Big Dave Horne

I'm a grumpy retired designer & musician, I draw caricatures to amuse myself and relieve the asininity of life in the cooler.

[Big Dave Horne @HorneBig]

“A nation trying to tax itself into prosperity is like a man standing in a bucket trying to lift himself up by the handle” Winston Churchill.

Official figures show Britain’s economy shrank 0.1% in September and again in October.

We're on the brink of recession and Rayner thinks she can build 1.5 million houses, we can't but even if we could who could afford to buy one.

[Big Dave Horne @HorneBig]

"Cultural Heritage: Middle England"

Cultural heritage refers to the shared traditions, beliefs, practices, and physical artifacts passed down through generations, representing a community's history, identity, and values. It includes both tangible assets (monuments, artworks, buildings) and intangible elements (language, music, rituals) that are preserved for the future.

[Big Dave Horne @HorneBig]

"Blossom and Spire"

When winter’s grip releases field and hill,
And blossoms burst in pink against the blue,
A humble road winds onward, calm and still,
Toward the church that stands forever true.

No foreign storm can shake these ancient roots,
No fleeting fashion dim this sacred flame;
The spire points upward, calling home our youth
To values deep that bear our people’s name.

Simplicity in petal, path, and prayer—
Renewal blooms where faithful hearts abide.
We need no complex creeds or bold fanfare,
Just return to origins, with quiet pride
.
So let the cherry tree its glory spread,
And Western light shine golden overhead.

[Big Dave Horne @HorneBig]

"He is Risen"

On this golden shore, a humble donkey and gentle Easter bunny remind us that even the smallest and meekest can witness the greatest victory.

Christ has conquered death.
Darkness does not have the final word.

This Easter, let us stand firm in faith,
hold fast to His teachings,
and shine His light with courage against every opposition.

Because He lives, we live with hope and strength. Happy Easter — may the risen Lord renew your heart and steady your steps.

[Big Dave Horne @HorneBig]

https://t.co/AwlcXtvvFU

Aussie common sense

[Big Dave Horne @HorneBig]

I think you are bang on the button, I've just read Danny Kruger's book Covenant: The New Politics of Home, Neighbourhood and Nation in which he argues that modern society has gone wrong by focusing too much on individual freedom, personal choice, and "self-worship". This has broken down our connections to each other. Instead, he wants to rebuild society around a better way — a "covenant" (like a deep commitment between people), not just a cold "social contract" based on self-interest.

[Big Dave Horne @HorneBig]

"Phoenix Over the Ashes: Britain Reborn"

The molten red clock tower of Big Ben melts and crumbles—symbol of a nation gutted by Keir Starmer's creeping socialism/communism, time itself bleeding out under endless taxes, control, and decay.

Serpents of death and betrayal coil around the ruins, squeezing the last life from the old regime. But Death rides in on the pale horse—not to finish Britain off, but to oversee the end of the nightmare.

Above the storm and lightning, the golden Phoenix erupts in fury, wings ablaze, clutching the Union Jack in its talons—snatching Great Britain back from the brink of oblivion.

The failed experiment is burning. The ashes are fertile. Britain rises again—fiercer, freer, unbowed.

Let the old order die. Let the fire purify.

[Big Dave Horne @HorneBig]

@MCRobredz There's a long list of lies to be got through, without a doubt there really is, I was around and voting in the 1960s, Labour were bad then but nothing like this rabble is today.

[Big Dave Horne @HorneBig]

"The Crucifixion of the West: Return to the Thick Cross"

In the shadow of Nelson's Column and the transplanted torch of liberty, a diverse multitude stands before the crucified Christ—witness to the West's moral drift into narcissism, fragmentation, and self-worship. Woke multiculturalism promised cohesion but delivered isolation; only a return to thick Christianity can rebuild true community and purpose. Inspired by Danny Kruger's book 'Covenant' which warns against the 'new religion' of Marxism, paganism, and the theology of the self.

[Big Dave Horne @HorneBig]

@Glen_Maney Well Glen, he's snapped everything else he's touched, on reflection I'm being too kind with snapped, wrecked is more like it!

[Big Dave Horne @HorneBig]

UK Police & NSPCC data expose the truth: Snapchat dominates recorded online child sexual offences (up to 54% in recent breakdowns), followed by Instagram (11%), Facebook (7%), WhatsApp (~6-9%). X? Just 1-2% – among the lowest.

Yet Keir Starmer threatens to ban X over AI images, while ignoring the real high-risk platforms.
This isn't about protecting children. It's a personal vendetta to silence criticism and control free speech on the one platform that refuses to censor inconvenient truths

.Like Saint George slaying the dragon – Musk's X stands against the real threat: hypocritical censorship disguised as "safety."

If child protection were the goal, Snapchat would be the target. Instead, Starmer slays the messenger.

"What do you think—should the focus be on Snapchat where the real stats show the highest risk, or is this just about silencing X?"

If he succeeds against X who will be next?

[Big Dave Horne @HorneBig]

"Oooo!"

[Big Dave Horne @HorneBig]

"The Castle of the Mist-Wreathed Crown: The Oath of the Four Realms and the Wizards of the Distant Stars"

(A political allegory masquerading as a fairy story in the style of the Mabinogion which is based upon a 14th century manuscript known as 'Red book of Hergest'. The work is a collection of eleven tales of early Welsh literature and draws upon the mystical word of the Celtic people intertwining myths, folklore, tradition and history.)

