R.I.P. Liu Xiaobo

Liu Xiaobo  28 December 1955 – 13 July 2017

Christmas, 2016

I just want to start out, here and now, by saying that I’ve had a great year. Really, it’s been my best year in twenty years, no bullshit. 2016 went very well for me and in nearly every respect exceeded my expectations.

But yeah, it’s been a pretty rough year for most people in the world, I get it. And not a very nice year for human decency, or Rule Of Law, or just about any other high-minded concept you care to name. It’s been a great ride for demagogues and dictators and the angels of hate and all their minions, but none of that has played out well for ordinary folks anywhere at all, and next year is set to be fairly terrible as well. Don’t be surprised if ammo becomes a sort of de facto currency in some places, is what I’m saying.

So, this year none of my girls will be dressing up as Christmas Eve for your entertainment, and none of us will be leading with a Christmas Rant. Sorry to disappoint, but perhaps this year we should try a bit harder than usual to find a little kindness in our hearts for people we don’t feel much affiliation with. It seems like the right thing to do.

That said, I did want to talk about a problem that’s been in my thoughts: Illegal Immigrants. Bear with me, please.

One of the countries I am a citizen of, has a problem with illegal immigrants. Some people in my country are in favour of extreme measures. I am going to be referring to the largest group of illegals in this piece, so as not to be accused of painting with too broad a brush.

Many of these illegals come bearing what can only be described as an extreme form of their religion, and one that is not popular in my country. They don’t seem to feel that local laws should apply to them; that they are somehow immune and should only answer to the laws of their own home country. They are the ones that are most over-represented in political activism. They don’t make much effort to learn the local culture or speak the way local folks do, and they frequently hang out with their own countrymen, celebrating their own, obscure, festivals. People in my country are having to support these illegals with their tax contributions, and are paying the price of a housing bubble caused, in part, by legal foreign investment from these illegal immigrants’ home country.

What to do? Should we get tough on these people? Should we put up signs at the border saying they aren’t welcome? Or would that cause an international outcry and charges of racism? Currently, when these illegals are caught, they are deported after being given due legal process, but this clearly isn’t working as the long-term trend is towards more immigration from that country. And, given we do have extensive trade with that country, would we really want to put that at risk? Should we be afraid of possible military or economic consequences if we are too tough on these illegals, or should we go ahead and target their families for, say, drone strikes? Remember, these illegal immigrants make up the largest portion of the illegal immigration that my country faces. What do you all think?

I don’t know if it matters what the ethnicity of these illegals is, but in case you are wondering, they are White Americans.

Something to think about in 2017, I reckon.

Merry Christmas.

An Book Review – Party Members

Party Members, the new book by Arthur Meursault, is finally out. And the eagerly-awaited review of this book, by MyLaowai, is also out.

I probably should start out with a few trigger warnings. But I won’t, because trigger warnings are for people who are so intellectually weak and emotionally inadequate that they might as well be vegetarianists or poofs or Trump supporters*.

*For anyone who wants to be offended by that statement, but who doesn’t feel quite entitled, please feel free to consider yourself a cunt in a very general sense.

There are many reasons to buy this book, and one of them is that I know the author is struggling under the crushing weight of unforgiven student debt and is forced to give blowjobs in exchange for bowls of noodles on the streets of Anyuan*.

*This is a lie. The author does not live in Anyuan.

But the real question is, is this book right for you? Here’s a handy Q and A to help you decide:

Q. Is this book right for me?

A. I don’t know. Are you an American?

Q. Yes, I am as it happens. How did you guess? Was it the perfect teeth? It was, wasn’t it?

A. No, it was the smart suit and matching power-tie that looked so stylish. Bad news chum, this book probably isn’t for you.

