Trotsky on Crickets

The ongoing crickets World Cup in the Caribbean has quickly turned into the farcical capitalist ceremony that I’d predicted it would. The early elimination of the only two countries where the proletariat have a realistic opportunity to partake in this and other related recreational activities further substantiates my humble belief that the International Crickets Council is overseeing a plot by the bourgeoisie to systematically sideline the working class folk who might be keen on taking up the activity.

Which is exactly why, comrades, I urge you to boycott this intrinsically elitist recreational activity. Stay away from it long enough and you will realise the perils it poses to any egalitarian society. I can think of numerous suitable activities to recommend, which will prove far more satisfying and far more educational.

Take ant-farming, for instance. Now that’s an activity I enjoyed during my days in the youth wing. It’s certainly the sort of hobby which would impress the importance of service to society, on any impressionable mind. And it’s simple, anyone can do it as I’m about to explain.

I’m often disappointed to hear of people purchasing ant farm kits and the like. Such products firstly epitomise the hypnotic nature of capitalist branding, and secondly tend to suck the fun out of the activity, rather in the same manner that rotten Jo Stalin sucked the soul out of my revolution.

You’d need to start by building an ant hill. The hill must only be seen as a means to an end, as it is the hill which provides shelter to the ant colony which is a subterranean social structure with as many complexities as any human settlement. Pick a relatively sunny spot for your ant hill, or not too many ants will be too happy to join your kibbutz. Ideally your ant hill will be constructed with loose soil, to allow the flow of air to the colony which will be created below the ant hill.

The next step is perhaps the most difficult and involves the collection of ants. There are a number of ways in which you might do this. An obvious method would be to look in other ant hills. However, this is tantamount to forcing them to move and I do not encourage this. A more appropriate method would be to leave a morsel of sugar or so in a bottle and leave it exposed. Ants will be drawn to the bottle very easily.

Once you estimate the number of ants to be in the region of 300 to 400, the community can be created. Carefully move the ants to the area just next to the ant hill. These ants are primarily the worker ants who provide for their society.

In order to maintain the colony, you will need to find your queen ant, whose role in society is to lay eggs, as well as a few male ants. These ants can be identified fairly easily as ants who are ready to mate are winged, as the wings are used at the time of their nuptial flight. So if you can find 5 or 6 such ants, there will no doubt be a few males and a few queen ants among them. Once the worker ants have moved in and unpacked, the ant hill will have a discernable entrance (this should take about 2 to 3 days). If you release the male and queen ants near the entrance, you’ll find they’ll be most agreeable to adopting the new colony as their own. These ants are essential as they provide the impetus for population growth, which as you well know is integral to the development of any socialist society.

Within two weeks, you should find the ant hill bustling with activity. But don’t fear; it doesn’t end here! Observing the ant settlement and the behaviour of its dwellers is in itself a thoroughly enjoyable learning experience, which I assure you will be the source of weeks of fun.

Enjoy!

Pervez on East Pakistan

If there’s any country which could call itself the Portugal of South Asia, it’s clearly Bangladesh. It has always had and will continue to have pointless quiddities and a sense of redundancy about it.

The only thing that separates those traitorous sandal lizards from those cunting useless, olive-picking, peri-peri eating spics of Southern Europe is the fact that they don’t have food or good wine.

What they do have, however, is an unkempt overabundance of beard hair, chemical emissions, fertile women, undereducation, AIDS, toilet cleaners, cash-chucking Armani wearing scallies for politicians, malaria, illicit trade of Mach-3 razor blades, tornados, infant mortality, Bengalis, unemployment, rundown automobiles, outmoded practices such as men wearing lungis and holding each other’s hands while walking down the street, stolen cows and cell phones, dirty prostitutes, illiteracy, arsenic contaminated water, lecherous construction workers, inflation, uncultured attempts at oleos, leptospirosis infected peasants, substandard cannabis, circumcisions and toxic waste.

That’s right, Bangladesh is the verruca on your lower back, so to speak; the fly that hangs around a baboon’s bum. Fuck off back to your shipbreaking yards!

General Musharraf takes on fat people

Like any upper middle class Asian worth his salt, I quite enjoy a weekly dose of American consumerism to nullify the painful existence that I am faced with for much of the week. With globalisation well and truly upon us, the variety of uses that commercial space finds for itself now means I can combine my weekly junk-food outing with self-fellating exercises to some thoroughly explicit images of underwear models. Female ones, not the other kind. Once my lust is satisfied and duly wiped away, I make my way down to the eatery that catches my fancy and proceed to satiate my hunger.

