Monday, 13 June 2011

Pimp My Tyred Ass iSport.

The K-pop boys and girls have dropped into garlic swilling central, so near and yet so far, for a bit of a shindigg. Readers here know that your correspondent likes a bit of K-Pop and J-Pop. Last time I posted here some of the girls bouncing around, I was thinking that I didn’t need to understand a word. A new Babel had been constructed.

All the motions, movements, facial expressions, arm and hand waving and body poses. All are universal reduced instruction set. All the synchronicity. Primitive. Turn the music off and you could imagine the same routines being performed by Nubian troupes at Amarna. The same heathen choreographerpimps at work. Moses would recognise the moves and their significance. The Babel of dance routine has been established globally. Babel’s towering drum and bass, Amarna’s dancing eunuchs, temple whores for the new age.


Ahh yes I hear you snikker, better a temple whore slaking thirsts and satisfying appetites, better to spend your days, no matter how few they are numbered, prostrate before the whims of pharaoh, better to strut for the gods than die in the gutter outside the temple complex. Many would chop off their own cock and balls, sell their daughters and lives to stay secure in the shelter of the altar. Temple is easier than being poor.


Well the question that
needs no answer is “Has the temple complex swallowed the world now?” Is there nowhere that one can escape to? Are we all kept performers? Dance or starve.

Could be. Lets look at some more of the theatre of the temple. Yesterday’s Canadian GP.

Although I may not have mentioned it previously your correspondent is a long time fan of GP and fondly remembers the days when the GGT would get, an even then, ancient Murray Walker to crap all over the action. Thankfully the keen fan didn’t need the commentary, we all new who was where and what was going on even though in those days, JPS Black Lotus 1 and 2 across the line, there was only one camera at the gig. Or so it seemed, then, compared to today’s camera infested advertising fest. Auto autoerotic porn cameras looking at everything in everyway, chasing the little red tail light in the wet, winking away like a high speed knocking shop advertising its ass. So much recorded and to be viewed from every which way and angle and yet the world is ignorant of things happening just outside the temple walls.

The whole circus of high speed heroinhipoltroons, redarsedbaboons and fiatcashstuffedbuffoons.

In the good old days most everyone ran a V8 Cossie and even then there was a subtext of technological endevour aimed at feed back into the ordinary punter’s badly assembled rust heap. Dunlop aero based research on ceramics and aramids fed its way into F1 and thence into our current automotive tour de force. However that is a half a century of elapsed phekkwittery. They weren’t really interested, that was just a cover story, though better than none at all like US CARTS. If F1 had been serious they’d have cut the swept volume of the motors by 1% each year. So a 1970s 3 litre would now be the size of a toothbrush. Or cut the fuel load by 2% each year, predictable, no nonsense and that would have fed directly into spectator and driver safety such that the 2012 season cars would most likely be running on Brown’s gas by now!

However can you spot the weakness in my postulating pustules?

Yes the last thing Pharaoh wants is for humanity to advance. Pharaoh is always looking backwards, never forwards. The name of the game has been to rein in the technological genie and stopper it. It is a plan that is working. Look at UKplc. We used to design and build the world’s most advanced lifting surfaces for aero vehicles. We used to design and build the most advanced reaction jets. All gone or soon to be gone. All captured in AI suites and weaponised expert systems. These days UKplc cannot even wait at table or fry an egg, cannot speak and spell, cannot show and tell without TeeVee chefs getting in on the remedial courses.

The plan I’ll bet is to concentrate all manufacturing, diffused technological knowhow, in one place and then wipe it from the face of the Earth. Pharaoh will then be happy again. Go on then think it through. Where ever the “real” secret cabal meet and that place will be Jim Tucker and Alex Jones free because it really will be secret, whereever and whenever they met, deep under the alter in the temple bowels, the final manufacturing resting place chosen, likely ChiComm coastal states, will get an epic tidal wave/earthquake and 95% of the toaster, medkit, car, plane train and condom, factories of the world will disappear. Kind of like a super Fukushima.

Anyway lets leave the temple with a parting shot of what stuck in my mind about yesterday’s GP coverage. The cossetting of the rubber. There was one shot of the start grid showing a pile of 4 tyres all wrapped up in a great big red heated cosey. All snug as a bug. Each car had three types of tyre to cosset, so there were literally hundreds of carefully tended bits of cleverly moulded rubber there. Like the smell of turds you know when you are too close to the Pharaoh.

What else happened recently, outside the temple?

Notice I have not chosen any of these choreographer infested heathen cliques as illustrative.


Lets do some arithmetic. How much for a tyre warmer? Call it a grand.


So 12 teams, 24 drivers, 36 cars turn up to each GP. Three types of tyres, three sets of each type for each car. So 36
x 3 x 3=324.


I’m not going to include test machines, practice or testing general, R&D base, junior test drivers etc. Just what turns up at each GP event. Conservatively, very conservatively, I make that around 1/3 million smooth to keep tyres warm each GP when there are children starving.

Now don’t be thinking this is a Saint Bonio or Lord of the Ringwraithes Geldorpf sobfest, for it is not. It is purely for self interest that I wish to detail the following idea.


