Wednesday, 23 April 2014


 Former prime minister Tony Murder.

 I wanna see blood, guts, things hanging in my teeth, burned babies, tortured children;  I wanna see marines gangbanging dusky begging-for-it teenagers, skoolzanozpitals bombed and burning; I wanna see raghead fathers carrying their dead brats in their arms, I love that shit.
 I have only one priority, 
Annihilation, Annihilation, Anihilation.

 The case for capital punishment was re-awakened today by the appearance in public of war envoy, Tony Blair, an employee of GlobaDeath Corp.  Speaking at a fundraiser for himself and his vulgar trollop, Imelda,

 Tony and Imelda jeer at Decency.

the mass murderer said, Look, I simply say that we have to attack the ragheads or I'm out of a job.  Surely we can all agree about this.

I'm a pretty, straight guy, even though they called me Miranda in chambers when I was pretending to be a lawyer, so, Look, all I would say is, Would I lie to you?
 That'll be a hundred thousand pounds, please; 
no, no, we don't do receipts, had you forgotten? 

A prominent British organised crime family poses for the cameras. 

I think the entire country, well me, anyway, and my brother, owe Tony Murder a great debt of wotsaname. Promotion that's it, promotion beyond, way beyond our merits or abilities.  Mr Snot, too, we are all in his debt, only it's probly best not to say so.

Labour, the party of the Killing Class.

Monday, 21 April 2014


 After  tour de force performances in the entire Shakespearian canon, after being accclaimed for his lying down  skills in a chain of cheap hotels, Darling Lenny Henry turns his ferocious talent to the world of truly representative ethnic minorityism  at the Paedophile Broadcasting Corporation.  Black people like me have no choice, said the overweight campaigner but to enter showbusiness mocking our parents' attitudes  and accents, their clothes, their customs, even their dinners.  And I know because that's exactly what I did, it's what I had to do, simply to have a chance of knobbing an Oxbridge hottie like  Dawn French,
 I mean playing Hamlet, or was it Lear, Othello, maybe, the darkie. 

Although, to be fair, she preferred her chocolate treats to come wrapped in orange tinfoil, knowhaddamean, nudge-nudge,

 fat cow, how dare she divorce me? Me, the great, campaigning Theophilus P Wildebeest, making fun of black people, as I did so successfully.

But no, it's time for all that Gollywog stuff to stop, what TeeVee needs is more fat, over the hill, has-been, never really was deadbeats during the commercial breaks.  I mean, I worked for Tesco, I work for Premier Inns what more do I need to do to prove myself as a wossaname,  I am actually the king of the TeeVee sandwich-board men,  I can advertise anything, as long as I'm not asked to do anything connected to acting or making people laugh.  Or even think. C'mon, all my fans, I know kiddy-beasting is important, and managers bunging each other massive sums, and  the PBC News department just being a govament press office but Lessgetreal, people, none of these are as important as me not being on telly all the time, are they?

Friday, 18 April 2014


It's one of those triumphs of Ruin that great art is ever hijacked by Filth. I don't play it much, these days, but the Choral movement of Beethoven's ninth symphony was played on Radio Three a while back; I came late to it, in my twenties, at the kindly urging of an older friend, and for most of my life since, I have listened to it, what, several times a year, until the past few years; I had forgotten its power, not forgotten, it had just gone out of my mind, stuff does. A couple of days before hearing it and weeping afresh I had witnessed the entirely worthless Nick Clegg painfully, almost pathetically being put through his limited and unconvincing paces by Sergeant Farage, Ist Ukippers Batallion. As I listened to poor, mad Ludwig's gigantic, magnificent imagination I was conscious not only that God was bowing the strings of my heart but also - thanks to Clegg acting as unknowing reminder - that our masters in Europe had claimed it for their own, as their very own anthem, as though a bunch of crooks, degenerates and shysters could, from their bureaux of tyranny, align and conflate themselves with divine, artistic genius. How fucking dare they? 

 Listening to Beethoven and thinking of Clegg; Christ, it's enough to give you a brain haemorrhage.

 I have always felt conflicted about more formally sacred music, songs celebrating a wretched blood sacrifice, and the entire Baroque  movement was, after all, patronised, primarily, as a weapon of Counter-reformation, propaganda, first and foremost for centuries-old beasting and torture and extortion, for wicked, degenerate, greedybastard Popes, prelates, princes and priests. Even so, it works on me as its creators intended and even as a non-believer I am comforted by St Augustine's maxim, above - doesn't matter if it's Jackson Browne or the Choir of King's College - To Sing Is To Pray Twice.

