—make of it wot thou wilt. (If you do go there, ’tis more productive to suffer through the blasted opening advert than to try to slither past).


I’m on the edge—

—but all my teachers used to say that too*. (So did my service superiors … and the local politicians … and the Mormons and Seventh Week Silver Goblins Society and other such things that now give my home a wide berth) (hell, even The Spouse refers to me sometimes as—   no, we don’t go there … down that track be monsters

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* When not saying that I was over it. (Dum’ buggers …)



and either




begin? A bit of a toughie … but before we go there, how come it’s always British? Nary a mention of US ships, or German, or any other buggers’ … perhaps it’s parochialism on the part of the reporters and the Truth is that they’re all doing it. Being done. Wotever …


post (somewhere) that the sunken wreck of the WW2 Brit cruiser HMS Exeter (Battle of the River Plate, and others) has gone, existing now as just a recognisable dent in the seabed.


and if we were in the vicinity we had to pop over to some wrecks to shoo off any vultures and to pay our respects. (Somewhere among my souvenirs I still have a very faded side-scan sonar trace of HMS Prince Of Wales.)

“The dull reverberations of the underwater explosions are clearly audible from the surface. The scavengers have returned, laying home-made charges to break up the hulls of two of the most celebrated British warships of the age, sunk in December 1941 and the last resting places of more than 830 Royal Navy sailors.”

Come on, come onnnnn~!

Bop 2

Whaddya expect, really?

Piles of dollars are just lying there for the grabbing—to be ignored, out of sentiment for human remains that were long ago fish fodder?

Sentiment for an ancient battle fought between foreigners, long generations ago?

Come on, get real!

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Attacked by aircraft the two put up a fearsome fight until some rotten bugger hit Prince Of Wales with a fish right in the rudder/propulsion bits—and all went downhill from then. (Can’t complain, an act of God and all part of His Great Plan.) (Ruined a few days back in London, though.)


in charge now (or even with just the means) I’d sneak out there at night and booby-trap those wrecks to the nth degree. Next burglar to burgle wouldn’t know about it … but it might slow some of the others down for a while~?





there’s something wrong with modern ‘education’.


PC, nota silly old poop and I’ll be happy. Recognition in my own lifetime (sniff).


favourite movies (current First Place, in fact) is the latest “Peter Rabbit”.

Recently I tripped over a prime example of modernity in the online rubble of what was once the mighty New Zealand Herald—

“Despite the darker undertones, this madcap movie is a refreshingly real take on Potter’s 1902 tale, one that adds romantic elements between the leads, a hilariously airy Rose Byrne as Bea, and the two-faced antics of Domhnall Gleeson as Thomas McGregor.

As Thomas, Gleeson plays the gardener’s son who returns home to find his dad’s house full of farmyard animals and launches an all-out war on Peter Rabbit and co, one that escalates to include dynamite being thrown into rabbit warrens, and humans being electrocuted.

Yes, Peter Rabbit has “PG – Violence” rating for a reason …”

to read from source: click here 

—and it triggered an eyebrow raise so emphatic that had I been wearing a rabbit it would have flown across the room.

These (reporters) are the product of folks who insisted on fencing all the swimming pools … whilst completely neglecting the many thousands of miles of coastlines, lake sides, streams, creeks, rivers, puddles, bath tubs and cess pits. The mind boggles—Moderns have no idea of what it’s like without a crash helmet, and for all I know what it’s like to paddle in a puddle without a lifejacket.

Sure … in the movie old man McGregor karks it—but not in such a manner as to so arouse the indignation of the PC. He dies so sweetly and gently that even the rabbit he plans on turning into a pie has his doubts.

“…Yes, Peter Rabbit has “PG – Violence” rating for a reason.

I was expecting cute and cuddly animals, vegetable puns, an over-the-top love story and to probably have a bit of a sleep halfway through this.