But yesterday, my trip to the nearby Burger King felt like a right kick in the bollocks. Hark! What happened, Pervez, you ask? The sight that befell me was nothing short of horror. I was met by an exhibition of North Americans who ranged from terribly fat to outright obese. Once my distress was adequately mitigated, my attitude towards these creatures turned from one of repulsion and repugnance to one of mockery and scorn. “Har, har” I thought, “You sorry bunch of pig fuckers. One day you’ll be lying on a hospital bed after a heart attack and the only thing that won’t have changed is my laughter at your stupidity.”

For years, perhaps even decades, fat people have claimed victimisation by the remainder of society. But, as Pervez can’t help wonder, who can blame society, really, when the obese insist on flaunting their foolishness, repeatedly eating copious amounts of junk food? And after all, it is society as a whole that must bear the cost of these obese individuals – not only do these bed-dwelling, self-harming types tend to look about as sexually appealing as the love child of Jabba the Hut and Grishnakh, but they’re also known to cause significant anguish without respite, as might be witnessed here. A like minded individual has thankfully had the good sense to start a petition to solve the problem.

So wake up, you fat cunts! Stop eating so much and shit more. You can claim discrimination all you like, but do realise that unless you burn off that heft, no one of worth is going to go near that clout of yours!

Trotsky travels

As a liberal leaning man of this world, I often enjoy travelling around Asia, interacting with peasants and the like. It gives me a sense of purpose, does sharing pain and pleasure with a class of people for whom I sacrificed many of my younger days, a sense of purpose, which I as an exile otherwise lack.

But I am, at heart, a forward thinking man and the sad truth is that a highlight of these trips is the experience of flying on one of these modern jet planes. Aviation intrigues me. I've lost count of the hours I've enjoyed bombing the fuck out of cities on Rise of Nations. I assure you, if I’d had such technology at my disposal when we took St. Petersburg, back in ’18, massacring those middle class cunts would’ve been so much smoother and simpler. And so much more fun.

Now Sri Lanka is not normally a country I’d visit – I’m quite put off by it’s pseudo-revolutionaries who are completely unaware of what it is their revolution seeks to achieve – but I’ve just had the disappointment of a Sri Lankan Airlines flight. Or fright, as Comrade Mao would have succinctly put it.

Sri Lankan Airlines is proof enough that the free market cannot work. Excessive competition in the aviation industry has driven air transport companies to constantly try and differentiate themselves. Singapore Airlines has introduced bigger seats, while airhostesses on Emirates seem to look increasingly fuckable. Sri Lankan Airlines has responded to these competitive maneuvers by hiring look-alikes of the national cricket team.

Aside from the fact that cricket is a rather unfortunate upper middle class habit and that the culinary equivalent of a Sri Lankan cricketer would be no more appetising than the testicles of a wild boar, nothing at all appears wrong with Sri Lankan Airlines’ commercial strategy.

But neglecting either of those points, Comrades, would be rather like neglecting the fact the Romanovs were a bunch of corrupt, overfed, incestuous in-breds. For crying out loud, how do they expect a man of my age and wisdom to find sleep on board when there are monsters trawling the cabin?

Rigobert Song is a troubled man

Being an integral part of Galatasaray’s defence and having to constantly bear the weight of my people’s expectations, I, Rigobert Song am a busy man. So it is only the most grave of grave matters that I concern myself with and today, it is one of those matters which troubles me.

If there is one thing I remember from the days when I was plying my trade at that somewhat mediocre football club on Merseyside, it is that the locals, apart from being slab-chucking murderers (and thieves), speak a very absurd dialect of English. This point leads me to the most pressing concern that has occupied my mind for many minutes of today.

I was sent, by my good nephew, a box of McVities Jaffa cakes and while it invoked a sense of nostalgia, as I remembered Wes Brown, one of my more formidable opponents during my time in England, it has also pushed me into an awkward quandary about whether a Jaffa cake is, in fact a cake or a biscuit.

Why, I ask myself, Rigobert Song, are Jaffa cakes always found in the biscuit section of supermarkets, if in fact they are called cakes? Rigobert Song, my good self, cannot answer this!

So I checked my precious dictionary to see if it would give me a clue. A cake, I find, is a flattened, usually round mass of food that is baked or fried, while a biscuit is a small, fat sweet cake. I usually refer to the latter as a tart, but maybe that’s just me, Rigobert Song.

Getting back to the poignant dilemma that I am faced with, nearly everything appears to support the theory that Jaffa cakes are in fact biscuits. They are biscuit sized, look like biscuits and are eaten when one might just as well be eating a packet of McVities digestive biscuits.

But, wait, Rigobert Song is not so easily convinced. It seems the makers of these things have previously argued that cakes have the tendency to harden as they turn stale, much like African footballers, while biscuits tend to soften under the same circumstances, like the prissy French.

These disturbing thoughts have swept across my mind for many hours today. In fact, I am so sure that if no one provides me with the solution, I will soon be out of form and will be forced to disappoint my many fans. So I beg you, fans of Rigobert Song, find me the answer!