Gun Culture

Monday, July 30, 2007

Phil Drabble RIP

Just heard the sad news that countryman, author and one time TV presenter died at the weekend.

I remember his commentary on One Man and His Dog was classic countryman, much as I like Robin Page it was never the same after Phil had left.  It seems he was quite the author, although I only ever read “No Badgers in My Wood” as a nipper.

Git some!

A mortar team from the 1st Royal Anglian Battlegroup fire 81mm mortars at Taliban positions after a nightime rocket attack against their base on July 7th, 2007 in Kajaki, Helmand Province, Afghanistan

This incredible picture is just one of a number of superb images taken by Jason P Howe and on display at World Picture News.

I feel we see little in the MSM about what the boys and gals are going through out in Afghanistan, despite a high rate of casualty and ferocious rate of contact.  Could it be that the MSM don’t really give a shit?  Or is it worse and a whole load of us don’t give a shit either?
For an example of how little our war heroes are regarded we only need to take a lookee see at the attempt to give our wounded’s family a place to stay near their loved ones in their hour of need - 36 Grays Lane Ashtead.  A large number of residents seem to be objecting to this for some bizarre and fatuous reasons.

Monday, July 23, 2007

Game Fair Cancelled

Bugger. It was very much on the cards following the non-stop pissing down but still bad news.  There was a very high chance I wasn’t going to make it anyway but there’ll be a lot of people out of pocket following this.

Thursday, July 19, 2007

James Says Hello

Well he doesn’t obviously but never mind!

He’s got more hair than me, bloody hippy.
Unfortunately he is at press still in the hospital due to a wee bit of jaundice and a possible infection.  Hope to have them both home by the end of the week.

Wednesday, July 18, 2007

New Arrival

Mr & Mrs Gunculture are pleased to announce the arrival of our first born.
James Henry was sucked out of his comfy home at 7:30pm on the 17th July and hasn’t stopped complaining since.
Pictures to follow once they come home.

Monday, July 16, 2007

ACPO wants open ended internment

Generally when I hear that ACPO has asked for something, I think it is a fair bet it will be bad news for freedom.
So when I saw a representative of ACPO on Sky News talking about what a mistake it was to specify a number of days for internment detention without charge, I knew what he really meant was he wanted unlimited detention.

‘We should never have got involved in the 90-day debate. In hindsight, we should have said that we needed an extraordinary mechanism to give us the ability to investigate these complex cases under judicial supervision,

Ah, here we go.

Ken Jones, the president of Acpo, told The Observer that in some cases there was a need to hold terrorist suspects without charge for ‘as long as it takes’.

Of course this would only ever be used in the case of terror suspects wouldn’t it?
Just like these cases:
On 22 March 2003, the police used surprisingly extreme tactics to prevent more than 120 activists from reaching a legally sanctioned anti-war demonstration in Fairford, (Gloucestershire, UK).
Terrorist Act used to detain 82 year old heckler at Labour Part Conference

Friday, July 13, 2007

Southern Fried Bunny

Been meaning to attempt southern fired bunny for a while now.  First catch your rabbit Mrs Beaton says.  No problem as I have several in the freezer courtesy of Messers CZ and Winchester.  So to joint the bunny.  Nothing worth having on the ribcage so it’s saddle and legs only.

Now to apply the coating.  Since Colonel Saunders wasn’t willing to share his special blend I just had some cayenne pepper, paprika, ground balck pepper and flour.

Then fry!  Since it was likely to be a messy business and to avoid stinking the house out with the smell of frying I did the job al fresco with a camping stove.

Southern Fried Bunny.  Done.
No doubt you can tell from the lack of rain that it is more than a couple of weeks since this gastronomical extravaganza…
I clearly should have finished this off with a picture of the finished product but I was too busy eating it.  Sorry.
The results?  OK, but lacking a certain something.  Possibly the addition of a binder (egg or milk perhaps) would help and maybe some more fire in the coating too.
Certainly I’ll be trying again as soon as the bloody weather clears up.

Thursday, July 12, 2007

Conservatives “half right”

"Conservatives half right, half wrong” says Libertarian Alliance Director Sean Gabb.

“They are right when they admit that fifty years of social engineering by Conservative and Labour Governments have been a miserable failure. We have been taxed. We have been subsidised. We have been regulated. We have been endlessly preached at. And, after two generations of all this, we have, as a nation, been made neither happier nor more virtuous. There is more illegitimacy, more divorce, more drunkenness, more crime.