I was not expecting bunny murder, dynamite and electrocutions …”

Oh dear. I remember when Noddy was excoriated by the PC for sharing a bed with Big Ears—





if she is so peeved … how would she write up a review on The Bible?**

1 ac

*   Staged. Gotta be. (And they let people like that drive cars?)

** A task I’d cheerfully accept myself if paid enough.




thereof. Jolly-old-saint-nick.gif


when the various ancient festivals of the midwinter solstice were hijacked by Christ.


worse when all pretence at human feeling, love, compassion and all that other temporary garbage is sacrificed on the altar of the great God Bux. Made even more worser by the fact that right now we are going into spring—and by the time the Great Festive Season gets here we will all be sweltering our little furry socks off. Ho ho bloody ho, indeed! Yeuch!


I’ve often quoted the US Civil War general’s words to the effect that battles are won by whoever gets there the firstest with the mostest, then I snapped this yesterday in Invercargill’s biggest department store—

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—and this, good citizens, is what it’s really all about. Boom boom! The other stores are not far behind.

I have tried to suggest that ‘Christmas’ here be shifted to mid-winter, which in light of the truth makes much better sense* … no banana for me, though.


the Christmases of my childhood. Money was scarce but the Spirit of Christmas wasn’t. (Okaaaaaayyyy … the Spirit of The Winter Solstice (hijacked by yet another ‘God’ from the land of apparently infinite gods) wasn’t.)


and commercialisation. Why not? And if I may make a prediction—

we’ll be having Matariki holidays complete with Matariki trees next … with the Big Star exhorting us to


SPEND!     SPEND!        SPEND!

… so much more New Zealand, really, than dead guys born in a shabby desert motel to some insignificant cuckolded wood-worker half a world and many centuries ago …

Screen Shot 2018-09-27 at 10.29.31.png

Don’t just sit there! Get out and spend!






* Matariki, anyone?



nobody dare mention …




your snippet—

A classic car club stopped to take in the sights of Taharoa were chased out of the remote Waikato town by local Māori threatening to shoot them and bash their cars if they didn’t leave.”

Sourced:  CLICK HERE 

I know where these ‘victims’ are coming from—I was driving The Spouse through lovely Southland along a less frequented coastal road fairly recently. We thought it was just another country road but the further we went the less and less welcome we felt. If body language speaks, and if the ‘vibes’ can convey meaning—we felt vibed. Really bad juju—

—Maori country.

We turned about and left. At speed. Whatever the history books may say, whatever the state of the State propaganda, whatever the Public Face of this “We are all one people now!” nation—if ever you come here: be careful.

Sure, ‘we’ took their land. (Yes, that’s what kids are taught in kiwi schools—that the nice cuddly native folks are the victims here. Brrrrrr …)


thing of repatriating some of the many Maori souvenir heads (that found their way overseas a few generations back as legitimate souvenirs—souvenirs bought and paid for with no thought of how they were converted from living breathing human beings into grimacing processed mementos).


those goods once profitably exported as tourist junk have now become Sacred Ancestral Relics—proof indeed, of the utter savagery of the (mostly British, of course) seamen and others who purchased them … on the open market …

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A collector ....pngRobley (tourist above) took souvenirs seriously


these days is Big Business, a source of income based on pure Theatre.

Theatre rules across the board, from the opportunistic ‘haka’ at sporting events to the welcoming home of processed heads—

Screen Shot 2018-08-21 at 17.54.42.png

—and I imagine that at ground floor level some of the players are actually sincere.

read more:  click here 


I simply stay away from Maori areas.

Racist? No … survivalist. I value, if not my life, my hub-caps … so I shan’t try to go surfing up north.

Or in the deep south … or west …

free marketeers haggling

NZ Souvenir stall 17-1800s





devil-29973__340I’m allowed to ask innocent questions. I’m also allowed (nay, expected) to visit other crank sites and gobble up their good stuffs with mad raptorous abandonment*.

So I wolf the u-tubes of folks like Jimmy (‘Bright Insight’) (loooove his enthusiasm); or of a someone who seems happy making a living by helping folks glut their desires for mystery—Brien Foerster’s offerings are worth the visit too. It’s an honest buck**.


