One testicle is all that is needed to change the world

A. Hitler famously changed the world with only one ball. I do not mean a football, although he may have come into contact with them from time to time. Nor do I mean a basketball. That would be nonsense, as basketball wasn’t invented until 1949. I mean a testicle.

We all know the famous songs that are sung about the number of his nuts. Schoolchildren across Europe learn it before they learn their national anthems. The only exception of course being the children of the woke. The unwashed lentil munchers can not find sufficient patriotic feeling to bother. Which largely explains the terrible state of the country today.

But regardless of the efforts of the libtard snowflakes to do down Britain, the song celebrating one testicle is a song that unites the Continent in recognition of the British victory against fascism.

I encourage you to go to the White Cliffs of Dover and cup your hand about your ear, inclining your head towards France, hold your breath and listen.

It is likely you will hear Vera Lynn emanating from the chalk about you. But if you listen closely, your mind composed, you will also hear the gusty strains of,

“Hitler has only got one ball, the other is in the Albert Hall…”

You will find yourself invigorated and immediately nonplussed about the balance of trade deficit with France.

But what more can we glean from this singular example of manhood? How do we apply the wisdom received from the uno-testicular state in our daily life? Guidance can be found in the writings of right thinking intellectuals.

The famous early 20th century historian, B. Arthur Hive, noted in his celebrated tome on manly conflict, “A soldiers needs two hands to wield a rifle. But only one ball to shoot the bull’s eye.”

By which he means that if you dig deep enough, if you get your hands into the very boxer shorts of your insides, you will find a massive pair of balls. If you’re patriotic enough.

One ball on the outside, and a heaving spectacle of plenty in the spirit, is all you need to change the world.

David Cameron’s only sin was seeking to make the world a better place for himself

If there’s a moral to the David Cameron/Lex Greensill saga it is that the “Woke” don’t want you to help friends in need. In spite of their fatuous protestations to the contrary.

Hardly a day goes by without some earnest snowflake handwringing about the fate of people who really just need to work harder. As hard as David Cameron.

“Narcissus does not fall in love with his reflection because it is beautiful, but because it is his. If it were his beauty that enthralled him, he would be set free in a few years by its fading” – W.H. Auden.

As we can see by the words of W.H. Auden David Cameron is not in love with David Cameron, but the prospect of greater wealth he sees when he gazes into the pond.

Who would resent him more money? And if that additional wealth comes by way of altruistic service to a needy friend, surely none but the hypocritical would resent such an outcome.


Can a man not build on the fortune his spermatozoon rightfully claimed when it won life’s greatest race of all? To strive that great length in a crowded field, full of sharp elbows and the occasional double-headed failure, to plunge headfirst into the egg of success only to receive no trophy?

That would be a disservice to the ambitions of all. Both the lazy, lowborn and the great and driven such as ex-Prime Minister David Cameron.

One can only wonder at what a pass our great country has come to when Mr Cameron can not phone a friend to help a friend. It is likely that it won’t be too long before a public inquiry is held to vindicate the charitable drives of Mr Cameron.

Restitution of reputation and a reward of hundreds of millions of taxpayers’ money must surely follow. It is in everyone’s interests if this is so. For once the coffers of David Cameron and friends are full to the brim, the overflow will trickle down onto the idle. Who can then spend their good fortune at Greggs.

James Dyson does not suck and neither do his products

Patriots who walk the talk do not come along very often, self professed patriots even less frequently, and this is why Britain must treasure its very own resident of Singapore.

We would do well to remember the words of James Dyson’s famous ancestor, Sir Aire Blaid, at the pivotal siege of Hoover, “If victory is to be our prize we must blow the microbes all over the place”.

Precious few billionaires have been prepared to sacrifice the home comforts of England for the more tax efficient, but decidedly less well oaked landscape of the Orient. Others have chosen Monaco or the Cayman Islands.

Indeed a case can be made to award James Dyson the Victoria Cross. A medal normally reserved for distinguished service on the field of battle, but which loyal servant of the realm has fought more valiantly to free England from Brussels than Sir Dyson? They should never have crossed him in the early 2000’s. The grey men in suits knew not the dragon, slumbering on its hoard, that they woke.

Only last year Dyson promised to make ventilators from scratch, even though numerous other domestic producers were already making proven ones and could do so much faster if given the public funds.

Where would the much needed Blitz Spirit have been found in that? Indeed, only with Dyson’s intervention did we escape the clutches of the EU wide medical products procurement programme.

The Dyson project was never completed, but that’s because the ventilators had to push and pull, and James normally just deals in things that suck. And besides, we really just needed to know his ego was still present.

Which brings us to the meat and gristle of our subject. James Dyson and his products do not suck. Such is the reputation and we are prepared to stand back and blow it across these vellum sheets.