 Ruin may purloin and suborn the good tunes
 but we own them.
Have a happy and reflective Easter. 

Oh, haupt voll blut und wunden,
(Oh, sacred head, now wounded)
St Mattew's Passion,
JS Bach.

Wednesday, 16 April 2014


Good Afternoon,  this is SkyNews,

 with me, Kay Burley.

 And we're taking you straight away to Sky's Jeremy Filth in Pistoria, where he is covering the trial of Oscar Testosterone, the legless runner, spoiled brat, celebrity and gun-crazy psychobastard who murdered his harmless, gentle, beautiful, undisabled, gold-digging trollop, Wotsername, Rhona,
 is it,
 Rhona Steamkettle?

 Jeremy, what's been happening today?
Thanks, Kay and Good Evening from  Pistoria where it has been another dramatic day with the  murderer being cross-examined by State Prosecutor, Mr Harry Knobkerrie. 


 It's just been one dramatic interchange after another, with the murderer sobbing his socks off, vomiting and pissing himself as he has tried to deflect the questions of ace state prosecutor Harry Knob. This is from this morning,  just before the judge adjourned proceedings for the vicious mutant to compose himself:

I put it to you, Meesta Testosterone,  

that there were no intruders and thet you jest shot the bitch for badness, jest to show her who wes boss. She wes dissing you, wasn't she, the dirty sleg, mebbe admiring a proper man with both legs, end you killed her, didden you? 

She ren into the shithouse, locked the door end then you shot her four times through the fecking door end now you come here with all this bollocks about fecking intruders end fecking ladders end fecking dancing magazine racks when in fact all thet heppened wes that you were pissed at the bitch end you chased her and fecking shot her fecking arse off, 


end, Mahlaydee, her fecking head, too, shot her fecking head off, is whet you did, why don't you jest fucking admit it?

 Feck me, Mahlaydee, weth the greatest respect, her fecking brains was all over the fecking shop. Tell the court, Meesta Testosterone, how you came up weth all this shit about burglars when every fecker end his fecking dog heard her screaming for you not to shoot her and you just kept on firing your fecking gun at her like a fecking lunatic.

That's not true, Mahlaydee,  I did jest shoot the bitch bet I didden know it wes the bitch when I shot her,  I didden  know et was four shots I fired into the bitch, I jest sort of  fired accidentally, Mahlaydee, eet wes the most terrible thing even though it wes accidental, it wes deliberate, too, but in self defence,  when you consider thet it might have been heavily armed burglars hiding in my shithouse like they was silly totties, instead of it being en actual  silly totty, I mean my beloved Wossername, who was actually very comfortable in our relationship,  Mahlaydee,  end thet wes why she wes cowering in the shithouse with the door firmly locked end screaming her fecking head off for me not to kill her, even though I couldn't hear the bitch because I wes repeatedly firing my weapon accidentally end I couldn't hear nothing, end everymorning I pray thet you will let me off shooting the bitch, which I didden  do enyway, or if I did, I didden mean to, in fect, es I have said to Mr Knob, I thought she wes a gang of armed robbers end I definitely didden mean to shoot them with my weapon...... Oh, oh, I thenk I am going to be seck. Bluuurrrrrrgh.........

And it was like that, Kay,  you there, Kay?...
 all fucking day long, cunt was screeching and throwing-up like a virgin at a News Of The World gangbang.
You there, Kay?

Yes, Jeremy, still here, I was wondering about a facelift, what's your take on that?
Well, as you know, Kay, I always think you look great.  Rough as a bears arse mind, but great, all the same.  And maybe, just maybe, a little bit of the old PolyFilla mightn't go amiss.

Another Murdoch bint in plastic surgery viewer fraud.

But what else is happening in Pistoria, Jeremy?

Well, Kay, Bow-Wow, Whoosagoodgirl? No, only joking. Anyway,  for an expert view as to whether he's guilty or extremely fucking guilty I'm joined here by our South African legal expert, Lllllewelllyn KaffirBasher, 

a member of the South African bar. 