Here we go:

In the shadowed vales of Eryri, where the peaks of Snowdonia rise like the spines of slumbering dragons and the rivers murmur ancient oaths, there stood a castle forged in the dreams of a king whose heart beat with the unyielding pulse of his forebears. This was the realm of the true sovereigns of the isle, whose blood carried the songs of the Mabinogi—tales of heroes, enchantments, and unbreakable bonds. Yet in this age of shadowed strife, the king’s spirit dwelt in the land itself, in the four corners of the realm: the rugged mountains of Wales, the emerald isle of Ireland, the wild highlands of Scotland, and the broad heartlands of England. These four were bound by blood and history, yet torn asunder by the creeping malice from the southern citadel.

The enemy wore the guise of Sir Starmerlot, false knight of the Laborival host, and the globalist lords who whispered in his ear—Blairwain the Elder, once a prince of shadowed councils, and the merchant-sorcerer Gwilym Gates whose golden webs sought to ensnare all. They had stolen the dragon's ancient right to rule, plundering the wealth of the people, sowing division among the four realms, and grinding prosperity into dust beneath decrees of iron and gold.

The king—whose name was the cry of the red dragon—could not stand alone. His love was for a maiden fierce and fair, Branwen of the storm-winds, whose eyes held the fury of the sea and whose spirit was the untamed soul of the isles. Yet greater still was his devotion to the four corners, to unite Wales, Ireland, Scotland, and England once more beneath the banner of liberty, to rise and drive the usurpers from the halls of power.

From realms beyond the western ocean, where the stars dance in strange constellations, came two wizards of great renown. The first, Elon of the Iron Steeds, cast threads of light across the heavens—Starlink spells that bound distant voices in unbreakable counsel, illuminating hidden paths and rallying the scattered faithful. The second, Trump of the Golden Towers, wielded the thunder of persuasion, his words bending kings and parliaments, imposing mighty sanctions and trade barriers upon the foe—chains forged in the fires of diplomacy, aimed at restoring balance and peace to the world.

These wizards bore pouches of dread magic dust, nuclear flames potent enough to unmake mountains, yet sworn never to be loosed—silent guardians whose very threat warded the land from utter ruin. With intellect keen as the blade of Caledfwlch, they advised the king in mist-shrouded councils. Through celestial webs they whispered strategies to the four corners; through iron words they enforced walls against the southern tide; through unyielding resolve they turned despair into defiance.

Thus did the dragon awaken. The four realms, long divided, began to stir—Wales with its mountain songs, Ireland with its ancient fire, Scotland with its unbowed spirit, England with its deep-rooted strength. The usurpers faltered, their grasp broken by the combined might of persuasion, connection, and quiet, terrible promise. The southern shadows retreated, and peace descended upon the isle like a gentle mist after storm, nourishing the land for a hundred years of renewal and song.

Yet the wheel of fate turns ever onward. Branwen stood faithful beside the vision of her lord, her love a beacon amid the towers wreathed in fog. The tales of the Mabinogion remind us that such victories are but pauses between tempests, and the shadows may yet return to test the resolve of the four realms once more.

[Big Dave Horne @HorneBig]

@Jacquitwitroger Thanks Jacqui, glad you lke it.

[Big Dave Horne @HorneBig]

"The Watchers on the Branch"

Beneath the ancient oak, the owl and the fox sit shoulder to shoulder.
One with eyes that pierce the longest night, the other with teeth that smile at threats.
Far across the frost-kissed river the old city glitters, all spires and trembling lights —
a small, angry lantern trying to shout down the stars.
They do not hurry.
They do not raise their voices.
They simply wait,
knowing that some silences are louder than any law,
and that certain freedoms, once tasted, refuse to be caged again.

[Big Dave Horne @HorneBig]

"The Ugly Sisters' Economic Wonderland"

"Oh yes they can! Keir Starmer and Rachel Reeves, in full pantomime glory as the White Queen and her glamorous sister, proudly declare: 'Why, sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast'—mainly that growth comes from higher taxes, borrowing fixes debt, and the British economy runs on fairy dust. He's behind you... heading straight for the looking-glass!"

[Big Dave Horne @HorneBig]

"Puffed Perch in Pear's Absurdity"

In the frost-kissed fields of existential toil, the grey partridge—Perdix perdix—dwells upon the earth, a creature of coveys and clandestine forages. Ground-bound, non-migratory sentinel of open grasslands, it scratches sustenance from the soil's sparse offerings, a mosaic of seeds and shoots that whisper of survival's fragile pact. Amid agricultural sprawl, it huddles in social knots, feathers fluffed against the wind's indifferent bite, embodying the quiet rhythm of being without question.

Yet come December's crystalline veil, a radical awakening stirs within its plump frame. The partridge confronts the void: life's inherent silence, devoid of scripted essence. In this barren revelation, it seizes freedom's fierce mantle—responsibility unbound, a courageous forge of self-made meaning through deliberate flight from conformity's cage. No longer slave to pre-ordained roles or societal snares, it chooses authenticity, ascending beyond the ground's grasp.

Up it climbs, overweight and overindulged, a parody of humanity's own bloated excess, into the pear tree's dripping boughs. Pears hang like golden temptations, melting in winter's grip, mirroring the west's waning bounty—habitats eroded, feasts diminished, a slow starve beneath abundance's facade. Here, in momentary relief, the bird perches, puffed and defiant, crafting purpose from the branches' embrace.

But alas, the absurdity unfolds: ensnared in festive folly, it becomes the gift to a "true love," the first day's token in a carol's cruel jest. The Twelve Days mock its ascent, confirming the Cosmos's caprice—meaning is but a fleeting illusion, sustained only by unyielding belief. The partridge, in its puffed repose before the climb, teaches us this: in the snow-draped nest of indulgence, we teeter on the edge of the tree, where freedom's leap may land us wrapped in ribbon, a parable of our own existential jest.