Q. Oh? Why not?

A. You will be offended by it. You should have read all those trigger warnings. Plus, you probably have some sort of romantic notions about China and how it would be lovely if only the Communist Party would let the humble and very ordinary people get on with their lives, but things are no doubt improving and anyway people are basically the same everywhere and it isn’t their fault they are poor and besides…

Q. Um, no. I intend voting Trump.

A. You will still be offended by it. You should have read all those trigger warnings. Plus, you probably have some sort of notions about China stealing all your jobs and coming over here and buying all our real estate and obviously they want to start WW3 because Alex Jones said so, just like the Chinese killed millions of Americans during 9/11 and they are jealous because we beat them in the last war and besides…

Q. Um. Sorry. I lied, I’m actually English.

A. Really? Fascinating. Which part of Blighty doest thou hail from?

Q. Newcastle.

A. This book might not be for you. I checked on the results of the last referendum and it’s clear that you are 49.3% likely to be unable to read. Although, that said, the pages are nice and soft so you will at least be able to make some use of them. I’m a Daily Express man myself, when it comes to these sorts of things. Your call.

Q. Is this book really as offensive as everybody says?

A. Is your screen-name Robert Black, by any chance? Because if it is, you’ll hate it. It’s well written, descriptive, and essentially accurate. Though, there are rather a lot of references to sexual assault, so maybe you’ll be turned on by it after all.

Q. No, my name is Mike Hunt.

A. Righto. Thanks. Well, as a work of literature it’s definitely on the rough side. Not for persons of a delicate disposition, certainly. Not easy to read if you are sensitive or a delicate snowflake. But fairly factual.

Q. Factual?

A. Certainly. Not in the sense of being about a real person or being set in a real place, but more in the sense of being about facts in a general sense of the word. Sort of thing.

Q. So, what do you reckon? Is it for me? Should I buy it?

A. Honestly, I don’t know. Look, I’ve been very patient but I’m incredibly busy getting these Christmas decorations made and these coolies don’t work all that hard without a good beating from time to time, so why not just buy it and then let me know what you think, hmmm? Tell you what, if you buy it and don’t like it, I promise on my first-born’s grave that I’ll totally reimburse you*, alright? Get it on Amazon here: Party Members

*This is a lie.

And for what it’s worth, this reviewer has a copy, liked it a lot, and is now going to pour a gin and tonic and try to think of a creative yet unfair way to be cruel to his workers. Again.

Have a nice day.

They All Do…

#Chexit

#Chexit: China out of the South China Sea

I guess you can’t just pick and choose which international agreements you have to honour, eh?

Party Members

Party Members: A Book by Arthur Meursault

 

Got so much money you don’t know how to spend it? Yeah, I know. It’s tough. I mean to say, there are only so many times you can have your Aston detailed before the shine blinds you. And frankly, I’m a bit over bathing in champagne. Which is why I was so delighted to be introduced to a new book, priced at a level that ensures you can afford it, and your coolies cannot. Read about it here:

https://arthurmeursault.com/2016/06/23/announcing-my-book-party-members/

I’ve read this, and it’s my considered and very important opinion that you should, too. At the very least, it’ll give you something to do while you’re waiting for the champagne bath to fill. Again.

Lest You Forget

What Country are YOU?

What Country are YOU?
By ChouChou

Unsure where your boundaries lie? Separatists giving you a bad day? Lacking identity in a world plunged into ethnic crisis? If so, perhaps YOU need to take the Sinocidal Patented Nationality Test to find out which country you are. The Sinocidal Patented Nationality Test is the only method endorsed by the United Nations guaranteed to inform confused nations on their official diplomatically recognised title. Just read some of the following endorsements:

“For years I thought I was just the 51st state of America, but after taking the Sinocidal Patented Nationality Test I actually realised I wasn’t!”
– Canada.

“I used to be a sad, overweight, depressed Yugoslavian Republic, but thanks to the Sinocidal Patented Nationality Test, I dumped my allied nations and became a size 10!”
– Bosnia Herzegovina.

“I was so overjoyed when the Sinocidal Patented Nationality Test told me that my population were God’s Chosen People that I went out and attacked the Lebanon!”
– Israel.