 Lllllewelllyn, how's it going, from your point of view?  Thenks, Jeremy and well, the bestard is geelty es fucking sin and we should jest hang him up by his goolies until he coughs, thet's how we used to do things in South Efrica, only mainly to darkies, but this git is helf way there, isn't he being  desabled, as they call it, fucking freak.  No,  Harry Knob is doing  a first rate job, tripping the bestard up, whether he hes his fecking legs on or not, a-ha-ha, give the fecker an even chance, sort of; mind you, the Judge is a fucking kaffir so there's no fecking telling which way she might jump.  Did you see her fecking hair, Jeremy,
 looks like a fucking savage, neh? Wooden be fecking surprised to see her coming to court with a fecking great bone in her fecking nose. I jest dunno how it came to this shit....

What shit's that, then, Lllewelllyn ?

How we heff ay fecking voodoowoman, setting up there on the fecking bench, like a proper judge. 
 I betcha, Jerry, thet she goes home at night to her fecking tent and instead of reviewing the evidence that says this fecking bestard is fecking geelty she slaughters some fecking chickens or goats or some sheet like thet and smears her fecking self wiuth their fecking guts end rolls around in the fecking dirt. 'Sjust the sort of thing they do, these fecking savages.

Thanks for that, Llllewellyn, that was Mr Llewelyn Curlewis there for us, and like all of us here and you too, at home, Mr Curwotsit is absolutely convinced of CryingBoy's guilt.   And it's back now to Kay in the UK where it seems the education seckatry has declared war on  Birmingham.


That's right, Jeremy, and we go over now to the Daily Filth-O-Graph's Toby Young 

who is, to Michael Spit-Gove what Adam Werrity was to Dr Liam Foxx............a sort of a, whatchamacallit, sort of, well, boy, yes, that's it, Michael Gove's boy,

 Toby Cock, one of MediaMinster's boys.

Toby, as a grotesquely pushy parent, a gobby, empty-headed self-publicist;  a grubby, seedy wanker on-the-make  and as an all round worthless piece of MediaMinster shit, what's your take on this quite extraordinary development, where the Education Seckatry has appointed the former head of national counter-terrorism to investigate a couple of school governors, meeting-up in Brum and dribbling over the Koran, like they do.

Well, Kay and thanks, by the way, for having me on the show again but if I might just, before I answer that question, correct a widespread misapprehension  that I am a pushy parent, I am absolutely nothing of the sort, it's just that I can recognise that my children are intensely special, not just to me, although of course they are, but it's more that I see them as an invaluable resource to the world and so in wanting the very best for them that someone else's money can buy I am being entirely selfless; frankly, Kay, the world needs my sperm, I mean my kids, like never before. And it is only by diverting resources from less special people's children to children of my own issue that we can make any, wossaname, headway, yes, that's it, headway.  And if you can call that pushy parenting, well, I suggest that you are entirely mistaken.

Yes, but about Govey, he's a bit of a nutter, 
isn't he...?

No, Kay, no, absolutely not, Michael has the very best interests of the nation at heart, 

Nutter Alert.

moreso, I might say, than does a closely-knit cabal of public schoolboys which I could mention and  he and wossername are great, personal friends of mine.

Mr and Mrs Spit-Gove, living it up.

But sometimes, you know, Kay, in the life of a great statesman like Michael,


 he needs to strike whilst the iron is wossaname.

Like invading Birmingham and executing school governors, you mean?

But Kay, if you don't mind my correcting you - even though I do have the ear of His Michaelness -  these people, these so-called governors are actually highly dangerous terrorists, dangerous to all out children but especially mine, I mean, just look at them.
One of the governors of Small Heath Primary School, 
(photo: Daily Filth-O-Graph, UKIP, DofE.) 

That was Toby Cock, there for us, shedding some light on events in the second city.

And now to showbiz,  And this is the griefparty at Anfield football ground, where former NewLabour minister, Andy Burnham addressed a capacity crowd about himself and his part in their whateveritis.


What is it with Liverfuckingpudlians.? Instead of marching on South Yorks Police HQ and tearing it down, they all get together and have a fucking sing-song, waving their footie scarves aloft, naming, with great respect, naturally, virtually every citizen of the city.

I have been to three football matches in my entire life and on each occasion I was terrified by the potentially uncontrollable, drunken  vicious tribalism of the crowd, thousands of nincompoops alco-welded for a few hours into a juggernaut of reckless malice, fuck 'em, I thought,  they're all fucking mad, they deserve whatever they get.  And they got it at Hillsborough.