Who else would still have the brass neck to go into the press and lie to the public’s faces about the possibilities provided by Brexit? Tim Martin maybe. Boris Johnson perhaps. But no man values his independence more than Dyson. He’s so independent he no longer lives among us. That is a Brexit benefit for you right there. One you can suck up and hold and needs no bag.

Why it would not be British to pursue an eliminate CV-19 strategy

We British are made of stout oak. We don’t bend in the winds that see other races quiver and splinter. We face the truth, the call of destiny and put our shoulders to the wheel of calamities.

We thin our herds. We kill our weak. Not for us the sentimental society which harbours taxpayer burdens. Plague is a chance to rewrite social care policy. It basically does the work of the lion or the tiger in prehistory. It is the natural order. It is to be worked with and moulded to the financial profit of friends and donors of the pillars of society.

It is for this reason we will not pursue the overly sentimental pandemic strategy of complete community elimination. Where is the profit in that? Where is the gain for the national body, which is only improved by a greater distillation of the strong amongst the herd.

Lockdowns are already a way of life. So too the relief when a lockdown lifts. Our policy makers know the people will pay the price.

New Zealander’s and other antipodeans believe themselves smart by long since returning to the old ways. But where is the cultural revival in doing that? It can’t but hinder a healthy age ratio between young and old in the population!

We have watched with growing concern as Coronavirus triggered a desire for market segregation that has gone beyond what is medically rational to the point of doing real and unnecessary economic damage, to lesser nations.

But not in Boris Johnson’s Britain! Why, we have continued to trade freely, exactly at that moment humanity needed a Government somewhere that is willing at least to make the case powerfully for freedom of exchange.

We have bought PPE from t-shirt sellers in Istanbul, beauticians in California and friends of ministers who’ve bankrupted their paper plate factories. We’ve been afraid of nothing when it comes to un-tendered contracts.

We have made an example of ourselves to the whole world. We have been world beating. No elimination for us, but the carefully calibrated calculation of what politically could be tolerated by the people in terms of avoidable death for the sake of entreprise.

Over 150,000 Britons have gone into that phone box and like Clark Kent emerged transformed!

You have your packed rock concerts New Zealand. We will pay the ferryman. If we don’t, then who will?

It’s time to give everyone who voted for Brexit a peerage

The people knew what they were voting for when they decided, in their wisdom, on the 23rd June 2016 to provide an overwhelming mandate for Brexit. All the Brexits. Whatever anyone wanted. In particular those that wished to rid themselves of rule by unelected bureaucrats. Lord Frost keeps a warm place in his heart for them in particular.

It can not be said that our political class was as certain, as evidenced by the attempts to undermine the will of the people in the years that followed. Happily scant attention was paid to financial irregularities and electoral crime or God knows what would have happened in the Mother of Parliaments.

Indeed, the likelihood of a confirmatory referendum on the eventual Brexit agreed was closer than anyone realised. Closer that is until Jo Swinson and Jeremy Corbyn in their collective wisdom saved democracy from itself. Working together in a glorious unconscious coupling in 2019 to torpedo the HMS GNU when it was still under construction in dry dock.

For this they are not given near enough credit. Happily, the wise words of Professor Professorin, provided below, held good.

“Democracy is not a process. It belongs to Rupert Murdoch” – British Politics and Lobotomies, by Professor Professorin, Mangled Press, 2019.

Now though it is time to recognise the people who voted for Brexit. Not Nigel Farage whose fame is assured. Not Boris Johnson even, who would have campaigned to replace the Houses of Parliament with actual cake if he believed it would put him in 10 Downing Street. No. Not them. Let us give thanks to the 17.4m who provided the mandate.

What would have happened if a few hundred thousand of them had bothered to use Google as a search engine to discover facts before voting?

I dread to think. All that wasted foreign money in our electoral process. It would have been a terrible case of buyer beware.

Brexit may never have happened. New technology would not now have a chance to be tested on rebuilt customs borders. Any Manuel, Figaro and Pierre could still just wander into our country with their skill sets. Any Tom, Dick and Harry could still just float over there to experience new cultures and deepen cross channel friendships. It’s a nightmare scenario. People who were not born to rule having the same intrinsic rights as those whose great ancestors worked hard for their wealth? Shudder.

It would not do and it did not do.

Now let us give our thanks as a nation in the only way possible. Let us make each 17.4m who voted for Brexit a Lord or a Lady. The House of Lords can easily accommodate them. Just look at the people Mr Johnson has jammed in there already?

The daily allowances for an additional 17.4m peers? Well it would be the equivalent of a minor PPE contract. Just ask Matt Hancock. Best to Whatsapp him.