“But the Conservatives are wrong when they believe that the harms of social engineering can be cured by different social engineering”

This seems to sum up the present incarnation of the Conservative Party, and indeed the whole political mainstream in the UK.  Social engineering is accepted as a ‘Good Thing’ by all three parties and most of the media.  Is it any wonder that people can’t be arsed voting when presented with this Hobson’s Choice?

MP = Local Councillor With Bigger Expenses Tab?

Looking at the UKIP candidate for Sedgefield’s web diary, the candidate has noticed something I spotted in the last election.  Elections for MPs tend to revolve around issues that MP’s can have no influence on whatsoever.  An MP is supposed to represent the interests of his constituent in Parliament.  That’s all.  However it seems that these days he/she is a glorified social worker or councillor (except they don’t have a vote in council!).  Toby Horton notes that the main issue seems to be about some local shopping centre, no doubt that this important to people but bloody hell!  The biggest issue concerning people?  Not the ongoing body count in the sandbox, not even the latest terrorist activity, not the further encroachment of EU primacy.  No.  A shopping centre over which the succesful candidate can likely do nothing but blow hot air.  No change for a politician I suppose.

BASC

I want to extend my thanks to the BASC Firearms team and specifically Mike Eveleigh.
Whilst it still remains to be seen whether my certificates will be renewed, it is great to have someone like Mike who knows his onions on your side to turn to for advice.
I have been (and remain) highly critical of BASC for pushing things like bag limits and shooting tests, there is no doubt that having the Firearms advice line is worth your subscription alone.
Thanks chaps.

Friday, July 06, 2007

Thanks For Your Support

I’m overwhelmed by the level of support from around the blogosphere over my little local difficulties.
Hopefully it’ll all prove to be a fuss over very little and my renewal will be winging it’s way to me very soon, but to me having uniforms turn up at the door is something that happens to other people.  A Big Deal.  As I’ve said, the guys were courteous and polite but having two blokes decked out like some kind of (and I hate to use the metaphor, or is it a similie) stormtrooper in your front room giving you the third degree is a bit unsettling.  Especially when, like me, you consider yourself to be the most law abiding bloke in Christendom.  Firearms law seems to a bloody minefield, this was particularly brought home to me when discussing the fact I have my expanding ammo lodged at an RFD as my ticket has expired.  The firearms department didn’t seem to be aware that Section 5 ammunition wasn’t covered by the Section 7 Permit to Posess, if they didn’t know then what chance does your average Joe have?  OK they say that provided you have got your renewal in and have paid up etc that you won’t get prosecuted but who wants to take the risk?  Not me that’s for sure.
Thanks once more to all my friends old and new across the globe for your messages of support both in the comments section and via email.

The Crispy Jihadist

Via ARSSE, but originally Iowahawk

A small piece by the Crispy JIHADIST
Ever have “one of those days?” Sure, all of us go through the occasional rough patch, but I swear there are times when I think Allah must really have it in for me. I mean, I know the “Big Guy” is supposed to have a sense of humour, but do I always have to be the punch line?

Take for example this last week. A few mates and I had been planning a big martyrdom weekend for quite a while; it’s something we first began discussing a few years ago in medical school back in Amman. We were sitting around the dorm eating pizza, cramming for a big anatomy final, when Ali said “you know, after graduation, we should get together for something really big.” We talked about a fishing trip to Canada or something, but most of the guys thought that sounded pretty boring. Abdul suggested a golf weekend in Cancun, but the all-inclusive there can get pretty pricey in-season. Hassan (who’s really into motorcycles) suggested renting Harleys and going to Sturgis for the Biker Rally, but we heard that crowd can get pretty rowdy.

Anyhoo, Achmed finally says, “how about packing cars with explosives and killing hundreds of random infidels in a coordinated series of gigantic fireballs?” And we’re like, *’ A! Not only would it be an awesome bonding experience (with plenty of Paradise poontang, LOL), we would be doing a valuable community service. Okay, so we high-fived and made a solemn promise that we’d target two years after graduation for the big weekend prank blowout.

I know how it usually goes with these kinds of fraternity things; what with starting up a medical practice, honour killing obligations, and starting a family, it’s easy to lose touch with the old school buddies. But this thing—our thing—was serious, you know? Thanks to email we were able to keep in touch and keep the plan going. As luck would have it, we all won Achmedinijad scholarships to do our residencies in England for the National Health Service. We got our families together most every weekend for backyard cookouts and self-flagellation and TV football matches. Afterwards me and the other guys would slip out to the garage for cigars, and to pack shrapnel.