There's one guy, particularly, gets me mad, grown eloquent with years of self-pitying, he whines about his two daughters getting crushed to death, as though permitting two teenage girls to enter a stadium full of shouting, drunken neanderthals was the act of a responsible parent.  It is not something which I would ever have done;  those places were and are intrinsically dangerous.   Everywhere, of course,  is intrinsically dangerous in our infinity of paranoid possibilities  but sending your kids into football stadia has clear and present dangers;  regardless of the quality of policing, stewarding and constructional safety it is a chance you take with the lives of your children;  that all three were bad at Hillsborough does not relieve parents of their duty of care. 

Oh, there's no question but that Chief Inspector Filth

 is a lying, crooked, cheating  bastard but surely it didn't take Hillsborough to persuade people of that,  surely everybody knows that.  Doesn't everybody know that PC Plod sits with his mates and writes up invented evidence so's it all matches, just so; surely everybody knows  that his seniors call him in  for a quiet word

and tell him what to say in a big case;  surely everybody knows that governments will always side with the police against the citizen unless, of course, the citizen is Andrew Mitchell, MP and flogger or Nigel Evans, MP and predatory homosexual. 

 What is the matter with these maudlin, self-pitying Scousers that they'll sell their lost family members' memories for a poxy, meaningless, showy, full and far-reaching cover-up of an inquest, one which opens, disgustingly, with a name-check of every concerned participant? Do they really think that the filthsters who covered-up this cack-handed policing of a football match  and then slandered the dead

Kelvin McFilth, Hillsborough Sun editor, PBC pundit and Murdoch dingleberry,
 enjoys himself with Piers ShitFerBrains Moron.
( When is he going to jail?)

give a flying fuck for anything that this service of mewling and puking and this showbiz inquest reveal? They must all be pissing themselves, the cops and MediaMinster,  as Liverpool does what it does best, moans and whinges.

And as for this arsehole, well, there aren't any words which would do justice to his performance, unless they are spelt BAFTA.  Bubbles Burnham sank to the occasion. 

Repeatedly  linking himself to the very existence of the post-Hillsborough presure group, this smirking turd, this obnoxious, Oxbridge, career politico front-and-centred himself, spinning patronising yarns about Footie and Mams and shit.
We all know that shame and embarrassment are alien to the likes of he but this really was vintage, premier cru sick-bucket stuff.

I am humbled, Liverpool, before you, as you give me this opportunity to act like a give a fuck, you stupid cunts.  If it wasn't fer me mam, an' me loyalty to a certain other football club - giggles - and for the friendship of all these great, millionaire, gang-raping, coke-snorting, repulsive and vulgar sporting heroes, here today, I never would've been able to wash me 'ands, like, of the twelve hundred or so deaths in that Staffordshire Health Trust, what I was in charge of. 

Andy Bubbles Burnham, NewLabour scoundrel and the most dangerous health seckatry in history, takes a Staffordshire bow.

That, of course, should read Faculty of Death, 
prop HM Seckatry of state for health, Andy Burnham.

It is not for their meaningless crowd-sentimentality that I abhor this gang, it is not that I dismiss their righteous indignation, it is that, in exchange for Grieving's tacky celebrity,  they do.

Never mind singing You'll Never Walk Alone,  never mind applauding shit like Andy Burnham,  these people should have seen to it that Kelvin McKenzie, fatwahed,  left the country; should have pelted Andy Burnham with stones and should, even now,  be ripping up paving slabs.

Saturday, 12 April 2014



The head of a notorious crime family today vowed that as far as he was concerned it was business as usual for his vast network of organised child abusers, numbered in the tens of thousands. 

 The family, known as the Holy and Apostolic  Roman Catholic Church of the Engorged Cock, specialises in sexually abusing infants and children, terrorising their parents, blackmailing local authorities and operating a world wide web of safe houses, known ironically  as chuches, between which family members are shuttled to keep them from justice; senior members are known as monsignors, bishops and cardinals and are only promoted on the basis of them having been skilled not only in the dark arts of child buggery but in establishing ever more sophistcated, covert  networks of protection  and evasion of justice.  
There has never been so successful a crime family as the Roman Catholic Church and its current Capo di Tutti Capi, Frankie de los Fray Bentos, has today - as have all of his recent predecessors -announced that he is gonna pray his fat, smirking  arse off  for  the souls of his many  nonce-soldiers-in-Christ. Oh, and for the victims, too, for whom he has humbly and in a very real PR sense, taken responsibility.

