Monday, 1 September 2014


The mind of the bureaucrat is Negativity's home-sweet-home, awakening daily to  rehearse old and invent new ways to say No, the bureaucrat is a fucking pestilence. Cops, teachers, social workers, health  professionals;  all they want  do is say No, Naughty to those unfortunate enough to be in their orbits;  even better is the opportunity to corral, restrain, hector, bully or - ideally - punish anyone who has a mind of his or her own which is occasionally exercised. The bureaucracy, self-evidently, exists onl;y to extend, protect and promote itself, nothing else matters.


Chief Inspectror Filth, starring in the missing infant drama, is like all Chief Inspector Filths, he speaks a tortured,  intolerable argot of jargon-gibberish, smirking concealment and I-Know-Bestism and he speaks it as though he was some deranged, gibbering fucking Moses, passing-on the Ten Commandments to a tribe of gullible stiffs.  I can no longer observe these interviews, reaching, cursing, for the remote control at the first appearance of some jumped-up moron copper, like this. He's actually an ACC, this arse of a man, and will,  with his training, his salary, his uniforms and his ribbons and chauffeurs and pensions, will,  though he can't even fucking speak English, have cost us millions.

Appropriate, then,  that his gabshite actions match his  miniscule abilities and that he has seen to the hounding and incarceration of two law-abiding, loving parents as their child lies dying in hospital. What a cunt. 

Half-an-hour's detective work would have revealed that these were sane, responsible, caring parents. Mr Pig, however, is too clever for that.  He should be made Commissioner of the Met, when the next one is sacked, he is vile enough and stupid enough.

No need, here, to rehearse  the absence of arrest warrants in 1500 cases in Rotherham or indeed in the blatant case of child neglect in the disappearance of Madeliene McCann. No need here to suggest that in a ciivilised society this copper'd be out on his arse.  No need, either, to mention that Oily Keith Vaz's home affairs committee will not have as much to say about this outrage as it has about the inconveniencing of a Tory wanker minister at the gates of Downing Street.  Must keep a sense of porportion.


I read the Filth-O-Graph through the 'nineties; its photographs were the best in Fleet Street, science and nature coverage were exemplary - readable, up-to-the-moment, diverse;  the barefaced redneckery of its letters page a healthy antidote to the suffocating, liberal, multicultural bleating in the Guardian,  and it even published some of my letters, the editor telephoning me on one occasion to verify the cause of an insult I had paid to John Prescott but most of all I  read the Telegraph for writers like Auberon Waugh and AN Wilson.

Wilson, as drily gracious on screen as on the page,  presents BBC 4's Betjeman Land, an affectionate hagiography of a complex, deceitful, bibulous, effete, idle, selfish yet personable and much loved poet laureate, Sir John.  His influences, his education, his vices, his adultery and notably his architectural campaigns,  the saving of  Victorian  buildings and his rage at the vandals who would displace them with concrete torments are patiently and affectionately recalled through Wilson's seemingly effortless erudition.

My resolved view of poets is How dare there be such, making rhymes and rhythms from the entrails of our sorrow? And then selling them.  Betjeman, though and Wilson are more my own sort of people, street entertainers, quizzicalising the daily, the humdrum and the mortal.  It is a lovely programme, suffused with a scholarly grace, it hymns a man dead just these thirty years, a writer comprising snob, dilletante, waster and enthusiastic Everyman. It will be available on some sort of what I believe are now called portals, some fantastical, impersonal  contrivance which Betjeman would have rejoiced in excoriating.

Saturday, 30 August 2014


A punch in the face is no laughing matter. Showbusiness, of course, depicts people being drop-kicked and pistol-whipped, smashed full in the face with a nailed boot, yet laughing and grinning ruefully, just  a few moments later. The older I grow the more these enactments frustrate me;  the human body is, no other word for it, a miracle, its powers of reconstitution and repair beyond the wildest imaginings of technology;  to kick it about and wound it deliberately seems wanton and stupid; 

 to invite violence on oneself is not the conduct of a wise man, for it begets itself, time and again and hurts others; it is the soft words, rather than the vain, gabshite grandstanding, which turn away Wrath.