So grab your pencils, repress your minorities, and get ready to find out what country are YOU! *
(* The Sinocidal Patented Nationality Test is not responsible for any resulting civil wars, foreign invasions, or attacks from Godzilla)

Question One: How do you allow your citizens to top-up their mobile phones?
A: A simple and easy to use combination of customer accounts, top-up cards, and access points in most convenience stores across the nation.
B: A similar combination of customer accounts and top-up cards, but with the added bonus of making it virtually impossible to add money to your phone once you are outside the city where you registered your phone. So, if some poor resident from Qingdao has to go to Shanghai for two weeks to renew his passport, he’ll find his phone is practically useless because he can’t buy the correct cards and the only suggestion he gets from the staff in China fucking Mobile is “Make sure you have enough money on your phone for your time outside your city.” Well, guess what? I had plenty of money on my wax-covered telephone, but because you charge double for making or receiving any calls once you step one foot outside of your respective city, that money drains away like the happiness in my heart drained away when I first set foot in this country.
C: Your citizens don’t have telephones; they prefer to communicate via magic crystals and flying griffin couriers.

Question Two: How do your citizens pay their electricity bills?
A: Most people pay through direct debit accounts, though other options like paying by cheque or ready cash over the counter are also acceptable for elderly citizens.
B: Have a completely different system for every single city and town within your boundaries, so that there is never any way a mortal person could get too comfortable. In one certain city, implement a system where you can only pay by bankbook and refuse actual money even when it is waved beneath a teller’s nose. However, create the computer system so badly that it breaks down for about three months continuously, thus preventing anybody from paying their electricity bill even if they want to. Do absolutely nothing for three months to get the system back online, but continue to refuse customer’s ready cash and pleas for clemency. Hopefully this will result in a situation where somebody is unable to pay his bill for months, goes to Shanghai for two weeks to renew his passport, and comes back to find his power cut off. The fucking cunts.
C: The only electricity in your country is contained within a magical lamppost that shows the way to a gateway leading towards the World of Man.

Question Three: How do your people keep warm?
A: Radiators, central heating, warm insulation, double glazing, and cups of tea. Except for students, who prefer to do their coursework in launderettes and save the heating money for cans of cider and tobacco paper.
B: For starters, completely disregard everybody who lives in the south. Everybody knows that the south is warmer than the north, so why bother providing heating facilities anywhere, despite the fact that for the last 5000 years winters below the Yangtze have all dipped below zero. So when a poor guy is stuck on a friend’s floor in Shanghai for two weeks waiting for a new passport (and the reason why he is forced to stay on the floor is because you have a policy of not allowing people to check into hotels or fly back to their towns of residence while they might be temporarily without identification), he’ll be so cunting cold that his balls contract deep into his body and begin to poke out of his anus. And the north? Well, you’re not for one moment going to allow your citizens the freedom of controlling their own heating, so you decide when they can and cannot be warm. Except they won’t be warm anyway, because when your corrupt engineers come round to check the boilers, they deliberately don’t fix them properly so you have to call them round again and pay them more money. Is it any wonder why most people choose to walk around looking like the bastard son of the Michelin Man and the Pillsbury Dough Boy?
C: It has been difficult to keep warm since the wintry curse of the White Witch, but most beavers build fires from the wood they collect.

Question Four: What happens when a burglary occurs in your land?
A: The unfortunate victims would contact the police, and claim the losses from their insurance if they possessed any.
B: Encourage your inept police force to investigate the recent series of robberies, not by tracking down the criminals and bringing them to justice, but by sticking a notice up on the front door of every compound asking residents to report any foreigners who might be living in the area unregistered. Not only does this ensure local residents automatically connect the recent break-ins to any unlucky foreigners living in the vicinity, but it also ensures that any foreigners returning from a two-week passport application in Shanghai are greeted by screaming neighbours banging on their door and a pointless few hours down the police station whilst they check my documentation. Add to this the alarm when the police discover that the foreigner’s passport number has now changed, and you’ve got a fairly typical example of the needless and crippling bureaucratic nightmare which consists of so much of my life right now.
C: The beloved King Aslan would be asked to sacrifice himself for your sins on an ancient stone table.