I follow leads, asking questions from a great height (Google satellites—we mortals can’t get much higher from our armchairs). Like this—

Abu Gorab.png

—which to put into context you’d have to go to Brien’s UT post: CLICK HERE

I notice a lot of things but the most intriguing might also have the most mundane explanations: like what are those wee circles?

While poor ol’ Brien ponders his shattered pyramid being off true north by 23 degrees, I ponder the minors … here, have a nice shattered pyramid—

Screen Shot 2018-06-13 at 17.59.25.png

—possibly damaged beyond economical repair by some oaf stumbling about in the dark. Or perhaps God got grumpy ‘cos they didn’t slaughter Him enough lambs***.

I love cranks and admire anyone who turns an honest buck. People want weirdies, Brien serves ’em up—but genuine weirdies you can touch, kick, climb over and feel that you’ve got your money’s worth—

—not like those in church where the holey bikkie blatantly does NOT become human flesh, nor the wine turn into (retch) blood. Brrrrr, but it takes all sorts …

Eve & Lution

“He wot, you say? Loves animals? Oh … really?”




* No. Good spotting, but it’s not a typo … us birdbrains are right into our puns, no?

** Hence my intense dislike of the clergy (any clergy).

*** God looooooves little lambs, they’re so … … innocent. And delicious.



I can tell. I would say it’s a sense of possession coupled with a sense of loss; multiplied by beliefs.

With clear conscience I state that I am as humanitarian as (almost) anybody.

With clear conscience I state that I am as possessive as anybody too. Raised in ‘free’ countries I always looked with condescending disbelief at the situations of others in less happier lands. I decided that they deserved themselves.

And they got it.

So why are we destroying ourselves to make room for them?

Who is pulling our strings?

Who, behind the scenes, is commanding our own masters? As sure as hell it’s not us—democracy be damned.


I’m happy to accept that my nations’ (plural) politics were established rationally using Christianity as a part vehicle—you know, the old ‘do as you would be done by’ stuff that looks good but nobody actually does.

But there is a


called Islam. Brrrr.

It’s taken Christian politics two thousand years to acquire equality-of-the-sexes, for example—a condition impossible under Islam where women are nothing more than breeding machines (to produce warriors for Allah) and receptacles for men’s lusts (rewards from Allah)—although Islamics will earnestly bleat that in Islam women are cherished, loved, protected … even put into black bags to ‘protect them from the lustful eyes of men who aren’t their masters  owners  … theirs’.


has worked to bring down the western systems. Someone is flooding Europe with a great sickness, in the name of Compassion.

To suggest that it is NOT a good thing to import millions of savages into civilised Europe is to risk the wrath of all, including the ‘United’ Nations—opprobrium from the very people who will be the greatest victims of the coming changes.

I hope I’m wrong.

If I’m wrong, please tell me so—in words I can understand. And better—tell me WHY I am wrong.

Until then I offer these pale echoes—

This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle,
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demi-paradise,
This fortress built by nature for herself
Against infection and the hand of war,
This happy breed of men, this little world,
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall,
Or as a moat defensive to a house
Against the envy of less happier lands;
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England,
this nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings,
Feared be their breed and famous by their birth,
Renowned for their deeds as far from home
For Christian service and true chivalry
As is the sepulchre, in stubborn Jewry,
Of the world’s ransom, blessed Mary’s son;
This land of such dear souls, this dear dear land,
Dear for her reputation through the world,
Is now leased out – I die pronouncing it –
Like to a tenement or a pelting farm.
England, bound in with the triumphant sea,
Whose rocky shore beats back the envious siege
Of watery Neptune, is now bound in with shame,
With inky blots and rotten parchment bonds.
That England that was wont to conquer others
Hath made a shameful conquest of itself.

—make of it what you will.


spare the time, this guy has his finger well on the pulse—

—and names the principle tool of the enemy.


devil-29973__340 copy