That the disgusting old whore, Galloway, should be struck, while posing for pictures is a bitter-sweet irony which will be lost on him;  that there is at least one person in the UK unenthralled by his shouty, undiscerning celebrity he can probably live with but even that fact will chafe a little  at our great people's champion and poseur.  It will be interesting to see if, as it should, this episode knocks Georgie off the plinth of his own vanity or if it becomes embellished the more  with the facetious mythology of his unending struggle for the creation of a (now) Islamo-Socialist Republic On Earth.

A spiritual Native American, I never permit my photograph to be taken, believing, like them, that it amounts to theft of the soul.  That Galloway cannot live without his image being endlessly cosmeticised,  tailored and widely reproduced, this alone bespeaks his unworthiness.

See you, Jimmy?

Jim Murphy, however, speaks softly and has, to my knowledge, never, as has  Galloway, demeaned himself on Cruelty TeeVee. The Scot, Murphy, has had a bit of a ministerial career without the vast over-promotions given his fellow-Jocks, people like the unspeakable John Thug Cock-Waving Reid or Robin Morality Cook, Des Browne, Douglas Alexander, Christ, there's scores of the fuckers;  all of  whom seem to me lesser intellects, coarser politicians than is Murphy;  these are only character nuances for Murphy is nonethless  a fully paid-up, thieving, NewLabour warmonger, with the blood and torture of millions stalking  his dreams, or so we must hope.
Courageously, however, Murphy has been on a whistle-stop sort of tour of Scotland, making the case for to-getherism.  Aping Johnny Underpants, Murphy pulls into town and stands on an upturned soft-drinks box, well, not very soft, Irn Bru, a drink containing enough sugar to fell, hyperglycaemic,  a non-Glaswegian and does a question-and-answer show;  fair enough, Reid is too busy enriching himself, sucking on Satan's cock to make an appearance, Gordon Snot is now perhaps stumblingly aware that actually he is an embarrassment and Edinburgh-born Tony Blair is standing ahead, even, of John Reid,  in the queue to fellate the Devil.  Alastair Darling, another  ancient over-promotee, looks as lacklustre, as caught-in-the-headlights  rabitty as he did when stood beside Snotty, shovelling my money into the mouth of GlobaCorp.  It falls, then, to people like Murphy to make the case.
Intimidation, though, has driven him off.  In the main, the tribesmen are utterly, utterly repuslive human beings, wilfully backward, unable to frame their own names whilst sober; ensnared by a history which they completely misunderstand; shepherded from womb to tomb intact only under the supervision of Anglo-Scots and increasingly of common-or-garden English.  I know it sounds terribly incorrect but native Scots fill so few crucial posts in the country not because of an English tyranny but becasue they are, themselves, unfit;  not all of them but very many spend their lives raging abour things which never happened and wouldn't matter even if they had,  Jock is a vengeful, inebriate cross-dressing wife beater, his stupefied malevolence destructive  to all but especially to himself, for how much longer must we blame the miserable life expectancy of some Glaswegians on John Bull;   when will Jock realise that drinking, gobbling fat, smoking and sitting on your dwarf, scrawny arse is lethal?


That, the Jockism,  is not something I say lightly but it  is my experience;  their discourse is bitter, vile and rancid, they are bullies, Salmond's Brownshirts-in-the-waiting and perhaps now, no longer in the waiting.  Heckling meetings is one thing, bussing-in squads of moron thugs and breaking then up is quite another.  Salmond, typically, will  not condemn his most rabid disciples, hinting that togetherists also deploy Nazi tactics, even though they don't, even though there is not a shred of evidence anywhere in Scotland of a mobile No-vote strike squad, Salmond smirks that there is.

Galloway and Murphy are career politicians for whom I have little if any sympathy; such sympathy as I might feel is baked from  the No Man Is An Island  recipe;  I despise them both, a pox on them and their houses.  Of the two events, however, an enraged individual  belting a shape-shiftimg, shameless celebrity bully in the mouth and an orchestrated, neo-Nazi mob owning the public space I know which is the more worrisome.

