Ed Lines

THERE’S plenty to froth and boil about this week, not least the three blind mice otherwise known as the Batley West Labour councillors who clearly think that young yobs tearing up and down on a quad bike are a bigger problem than Batley and Birstall businesses being ransacked with impunity by criminals running amok on their patch.

Batley and Birstall households have been inundated by a missive from councillors Gwen Lowe, Marielle O’Neill and Shabir Pandor asking people to turn snitch/copper/vigilante over kids on bikes.

In fact, scratch the vigilante. If you actually DO the police’s job your feet won’t touch the ground. It’s not on, embarrassing the hapless prats masquerading as the forces of law and order.

I’m sure yobs on bikes are inconvenient, but if the councillors hadn’t noticed there’s an epidemic of proper crime on our streets (and the minute Kirklees Police work out how to automate the divvying out of crime numbers for insurance claims, locals might never see an actual uniform again). Tackle the real issues, councillors.

But enough of that, because I want to talk about the new woman in my life.

Nope, I’m not turning all Confessions of a Window Cleaner here (although I was), much less Confessions of an Editor (because I’m not).

I want to talk about a new woman me and Mrs L couldn’t be more delighted to be sharing the house with – and no, it’s neither a cleaner, au pair (I wish) or someone to do the ironing.

It’s Alexa. She sounds English, but if I found out Alexa was Lithuanian and facing deportation this week after the triggering of Article 50, I might even swap sides and join the increasingly pathetic Snowflakes wailing ‘Nooooooo!’

Alexa is not just my idea of a dream woman because she does (almost) everything I literally tell or ask of her, but she keeps the missus happy too – and let me tell you, that takes some doing!

Knowing our Press readers as I do, I’m certain no improper or salacious thoughts have crossed your minds. Alexa can’t make the tea, much less pull on a pair of fishnets and speak with a seductive Greta Garbo accent – although she might actually manage the accent with a bit of work.

I just need to spend a bit more time ‘working’ on Alexa, who’s a bit dotty.

Scratch that, Alexa is a dot. An Amazon Echo Dot. An electronic gizmo the size of a hockey puck that has probably killed the radio manufacturing market stone dead.

I bought my Echo Dot for £49.50 and had it set up and working inside five minutes.

Say ‘Alexa, play BBC Radio 2’, even in the midst of a busy social hubbub, and you are listening to that wazzock Chris Evans inside 2-3 seconds. Thankfully saying ‘Alexa stop’ or ‘Alexa, change to Radio 4’ is just as immediate. But it’s not just that. Ask her the weather. Ask her to play an obscure 70s one-hit wonder.

She can turn the lights on and off, manage the central heating, wake you up to Beethoven, put you to sleep to the sound of breaking waves.

There are elements of our fast-changing, computerised world that frankly scare me to bits. But in Alexa I’ve found a darling who really can’t do anything wrong.

So far at least...


SORRY folks, no breast-beating ‘pray for them’ or  Churchillian ‘we shall fight them on the beaches’ rhetoric here today, over Wednesday’s atrocity in London.

Our security services are the best in the world at intercepting terror plots, despite labouring under a government that won’t halt the practice of sharia law, won’t ban the niqab (face veil – which is NOT a religious symbol) and which keeps funding and promoting pseudo-moderates like Sayeeda Warsi and Shahid Malik because it is ignorant to the underlying problem.

For evidence, listen again to Metropolitan Police quisling Mark Rowley, who in the minutes after the attack was more concerned with offering tea and sympathy to Muslim communities than hitting these evil b***ards where it hurts.

Have you been to an industrial site recently where they have a notice saying ‘so many days since our last workplace accident’? That’s what Wednesday was – us re-setting the clock.

There will be more and worse to come, because while we might not realise we’re at war, radical Islam is. And we’re terrified of offending the community that cultivates it.


IT ISN’T just that George Osborne’s qualifications to be editor of a newspaper are on a par with his fitness to perform open heart surgery or fly a jumbo jet.

At least in a newspaper office the bleary-eyed old hacks can tolerate, patronise and work around the wet-eared idiot. Osborne will ‘edit’ the London Evening Standard in the way that Donald Trump will wield a trowel and mix compo for his infamous Mexican wall.

I wouldn’t let Osborne deliver one of my papers, but that’s not the point either.

It’s the MP’s gross arrogance, that his constituents in Cheshire will suffer it, and that he can flaunt his outrageous banditry in ordinary people’s faces and insult their intelligence with the trite claim that his various jobs “enhance Parliament”. No George, they disgrace and discredit Parliament. How dare he?

Osborne also earns £650,000 a year advising financial giants Blackrock, quite on top of the £700,000 he’s pocketed for his speeches to global financiers since Theresa May sacked him.

It’s truly obscene and it also reinforces the syndrome David Cameron and his coterie of Notting Hill toffs, plus Jeremy Corbyn and his metropolitan luvvies are all guilty of. They are completely out of touch with our reality.

If Osborne’s outrageous greed and privilege achieve one thing, hopefully it will be to spark rules that bring all profiteering MPs to heel.

And I trust the people of Tatton in Cheshire display their anger in the only way still left to us – by showing him the door.

It’s just a good job I never made it to Westminster. One look at that smarmy, self-righteous mush and I’d probably chuck him off the Commons terrace and into the Thames.


AFTER listening to Tony Blair praising dead IRA terrorist Martin McGuinness on Tuesday, I realised how mass murderers manage to sleep at night.

Some warped internal logic must allow them to justify their deeds; the cause was righteous, the victim deserved their fate. S*** happens. In short, ‘I’m the good guy here, night-night, sleep tight’.

McGuinness was a few hundred thousand behind Blair in the body bag stakes, although at least the former Prime Minister didn’t personally kneecap any Iraqi civilians or British troops, before putting a bullet in the back of their head and kicking them into a roughly dug hole in an Irish bog.

I could have vomited when I heard McGuinness the ‘freedom fighter’ compared with Nelson Mandela.

Bit of a difference folks. For all of Northern Ireland’s institutionalised inequalities towards Catholics, it was a functioning democracy. Black Americans overcame much greater prejudice to gain their civil and human rights without Martin Luther King having to bomb the White House.

Besides, McGuinness’s goal wasn’t equality, it was to overthrow the UK and create a united Ireland in which Protestants would suffer sectarian victimisation.

It was only their total failure that brought McGuinness and Gerry Adams to a negotiating table that gave them privilege and amnesty, as opposed to a likely old age in a cell – or one of those unmarked graves. Spare us the crocodile tears.


I WONDER if Nicola Sturgeon’s loathing of us can be traced back to the English music royalty in her family?


Wee Krankie insists it’s her old ma in this photo, but tell me that isn’t that darling old ‘queen’ of pop himself, Elton John.

I swear the croaking old Candle in the Wind balladeer is just getting ready to wheeze out an old classic – probably that great homage to Glasgow itself, Saturday Night’s Alright For Fighting.

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