Edna desktop background a year or so ago, it seemed so appropriate, I couldn't resist it.

Evil Edna, of course, was one of the stars of Nick Spargo's wonderful animated series Willo The Wisp, which was voiced by the incomparable Kenneth Williams, and began in September 1981.

Before she invaded my computer, she was a witch (and still is) and a television set.

Was this some comment by Nick Spargo on the evils of television, I ask myself?

Edna did her best to ensure that Mavis Cruet - the fat fairy, Car Wash the cat, Arthur the caterpillar and the other inhabitants of Doyley Wood had a lousy time.

Nowadays, she does it to me every time I switch on my computer.

Still, at least she hasn't turned me into a frog.


The Fake 1970s Fashion Revival...

How desperate are fashion designers to tout the 1970s? Apparently, we've been having an "enduring" 1970s fashion revival over the last few months of 2015, but I see no signs around me. The trouble is, the fashion designers tout 1960s as 1970s - the flares and the hippie chic all stem from the 1960s. But the 1970s had its own fashions - glam and punk to name two. However, these are ignored.

This year, and for several years past, I've seen a furious revival of real 1980s fashion, but the "1970s" (actually mid-to-late 1960s) fashions favoured by the fashion designers in a lot of the magazines have been absolutely nowhere on my radar.

And I work in a shop and see a lot of people.

If we're to have a 1970s fashion revival, a prospect I don't particularly relish, let's have a real one - punk, glam and sleezy disco polyester suits. The revived 1930s platforms... chocolate brown cardigans... retro dresses - down to the feet - so Jane Austen/Laura Ashley... retro smock tops... and how about the mods and rockers revival, plucked from the '60s by the '70s, or all those glorious 1940s fashions so beloved of '70s boutique frequenters? Or the 1970s version of the 1950s?

We've NEVER had a real '70s revival. It's always been the wrong label on the wrong box.

I wonder what today's youth would make of the real thing?

Why not give them a chance to find out? Repackaging the 1970s so they become nothing like the 1970s is absurd.

Don't you think?

Pretty vacant...

Friday, 21 August 2015

The Leaning Tower of Ely

Many years ago, back in the late 1970s to be precise, I used to look forward to day trips to the city of Ely, with its massive cathedral - the "Ship of the Fens" as it's often called.

My aunt, who took me on these trips, used to visit her relatives there, and many a boring hour was spent in Bert and Ethel's back room, watching the goldfish go round. Auntie always tried to interest her relatives in conversation about her new carpet, or the holiday in Great Yarmouth she'd just had, whilst Bert snoozed, Ethel watched Houseparty, and the room reeked of old cooked cabbage.

Then we'd be off into the city centre (leaving Bert and Ethel with Houseparty) and Auntie always took me to the cathedral. When I was about twelve, I managed to persuade my mother to let me take our family's cruddy little camera with me. It was a really poor little thing, it had no wide angled lens or anything like that, in fact such wonders were unknown amongst photo-snappers in my neck of the woods. I had no idea what equipment was needed to take decent photographs, and was convinced I could take some marvellous snaps of the ancient cathedral.

As it was, what emerged after I'd taken the film to be developed by Boots, and waited the obligatory seven-to-ten days for it to be ready (Boots used to send pics off somewhere to be developed in those days) was in no way marvellous. It had been raining and the photograph showed the top of the cathedral tower, down to about the clock, through a hazy mist - which had certainly not been evident from where I was standing.

What's more, the tower had developed a nasty lean to the right.

It looked positively unsafe.

I was young and daft and still quite pleased with this pic, and some my aunt had taken of me posing by the canon.

After I'd wittered on for several day about my photographic talents, driving everybody potty, the photos, in their Boots envelope, mysteriously disappeared.

"Oh dear!" said my mother. "They must have got thrown out with yesterday's paper this morning. Never mind!"

I suspected a plot to rob me of my glory - and the world of its brightest hope for the future of architectural photography.

The photographs were never seen again.

Last year, back in Ely, I had another go - selecting another wonderful angle from which to record the glories of the Ship of the Fens.

I'd lost none of the old magic. The photo, despite glorious sunshine and wonderful, modern day digital photography, is somewhat blurry, there's a wire in the way of the view, something on the lens, and the tower still leans to the right.

I'll never be the next David Bailey...

Never mind.

Think I'll have a Chunky peanut butter Kit-Kat for consolation...