He is announcing, he says, a full and far-reaching cover-up of his organisation's  centuries of child  abuse, and has even got one of the filthy victims on his team, so there, Dominus Vobiscum, as we say in the organised crime business.

The world's filthsters have reported this old bollocks as though it actually meant something,  Pope Frankie, after all, like all the filthy fucking simpering bastards, sells newspapers.  But here at the Daily Ishmael we have a few suggestions for the old monster:

Never mind an enquiry,  Frankie, everybody knows who these fuckers are.  First thing is sack the bastards immediately and strip them of all that crime family regalia, titles and robes and rings and  palaces and confiscate all the assets they have squirreled away.

Second thing is throw them out of the family - ex communicate the fuckers, on the spot.

Third thing is hand them over, together with all evidence, to local law enforcement.

Fourth thing is pay a half a million dollars to all victims. Go on Frankie, your HQ is stuffed to the rafters with cash, jewels and works of art, looted over many centuries, take it and give it to the poor, 'sonly what you're supposed to do, anyway, you disgusting old reprobate.

You could crucify some of them along the road to Saint Peter's you know the schtick, Via de la Nonce. Let them be at one with their Saviour, just for once.

And finally, you could do one good deed in your entire filthy life, you could turn yourself  in.

The PBC's coverage of this hogwash was deeply troubling, it was all about how tough this was for Frankie, how he had inherited it, as though he never knew the slightest thing about it until called by God to be il papa. As if.

Yes and nation shall speak shite unto nation .

His holiness very troubled about all this shit.
Praying a lot.
Our thoughts must be with him as he wrestles blah blah blah. And now back to you in the studio.

Friday, 11 April 2014


David Davis, C4 News.

 Well, quite, Kathy, and speaking as a working clarse Tory, myself, did I ever tell you that I was born to a single mother living on a council estate? - I must say that the acquittal of this black chap, Jacobs, was it, the one who never actually hacked to death that PC chap, no, no, got nothing against darkies, me, was an absolute wotsaname for the Crown Prosecution Service.  I mean they charged him, brought him to trial and then he was acquitted, I mean, as I didn't and never would say at the time, that's simply unacceptable in this day and age.  What? It happens every day of the week, well fuck me gently, I never knew that, not even when I was shadow home wotsaname, you mean perfectly innocent people are charged, tried, often kept in prison for months or even years, only to be acquitted by a jury?  Well, I never.  But lessbequiteclear,  you must admit it's far worse when it happens to one of us, an actual lawmaker, and quite frankly, something really must be done.  I mean, just because Nigel's the house's favourite arsebandit, just because he's a drunken cock-waving, sexual bully doesn't mean he should be subjected to this sort of thing, being tried.  In court.  Wossat, he had bum sex with a man thirty-three years his junior, junior to him, also, professionally speaking?  No, ha-ha, no, you won't catch me with that, a-ha-ha, no, he never broke any laws with all these young men, a-ha-ha-ha. Like President Spunky Bill and that Lewinsky kid?  Yes, a-ha-ha, yes I expect so, but all legal and above board, ha-ha-ha. Cunt.

This is from the blog Straight Statistics. Info  provided by then minister of state Angela Eagle, MP.
This shows an average of more than 12,000 ultimately innocent defendants are locked up on remand every year. The data does not show how long they spend on remand, nor the number subsequently found guilty but given a non-custodial sentence (because Mr Pelling did not ask for these figures). Clive Fairweather CBE, former Chief Inspector of Prisons in Scotland, was right to have entitled his report on remand prisoners at the end of the last century Punishment First, Verdict Later.

The vile Evans didn't,  as far as I know, spend a moment on remand.  The vile Davis, as a former shadow home sec. will be fully familiar with and entirely sanguine about these figures.  Yet one of their own gets his collar felt and Fuck me Jesus, the entire justice system needs over hauling.  I'da chopped his cock off, Evans, fucking young men under his effective  parliamentary control.

The same C4 News bulletin, pursued Davis's smug lies with a report on the extent of sexual harassment in MediaMinster,  they can always manage to make your hair stand on end, these cocksuckers.  Gunpowder, a la Fawkes, is too good for them.