And this way, when the effluent begins to hit the wind turbines, and the crunch votes finally return to a parliament shuddering out of a coma, we will have sufficient unelected lawmakers to ensure that Brexit can never be undermined.

It’s time Remainers apologised for forcing the divisive EUref on our country

Humble pie is a dish best served cold, so the famous French saying goes, after translation into a more useful language.

It was first recorded in the minor literary work “Liasons Legerement Risques” by a long forgotten Continental author. It is likely to have been stolen from an English language work, but that is just par for course. It is well known the French harbour a millennia long envy of the English. This was best expressed in 1066.

The true born Englishman is known to have a rather more sanguine temperament. and to be more generous of spirit. If you doubt that fact you need merely consider the great effort taken in the Victorian era to give uncivilised countries their own railways.

No need for humble pie there! Just follow the directions of Mr Johnson’s sage and thoughtful government and acknowledge the undisputed, undiluted munificence of the British Empire.

Where there is cause for a wholesome serving of humble pie is in the tiresome discussions around Brexit.

I don’t know about you but I am still waiting patiently for a remoaner to apologise for forcing the country to hold the EU referendum in the first instance.

Now more than any period since, as the very Union of our country creaks and splinters as a direct result of the flawed Brexit they forced upon us, now would be a good time to say sorry.

We only had to hold the advisory referendum in the first place because the pro-European Union traitors in our midst would not stop carping on about the imagined pitfalls of full sovereignty.

And where are they now? As the bus burns in Belfast? Have you heard a single traitor say sorry? And this as I stand here with the fists of reconciliation clenched openly tight. Red of face. Heart pumping. Is it so hard for Remainers to just say “Sorry we did not just step straight out of the EU and establish a hard border on Ireland”?

Of course the real damage they did by forcing us to hold the referendum was what resulted afterwards.

Brexit was supposed to be a smash and grab of the world’s financial systems. Had we just done the deed as daylight bank robbery no one would have had time to do anything but acknowledge that we did indeed hold all the cards.

And now where do we find ourselves? Waiting with the dog eared patience bestowed upon us by the Almighty for Remainers to say that hardest of words.

It’s time for Michael Gove to lead the United Kingdom

Plumbum – the Latin word for “lead”

Our mighty seafaring nation is at a crossroads, much as the freighter the Evergreen was for a crucial week in March. If we are to choose well which way to turn next, so as not to constantly hit our head, we need a visionary to lead us. One with a will of lead.

To choose who is right it needs a careful examination of the possible candidates to lead the coup against Mr Johnson.

It’s true the governing Conservative and Unionist Party is speckled like a glitter rolled coprolite with any number of worthy successors, now that Mr Johnson has served his purpose. But who to give your backing to when the long night dawns?

The editorial board at UnoTesticular/Facilitator can be your guide.

It first needs be asked who is most ready to assume the weighty pyrite coated mantel of governance? To answer this ask yourself who is missing currently from the stage? And what a busy stage it is!

The answer to your questions are of course Michael Gove. Who best to lead the coup but the one who is now sharpening the knives.

The people have had enough of experts, this has been apparent since the 23/06/16. But we say to you the people can never have enough of Michael Gove! If ever plumbum was made into a man it was into this man.

And if you have any minor concerns, you need only read the words of one of Mr Gove’s most famous ancestors, below.

I don’t know why everyone bangs on about the Ides of March constantly? You can knife your political opponents in the back whenever you feel the time is right.” – Goverious Goverium, Roman Provincial Governor, Britannia, 269 AD.

Why an Englishman’s word is still his bond

“Tory from the Irish word ‘toiraidh’ means ‘men on the run’. No one is entirely sure anymore what from, as Tory Britain has sensibly erased its memory of Irish history.” – Hackcourt Smyth-Fillbottom-Tryst, Camden-upon-Kensington, January 31st 2019.

Foreign types have long envied the international value placed on an Englishman’s word. Indeed, it is known to be his bond, just ask the Irish, Scots, Welsh, Cornish, Indigenous Americans, Russian bankers, Mistresses of the Prime Minister, Jeremy Corbyn or any other happy peoples favoured by fate to have received its balm like reassurance.

Unhappily these days the trenchfooted, cardboard boot wearing warriors of the armies of the “woke” are attempting to attach rather less palatable meanings to the proud and proper noun. We will not stand for this, we will sit down.

No less an honourable figure than the Prime Minister Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson is now the focus for the unsavoury smear campaigns of the anarcho-communist syndicate.

But what about peace in Ireland? They cry. Well, what about it?

I refer you to Mr de Pfeffel Johnson’s own words when he advised Northern Irish businessmen (it is unclear at the time of publication if there are any Northern Irish businesswomen) to send any customs forms arising from Getting Brexit Done to him, so he could bin them.