If this geezer (imag
e source) can line his pockets with billions by following an ancient script from the temple, grab
the Herd Attention Space, then what could the rest of us do if we stopped watching the spectacle through corrupting spectacles? Can you just see him in his robes on the temple
dias in Amarna surrounded by dancing girlies? Notice that there is never any trouble for those who follow this ancient instruction from the heathen. There may be some infighting but they never end up destitute and abandoned. It is a sure fire winner, there is no need to kid on you are creating a market or duelling in capitalist enterprise. These goons are hive mentalists and communistic at base. So if the weird looking dwarf can line his pockets the whole circus can leak a measley 333 grand per outing and not notice.

Don’t give me any bottom line pish. Don’t give me any red ink or profit stream crap. Don’t give me any impacting the cash flow bollox.

If you’ve been reading here you will know that cash does not exist. Ergo there is no such thing as profit or loss. Just accountancy magik, sleight of hand with nothing. Got that? The choreographers infest the accountancy standards bodies as well. To illustrate how this thievery works I’ll ask you to look at the UKplc Post Office and accounts. The ├╝bermentalist, and tester of Nokia ballistics when he went all ballistic and skrypto, used to pocket 500 millions smooth every tax year from the PO and its customers. Then his choreographer bosses, after they’d nicked all the rest of the land from privatised UKplc industries (choreographed to plan), told him it was time to half inch all the PO land. Lo and behold the accountant magickians vaped the 500 millions smooth over night into permanent deficit and the PO had to be privatised because it was unprofitable under the current structure. All accountancy cover for the theft of PO pension funds and the soon to be stolen land the PO infrastructure currently occupies.

Pure choreographed bollox.

So Bernie we know that you are not interested in anything other than commanding part of the Herd Attention Space, on orders from your choreographers. We’ll ignore you. The rest of the F1 world could consider taking charge of the whole event, or starting a new one and achieving a strategic victory in perception.

Why don’t you choose a village in each poor country you scream around in at high speed, completely independent of any official organisation, and give them the cash you spend on tyre warmers every year in that country. In fact make it a part of your training programme to have your project managers and technologists, marketeers and contract managers, and dare I say it the lads behind the wheel on site and visible. Instead of eating epicurian delights from off of the naked bodies of geisha girls, why not give up the flesh pots for a couple of weeks and get the village plumbed, sanitised, lit, warmed, dried and aided with any problems that cause the poverty? Start now, the secret is not vaccines from the spawn of Satan, the secret is shelter, sanitation, clean water and food. They don’t need aid or charity, just no debt, no slavery. A gift from you that you won’t even notice. Try that for a few seasons and then target another village, and on and on. Forget pissing around with your wing settings, concentrate on humanity outwith your privileged exotic materials.

And keep your accountants away from it, they are trained dealers in death by spreadsheet. Tax? Just forget about it. It is because of tax that the world is a heathen dump.

There is that word again. Charity. What does it mean now? It means a vehicle to remove wealth from society and keep it secreted for a cryptogroup. All that charidee work of the great and the good, choreographed. All that charidee money to address the ills of society, choreographed decay. Charity that needs the suffering of millions to playact out the choreography.

F1 you’ve got the money, you’ve got the technology and you’ve got the management and negotiating skills.

This goes for all prosports and especially for the game where big, thick, disease vectors in pyjamas chase an inflated bladder. In the good old days the game was played by working men who held down full time jobs and played at the weekends. Now it is played full time for the entertainment of a functionally unemployable nation.

Of all prosportspeople, I would ask the following.

Name me one great gladiator from the Flavian Amphitheatre. Can you? Everyone knows who diddled with his fiddle, everyone knows the Phoenician Emperor of Rome who liked phukn his sister but noone knows the sports stars. You are not supposed to, they get written out when the dark ages arrive on schedule and only the important choreographers get their names remembered.

So it is in your own self interest sporting actors to break out of the eternal play.

Now comes the bit of our own self interest dear reader. And it is a strange series of words that I am about to type. I honestly never thought I’d see them falling off the ends of my own fingers.

Matthew Delooze has researched the sporting, spectacle and gathering phenomenon. Those familiar with his work will know that he believes that at such massed events spiritual energy is harvested from us for nepharious ends. We kind of feed the other is his contention.

Now I’ll give that a nod and a wink however what I think we can say is that these occassions are in fact diversions. They are spiritual contermeasures being used against us. One of the recurring themes of these choreographers is that they need to get away to a retreat, think Bohemian Grove, where they can; and I shall use a particular word here to cover all their activities during their retreat, to be together and in harmony to PRAY.

Why do they pray?

I reckon that they know a few things that we, the vulgar, are kept from. I reckon they know that they can shape the aggregate conditions of the HAS directly AND indirectly through prayer. The thing that really pisses them off is the rest of us getting together in harmony and drowning out their signal, for want of a better phrase.

We are so much more powerful than them after all, so they divert us into wasting our time gazing at the sporting wankstators in the HAS. Watching the choreography in the temple.

Stop it.