Question Five: If one of your citizens is in a foreign country and needs a new passport, what do they do?
A: Spend more than two soul-destroying weeks shivering on a friend’s floor in Shanghai because the whole process does not take seven days like you advertised on your consulate’s website.
B: God only knows. Probably something involving agreeing to be anally buggered for thirty uninterrupted years and sacrificing your first born to a portrait of Karl Marx.
C: Passports are unnecessary because most travel is conducted through magical wardrobes and pictures of boats hanging in the bedrooms of upper-middle-class Victorian children.

How did you do?

Mostly A’s: You are the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. Your favourite colour is blue and you enjoy making model aircraft at the weekends. Basically, you’re not such a bad guy, though you could probably improve your image by nailing the popular tit-model Jordan to a wooden cross and sealing it within a coffin filled with broken glass.

Mostly B’s: You are the People’s Republic of China. Your favourite colour is student blood red and you enjoy sushi at weekends. In order to increase your economic development, it is strongly recommended that you vacuum seal anybody connected to the financial, communication, legal, medical and political professions into a 27 kilometre high nuclear dildo and fire it into the sun.

Mostly C’s: You are the magical land of Narnia. You don’t actually exist except in the head of a crusty Victorian academic from the late 1800s who was possibly gay.

Mostly D’s: You’re doing the wrong quiz mate. Either that or you’re Belgium.

Knocking one out in the Middle Kingdom

Knocking one out in the Middle Kingdom… and the aftermath
By ChouChou

Oh, hello there Reader (you’ll have to imagine that I’m sat behind a large oak desk and that I’m turning towards you as I put down my trusty pipe), I’m glad you came. You see, I’ve been asked by my dear fellow Sinocidal members to say a few words about my days as a writer in China. In the next few paragraphs I’m going to dazzle you with secret irony, disseminate essential information, let you in on a bit of the secrecy behind those draped media curtains, and even use two or three of Sinocidal’s Five Hardy Jokes. In short, you’re going to have a ruddy good time. Or are you? Or ARE you? OR ARE YOU? No, not really, no.

And if this all sounds a bit self-indulgent: you’re right. However, I’m contractually obliged to be dead by the end of this article, so indulge me.

A few years ago I used to work for Hangzhou’s premier English language toilet paper: In Touch Zhejiang. IT, as nobody affectionately referred to it, was a wonderful and worthy read; full of fascinating articles that didn’t scratch one’s arse too much as you wiped shit all over them. However, during the period that I worked for In Touch, the magazine committed many gross and unforgivable crimes and, quite frankly, resembled the NEFARIOUS HANDIWORK OF HE WHO WALKS BACKWARDS. “Why do you say that then?” asks Reader Stuart N Hardy of Yuhuan District, Taizhou. Well Stuart, it’s simple. That magazine was responsible for more than its fair share of errors and wrongs.

Now, I’m not talking about little errors which any of us could commit unintentionally – the slaughter of millions of Chinese during a Great Leap Forward, say – I’m talking about major crimes up there on the same level as Superman IV: The Quest for Peace. Grammatical errors, appalling examples of Chinglish in leading articles, any article containing sentences beginning with “In Chinese peoples’ eyes…” or “With a history of five thousand years…” And far too many pages devoted to luring naïve businessmen into investing x amount of dollars into y Special Economic Zone of z county. But hey! That’s all part of the fun when you work for a Sinister Evil Mega-National Organisation! As any fule kno.

To quell my unease over the rotten rubbish I had written during my sentence on my magazine, I decided to make sure that my last ever article was going to see me leaving the magazine with a bang. Here, for your viewing pleasure, is that article:

Knocking one out in the Middle Kingdom

I enjoy my job about as much as a paedophile loves the onset of puberty, so to spice things up I sometimes turn my phone off and disappear for a few days. Many of these days are solely spent leisuring in the gentlemanly fashion: partaking of the pleasures of one’s own company. Normally I reserve these 24 hand shandy drinking marathons for the weekend; Palm Sundays were created by God for his hardworking creation to enjoy a day of wrist, but uncontrollable needs brought the vinegar strokes on this Wednesday.