So okay, the big weekend arrives, and the guys come over to my place bright and early, everybody’s jazzed about rolling up some kufr carnage. All the propane tanks and propellant and nail canisters are ready to go. I look at Ali and say, “okay mate, back up your car to the garage and I’ll start loading it up.” He gets this dumbstruck look on his face and says, “my car? I thought Hassan was going to do the martyrdom.” And then Hassan does a massive spit-take with his tea, and he’s like, “whoa dude, I rigged the cell phones, I didn’t agree to blow up. I thought Mohammed was going to do the blowing up.” Then Mohammed’s like, “don’t look at me, pal, I thought I was just providing the spiritual guidance. Plus my car’s in the shop for transmission work.” From there it just descended into this big shouting match. Holy frickin’ prophet, two years of planning this prank and now everybody wants to pussy out on the actual martyrdom.

Long story short, we decided to draw straws. And guess who wins? Yep, yours truly, good old sucker Khalid, the same guy with a pile of charge card receipts for petrol and propane and hardware. The same guy who ended up having to host two thirds of the martyrdom planning parties at HIS house, because his good old college “pals” always have some convenient excuse about “kitchen remodeling” or “MI6 surveillance,” and never lift a finger to help clean up the empty bottles or paper plates or the C5 mess. Well, you know what they say: no good deed goes unpunished. Then the other short straw get pulled by Bilal, and I’m like, oh, great. Now I’ll be banging some celestial virgin with that * looking over my shoulder.

So, I’m like, “okay, who’s donating the cars?” And these dicks just look around at each other, and ANOTHER big argument breaks out, because “I still have 28 payments left,” or “it’s due for a tyre rotation,” or some other lame excuse. So we draw straws again to pick the explosion cars, and guess who wins? Yup, my Benz, the same * car I just paid £129.95 to have detailed. So I go to the house and tell my wife Jumanah about the whole deal, and here it comes—The Look. complete with the whole exasperated eye roll and head shake. I swear, if her dad wasn’t my uncle, I’d be tempted to smack that irritating sneer right off her face. So she’s like, “fine, go have your fun with your lazy jihad buddies and your 72 virgins. Just leave me the keys to the Jeep so I can get groceries.”

After that, I guess I was pretty much ready to get it over with. I called up the office and had them cancel the rest of my patient appointments for the day and drove the Benz to London, which incidentally cost me another £40 for gas and tolls. When I got to Picadilly and parked in front of the nightclub and called Achmed on my cell to let ‘er rip. Nothing. I sat there waiting 3 minutes waiting for the cell phone detonator to go off, nothing. I saw a cop walking toward the Benz, so I hopped out and started booking it and almost got run over by a double decker. I got on the Tube, thinking I was safe, but then all the stupid racist kufrs started giving me the stinkeye because apparently they’re freaked by panting Arabs smelling of gasoline. I got out in Ealing and went to the mosque where the other guys were supposed to be, and they’re all standing around like a bunch of sheepish idiots. So I’m like, “? What happened with the detonation?”

Get this: Mohammed, whose only job it was to call in a simple * detonation code, switched his cell carrier to get the new iPhone and forgot to transfer his goddamn detonation contact list. So I’m like, “how about Bilal? Did he explode? Please tell me exploded.” The dopey expressions around the room told me otherwise. Faaaack. Now there’s NO dead infidels, NO horny virgins, and I’m out one leased Mercedes with a £12,000 balloon payment.

So I go, “here’s the deal guys. I just put my ass on the martyrdom line, and it was Allah’s will that it didn’t happen. So why don’t we just call it good, and try again in another two years.” Crissakes, you would have thought I just took a dump in their falafel. They started talking about “Ummah Pride,” and “giving it all for ol’ Central Jordan U..”

So I said fine, let’s draw straws again. Because, hey, what are the odds of me pulling martyrdom duty twice in a row? Guess I should have been a stat major, because there I was holding the short stick again. When Bilal pulled the other short stick, I just went ahead and volunteered my Jeep because I figured the way this day was going it was gonna get blown up one way or the other.

When Bilal and I got back to my house Jumanah had just gotten back from Tesco and was unloading groceries. “I thought you were supposed to be in Paradise by now,” she said, in that stupid irritating voice. “Change of plans,” I said. “We need to head up to Glasgow to blow up the airport.”

