Author: Max Frances
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No Sex Please, We’re British
This week, Labour MP (and candidate for Deputy Leader) Dawn Butler stated on national TV that children are born without a biological sex. Barely reported in the press because the bonkers bar has been elevated to so high a level that pure, unadulterated biological flat-earthing is no longer man bites dog. I’m looking forward to…
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Honour Marks, Get Set…
I’ve never been one for awards and medals – I sussed out the scam while a mere lad at school. After penning a superlative account of the Ayatollah Khomeini’s return from exile in France, I was awarded a coveted gold star. Emerging triumphant and euphoric from the headmaster’s office, I encountered the class dunderhead –…
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Plane Speaking
Heathrow has become carbon neutral in emissions. Take a moment to allow that assertion to slink around the grey matter. It’s colossal. There’s a nailed-on Nobel Prize for someone, right there. There’s got to be a Physics or Chemistry element, but in all sincerity, this one is such a biggie that a new category beckons.…
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Unfurling the Freak Flypaper
Earlier this year, Boris Johnson’s chief adviser launched a recruitment campaign ‘seeking weirdos and misfits’. He’s patently never worked in the recruitment sector, because that is indeed longhand for ‘launched a recruitment campaign’. Every campaign attracts weirdos and misfits – it’s one of the rules. The modus operandi of the switched-on is that such weirdness…
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Taking the Flak
A TV presenter has taken her own life. Whatever the context, that is tragic. People are shocked and upset that a life has been cut short. Many others are pretending to be shocked and upset and demonstrate this through a cascade of sanctimonious dogpiling onto whomever they can link with the event. Some press outlets…
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See You Later, Litigator…
Some borderline freak engaged me in conversation yesterday in order to impart what they held to be an indispensable gem about a bizarre law of the State of Michigan. That will teach me to acquiesce to the promise of a stop’n’chat. The so-called ‘fact’ is both true an untrue. It is said that it is…
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This Is the Price of Failure, Mr Bond…
I succumbed to the pleasure of a local hostelry at the weekend, incidentally while the Six Nations Rugby was on. Calamitous mistake. Jam-packed full of halfwits who have never played rugby, who don’t understand the rules of rugby, and who use rugby as a misguided vehicle to attain social acceptance. Incorrigible berks. The game is…
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Take It to the Bridge
While the coronavirus appears to be running out of steam (well, the viral load of the story appears to be falling, anyway), Boris is back on the plot with a plan for a 28-mile bridge to connect Stranraer in Scotland to Larne in Northern Ireland. I bet he couldn’t get the old hard hat and…
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Fact If I Know What I’m Talking About
Commenting about the UK being post-fact seems to have garnered some outrage. You might think that it was a position that people would be keen to understand and, if proven, to rectify. Apparently to talk ‘post-fact’ or ‘post-truth‘ is to talk through one’s porkie-pie hat. To the naysayers, our current ills are driven not by…
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Two’s Company…
While I was largely expecting the lead stories of the last few days be about President Trump’s acquittal or even more coronabollocks, the throbbing headline bulging through the copy of most organs centred on another celebrity-out-of-the-closet disclosure. And that’s newsworthy? I’m straining to find a shit to give. But before the woke and throbbing mass…
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