I went to nearby Penglai to visit a friend, and her being A) Chinese, and B) A girl, the evening meant back in the hotel room by 8.30 rather than haggling for Chivas with some spiky haired tosspot of a barman. 8.30? Good grief, what is a man supposed to do stuck in a remote hotel room at 8.30? Back home, Heartbeat would only just be starting. I could have rang the hotel’s “masseur” service, but quite frankly I’m much cheaper and I’ve probably given more handjobs than most of the girls employed at the Haidu Hotel (handjobs to myself I mean, of course).

It was then I found myself in a position (ha! position!) that I haven’t been forced into since the dark days of my first arrival in China. I had no whacking material. Back home, by various means, I have managed to gather quite a considerable amount of pornographic DVDs and magazines, from Golden Showers to Double Vaginal Double Anals. Hell, the only reason I bought a computer was so that I could go online and see “Dutch girls with big boobs must be punished”. Yet suddenly, here I was gland in hand in the middle of Communist China without a single Jazz Mag or internet connection to help me out. I tried to close my eyes and do a thinky wank of my girlfriend, but thinky wanks are never as good as looky wanks, are they? My only option was CCTV: at best there might be some kind of variety performance with ethnic minority girls in khaki miniskirts, but unfortunately no. All I could find were flabby men in crinkled white shirts talking about One Country Two Systems. Normally that would do the trick, but not tonight. Finally, I found the only image of a young woman within 37 stations: the newsreader on CCTV9. Trying my best to filter out the sound of her horrible robotic English I proceeded to tug away at my old man; but it was no use. The complete and utter bollocks coming out of her mouth, and her serious buttoned-up business shirt, were turning me more off than on. It was then I took the only available option. I pressed the mute button and held up my elbow just below her face so that the crack in my arm made it look like she had some cleavage. After three minutes of this shameless act of self abuse, I had shot millions of never-to-be-born babies onto the Andrex Runway already prepared on my lower belly, and was ready for a good night’s sleep.

Without a doubt, that was probably the worst, the most miserable wank I have ever done in my life. Although some other things which I wanked over during my first few days in China come pretty close:
An illustration of a lady on a shampoo bottle.
Trying to catch the 0.000000001 millisecond on a Chinese Oil of Ulay advert when the woman looks naked.
A CCTV documentary about the Zhuang minority women of Guangxi Province.
My own drawing of a naked woman.
Standing in front of the mirror naked with a pair of breasts drawn on my chest in black marker pen.

So readers, if there are any of you, what is the crappest thing YOU’VE ever masturbated over in China? The best answer will receive a roll of toilet paper and a signed photograph of the late Hattie Jacques.

Was the article well received? Did the fun-loving expat masses of Hangzhou write in and thank me for daring to write something other than vile propaganda in their English magazine? Can The Fonz jump the shark? The answer to the first two questions was a definite NO. Three hotels withdrew their advertising from the magazine immediately, the editor was given a final warning, and the In Touch mailbox received letters for the first time ever demanding that the “sociopath” who had written the offending article should never be allowed to write again (little did they know I was already 500 miles from Hangzhou and had no intention of ever working for the Chinese media ever again). Sure enough, the next issue saw a return to translated articles about strawberry picking in Yuyao and messages from the mayor of Quzhou welcoming foreign businessmen to invest in his city.

In my opinion, anything was better than the insipid and uncomfortable propaganda that In Touch repeatedly published, and I did try to make a valid and subtle point in my infamous article that something is deeply wrong in a country where it is easier to sleep with a prostitute than it is to masturbate. Perhaps I was wrong, I really don’t know. That’s why I want to hear the opinions of all Sinocidally minded folk out there, and hopefully hear them say that I was right.

Was it a harmless and flippant article that just wanted to give a government mouthpiece a kick up the arse, or was it (as one American woman wrote in and said) “a vile piece of filth written by somebody who clearly has mental problems”?

What do you think?

(And in a further twist of fate, The Fonz’s jet skis break at the critical moment, and his limp body is torn apart by sharks. Oh, the irony of it all.)

Happy Chinese New Year, Xi Dada

Best wishes to you, Mister Chairman, and to your lovely wife as well.