Here it came again. The Look.

“Um, and we need to use the Jeep.”

The Look X 2.

“And our faces are all over the TV, so we need you to drive us.”

I won’t even bother trying to describe her face at that point. We loaded up the rest of the explosive canisters in the back of the Jeep and headed north on the M1 in the middle of the out-of-town holiday rush traffic. Jumanah pretty much seethed the entire way, complaining about the traffic and the gasoline fumes. Needless to say when we finally got to Glasgow and dropped her off at a roadside cafe, I was pretty much geared up for the sweet release of death.

Okay, so Bilal and I get psyched up, check all the equipment to make sure it’s ready for a big boom, point the Jeep at the terminal, and mash the throttle. I’m shouting “Allahu Akbar,” and Bilal’s shouting “Allahu Akbar” and “Go Martyrs” just like the old pep squad days at CJU. And I’m thinking, “oil up them virgins Allah, ‘cause Dr. K’s luck is about to change.” BAAAAM! Right into the glass.

I was probably out for a two, three seconds. Bilal and I peeled our broken noses out of the airbags, which meant we were still alive, which meant the goddamn canisters didn’t explode, again. Maybe we went through into the terminal and killed some infidels, I thought, then I saw we hadn’t made it in more than a couple inches into the terminal. I mean, ? The Jeep salesman kept going on about how the Jeep was this awesome unstoppable American SUV that crusader cowboys use to bulldoze their way through mountain forests, with an easy payment plan, and the damn thing can’t make it through a bloody plate glass window. I restart the engine and now the piece of s* just sits there spinning the tyres. “All wheel traction,” my arse.

Okay, plan B. Bilal and I start pushing backup detonation buttons and cell codes. A couple of pops, but they were all duds. Then I see the cops coming at me.

As Allah is my witness, I really can’t explain what happened next; maybe it was stress, or confusion, or frustration. Whatever the reason, I decided it was a reasonable idea at that point to pour a can of petrol over my head and hit the Bic.

Here’s a handy health tip from Doctor K: if you ever get a wild urge to start yourself on fire, sit down and relax until it goes away. Because (A) it’s not a particularly useful method for killing infidels, and (B) it. hurts. like. a. motherer. So much that I almost enjoyed the distraction those high-pressure water canons and getting my lights punched out by that crazy mumble-mouthed Scottish baggage handler.

By the way, did I mention I also started the Jeep on fire? Only 37 more payments of £438 to go.

After that, I really didn’t mind getting bludgeoned by those angry bagpipers. The sound was horrible, but at least they got the rest of the flames out. I was almost relieved when the cops were cuffing me face down on the pavement, because by that point I was pretty much reconsidering this whole college martyrdom pledge prank thing and I figured the worst was over.

No such luck. Here’s another handy health tip from Doctor K: if your skin is half melted and bubbly hot, avoid laying down on any surfaces that aren’t Teflon coated. And please note: the Glasgow sidewalks aren’t.

After a half hour with a spatula and ten cans of Pam, the cops finally got 95% or so of me peeled off the sidewalk. I looked down at my legs and realized that I’ll be saving a lot of money on clothes from now on, because I’m sporting a permanent pair of melted-on black polyester trousers.

And then the kicker: I looked down at my package and noticed “Little Khalid” was AWOL. As they were loading me into the police wagon I glanced back over my shoulder and saw what was left of him charbroiling on the sidewalk. Then one of the bomb sniffing dogs gobbled him down like a sausage. A fat lot of good those 72 virgin are going to me now.

Final box score: I’m out one Mercedes, one Jeep, £2000 in miscellaneous bomb materials, three layers of skin, and one very low-mileage penis. Infidels killed: nil. So the next time you want to bitch to me about how bad your day is going, don’t expect a lot of sympathy.

Well, gotta go. The interrogators are coming, and afterwards I’ve got an appointment to have my arse skin grafted on to my face. But I will leave you with one more handy tip from Doctor K: no matter how many virgins they promise, don’t ever join a fraternity.

Thursday, July 05, 2007

The Secret People

I’m not normally a fan of prose or poetry, however I think this deserves an airing.

The Secret People

Smile at us, pay us, pass us; but do not quite forget,
For we are the people of England, that never has spoken yet.
There is many a fat farmer that drinks less cheerfully,
There is many a free French peasant who is richer and sadder than we.
There are no folk in the whole world so helpless or so wise.
There is hunger in our bellies, there is laughter in our eyes;
You laugh at us and love us, both mugs and eyes are wet:
Only you do not know us. For we have not spoken yet.

