Author: Dave Franklin

Back in Dear Old Blighty in 87 when I was a cherubic-faced schoolboy half-mesmerized by Tracey Sharpe’s swaying pigtails, a jobless loner in a nearby market town killed his mum, burned their house down and strolled around with an arsenal of high-powered weaponry slaughtering whoever he could find. Ho hum. Guess we all have days…

Toxic masculinity. It’s a term bandied around by Nancy-boy progressives designed to make pumped-up, no-nonsense guys think twice about their actions. Bollocks, I say. What’s wrong with piling into a battered Ford with your mullet-headed mates and screeching round corners at breakneck speed while yelling abuse at passersby? Are you seriously saying I don’t have…