As the famous Venetian Blind manufacturer Giseppie Cororalli wrote in his forward to his translation of the Merchant of Venice in 1496, “What problem is there if you can just forget about it and carry on drinking?”

Has any handwringing, so called entrepreneur yet bothered to ship the Prime Minister their forms?

It is thus his fault that no one can be bothered to go to a postal office kiosk, most likely now situated in the upstairs cupboard of a WH Smith, and send the forms to the PM?

We all know the address!

But just in case you have acquaintances that are slow to remember, or pedestrian on the uptake, the address is 10 Downing Street, London. There maybe more to the address, but I assure you the swarthy foot soldiers of the Royal Mail will see your missives well directed.

This all proves beyond a shadow of a doubt that the Prime Minister’s word is still his bond. Thus, any Englishman’s word is still his bond. All you have to do is put him to the test! Which I advise most strongly against.

The PM is too handsome to be faithful

It is typical of the double standards of the snowflake commentariat that it celebrates the infidelities of rock stars, actors and musicians but casts a furrowed and intrusive eye over the same behaviour when it comes to elected representatives.

I do not recall the Nolan Principles of Public Life giving guidance on personal matters, such as infidelity.

It is all very well to applaud when a teenage heart throb such as Errol Flynn, Handel or Mick Jagger is caught playing away, but when it is a serving MP suddenly it is a very different matter for the infantry of Antifa?

Indeed it is not for the governed to pry between the sheets of those who govern. It would be most unwise. Memories are recalled in pictures and you might happen upon the activities of some of the hairy communists. Those would be memories that not even the hot blade of psychoanalysis could excise.

So why then are all the libtard, anarcho-communists so upset over the activities of the Prime Minister? I’ve answered my own question, haven’t I? It’s double standards. Triple standards. Quadruple standards of high hypocrisy by the low born.

This brings to mind the famous sayings of the Ancient Greek moral writer, Shagadeus Prolifius, who wrote in 456 BC, “A man possessed of a lion’s virility would be disrespecting the Gods who sculpted him if he did not shag every bit of hot blonde totty who crossed his path.”

I say have at it Prime Minister! I know you stand hours gazing into the mirror of self-reflection. It is by God’s design that you sow your wild oats in every field you walk over. It is essentially a religious function to cast aside the concerns of petty mortals who fret and panic at the ballot box. Pah!

After all, it’s not as if having a PM who can’t keep it in his pants, and may potentially be misusing public money in his affairs, it’s not as if that is possibly a national security risk.

It’s time the Prime Minister brought the moustache back into fashion

British men and moustaches have a long historical association. The first prehistoric cave paintings discovered in England in the bold Victorian era of exploration are famous for featuring Bowler Hats, but most neglect to mention the brawny Olympian men depicted also sported moustaches.

Now Britain is in a new age of Global Expansion, as Europe and indeed the world, cry out for our leadership, it is time to revive the moustache.

Statements of virility are of course frowned upon in this quaking era of cancel culture. To all our detriment, not least the women who place their trust in us to keep them safe. To see them prosper. To guide with a steady hand the procreation of the future.

For most of the last year the warriors of woke have insisted masculine sports be banned. Men participating in the time honoured rituals of preparation for war on the sporting field have been forced to do so underground. Without Spectators. Some have been shamed. Many have been forced to shave.

This can not serve Global Britain well. This will not lead us onto the Sunlit Uplands Brexit will deliver.

What will serve the English colossus as it strides with one giant step across the fading European dystopia and into Asia Minor? The answer is the moustache.

Indeed no greater a British war time leader than Montgomery Deux-Burns is recorded as having said on the eve of Agincourt II – The Return to France – that “Englishmen will prevail on this blessed day because the Lord has bestowed on them a superior moustache”.

It’s not just the British knee that is firm. It is also the wiry, titanium like hair that grows naturally from a true born Englishman’s lip. Every scientific evaluation has found it to be superior to others.

I say now, now is the time to grow your moustache again. To see your wife’s knees quiver. To witness your mistresses’ eyes light up as she discards the demand for a virus test before the tryst.

And what better figure to lead the regrowth of British masculinity than the golden lion in 10 Downing Street?

Once the sire of legions has again grown a hairy lip the men of the kingdom will follow his example and Make Britain Great Again!

I can think of no more fitting a moustache for a strong man leader than the toothbrush” – Professor Phillimore Snogger III, (visiting) Berlin, 1936.

Raise the toothbrush prime minister! Raise it upon your lip! And set a Union Flag a flutter behind you as you do. For the winds of destiny are blowing and you are blowing hard too!