The fine French kings came over in a flutter of flags and dames.
We liked their smiles and battles, but we never could say their names.
The blood ran red to Bosworth and the high French lords went down;
There was naught but a naked people under a naked crown.
And the eyes of the King’s Servants turned terribly every way,
And the gold of the King’s Servants rose higher every day.
They burnt the homes of the shaven men, that had been quaint and kind,
Till there was no bed in a monk’s house, nor food that man could find.
The inns of God where no man paid, that were the wall of the weak,
The King’s Servants ate them all. And still we did not speak.

And the face of the King’s Servants grew greater than the King:
He tricked them, and they trapped him, and stood round him in a ring.
The new grave lords closed round him, that had eaten the abbey’s fruits,
And the men of the new religion, with their Bibles in their boots,
We saw their shoulders moving, to menace or discuss,
And some were pure and some were vile; but none took heed of us.
We saw the King as they killed him, and his face was proud and pale;
And a few men talked of freedom, while England talked of ale.

A war that we understood not came over the world and woke
Americans, Frenchmen, Irish; but we knew not the things they spoke.
They talked about rights and nature and peace and the people’s reign:
And the squires, our masters, bade us fight; and never scorned us again.
Weak if we be for ever, could none condemn us then;
Men called us serfs and drudges; men knew that we were men.
In foam and flame at Trafalgar, on Albuera plains,
We did and died like lions, to keep ourselves in chains,
We lay in living ruins; firing and fearing not
The strange fierce face of the Frenchman who knew for what he fought,
And the man who seemed to be more than man we strained against and broke;
And we broke our own rights with him. And still we never spoke.

Our path of glory ended; we never heard guns again.
But the squire seemed struck in the saddle; he was foolish, as if in pain.
He leaned on a staggering lawyer, he clutched a cringing Jew,
He was stricken; it may be, after all, he was stricken at Waterloo.
Or perhaps the shades of the shaven men, whose spoil is in his house,
Come back in shining shapes at last to spoil his last carouse:
We only know the last sad squires ride slowly towards the sea,
And a new people takes the land: and still it is not we.

They have given us into the hands of the new unhappy lords,
Lords without anger and honour, who dare not carry their swords.
They fight by shuffling papers; they have bright dead alien eyes;
They look at our labour and laughter as a tired man looks at flies.
And the load of their loveless pity is worse than the ancient wrongs,
Their doors are shut in the evenings; and they know no songs.

We hear men speaking for us of new laws strong and sweet,
Yet is there no man speaketh as we speak in the street.
It may be we shall rise the last as Frenchmen rose the first,
Our wrath come after Russia’s wrath and our wrath be the worst.
It may be we are meant to mark with our riot and our rest
God’s scorn for all men governing. It may be beer is best.
But we are the people of England; and we have not spoken yet.
Smile at us, pay us, pass us. But do not quite forget.

G.K. CHESTERTON

I’ll not hat tip the person who brought it to my attention just in case we get accused of inciting insurrection or somesuch crazyness, but he knows who his is!
Given that Chesterton died in the 30s, I wonder what he would make of the oppression of the English people in the late 20th Century and early 21st Century?  Liberties Chesterton took for granted have been swept away with nary a whisper.

Horse & Country TV

Got Sky?
Then have a look at channel 295, the newly launched Horse & Country TV.
As you might guess from the order of the wording, there seems to be much more Horse than Country for my liking, but it seems to be the closest thing you’ll get to a realistic representation of the countryside.  Lately I saw a farming programme that actually was about farming rather than the bullshit lifestyle programme that Countrybile has morphed into, one of the Dimblebies is presenting giving it more weight than the feckless twonk Craven.  Apparently there is to be proper sheepdog trialling programmes too with nary a Tim Nice But Dim in sight.
Hopefully we will also see some realistic representation of shooting in the future too, given that one of the images in their logo is of a flying pheasant I have high hopes.

Terror Doctors

Amongst the talk about the failed car bombings recently is an almost incredulous response to the news that the bombers were doctors or med students.  The thought that those charged with preserving life were prepared to take life on a huge scale seems difficult for people to comprehend.
A wee reminder.

This one doctor killed more people than all the gun owners put together in the 20th Century in Britain.