Friday, 29 August 2014


"All we can do, which is what I am doing now - which is what I think everybody is doing, across Parties by the way - is to say 'please, do the decent thing, stand aside because you have to take responsibility' and then, then let's try - with the police, of course, South Yorkshire Police taking the lead - to go after the perpetrators because a lot of these perpetrators of this abuse are still walking free."

What, me, resign, too?  Should have resigned years ago? Why on Earth should I? I am the deputy prime minister and I have helped deliver whatever it is that Mr Cameron says it is, although with a distinct emphasis on whatever it is I say it is.  Next question, please. Mr Smith?  Oh I think that was all a very long time ago,  there has been a lot of semen over the children,
 You're quite pretty, aren't you, Davy, lad?

I mean water under the bridge since Cyril did those things, if he did do them, which, I must remind listeners, he was never convicted of.  

Lord Steel? Why on Earth should he resign?

Not investigating a series of crimes is not in itself a crime. Except in  Rochdale, or, of course, in any other place which takes the heat off the govament. His Grace the Lord Steel should not resign, of course he shouldn't, all he did was not take seriously very serious allegations of serious child abuse  against one of his MPs, scarcely grounds for anyone to resign. But the gentleman in Rochdale, what he did, ignoring very serious allegations of child abuse, well, he simply must resign.

Mr Huhne, why should I resign over him?  All he did was lie his arse off for ten years, to the police, to the party, to the house and to the courts, bully his mad old wife into criminal behaviour and piss on his constituents.  What on Earth has that to do with me? I may know, instinctively, in my DNB - is it DNB? No? DNC, then, whatever -  because I'm a Tory,  and a singularly clever and very expensively educated one -  I know exactly what is best for every single person in ths country - and, yes, his dog, his dog, too - but I can't be expected to know if my deputy's up to no good.

 Next question, please and can it not be about my party?
Mr Laws?  Am I saying that being a benefits cheat is compatible with being in govament, rounding-up other benefits cheats? 
 No, of course I'm not. What I'm saying is that there are very compelling reasons for Mr Laws to  be back in the govament even though he is a shameless, greedy, thieving, fucking slag.  What are they? Well, firstly, we are all shameless, greedy, thieving, fucking slags. And that's the main thing.  In any decent country.  That people look out for one another.  The second thing is that he's very, very rich, Mr Laws, and so didn't really need to steal the benefits, so that obviously puts him in a separate class from those poor people who steal money because they need it to live. I mean, obviously, you wouldn't treat a rich thief the same as a poor one, would you? 
And the third reason? Well, he's gay, enough said, I feel, on Mr Laws.   No, no, I'm definitely not saying that gay people are beyond the law, just those in parliament.  Or local govament. Or the meeja  Yes, if you like, MediaMinster folk. And anyway, it was only fifty grand he stole. And, I must remind naysayers, that he did pay it back. Once he was found out.

But please, we are here to talk about other people who have done wrong and not resigned. Not David Steel and I.  Can we please have a question not about LibDems or Tories or whatever we are?

Lord Fatty Rennard? 

Am I saying that I should have kicked his bloated arse out of the party?  Just  for groping all those subordinate women? Of course I'm not. Even though I should  have done. 

But actually, d'you know what, I'm a democrat and I am proud to lead a party that doesn't sack people, just because they've been grabbing womens' tits.  I mean, where would that lead? I'll tell you where it would lead. We'd just wind up losing all the people of power, influence and money.

And I feel quite proud to have. as my justice seckatry, a repulisve old degenerate hypocrite, who, although he is gay himself, trashed his electoral opponent for being gay, Mr Straight Simon Hughes. along with all those distinguished and selfless men above, personifies everything that is good and noble about this great Liberal Democrat party.

".....a lot of these perpetrators of this abuse are still walking free."

Says Clegg, leader of the Mr Clean party, outraged.  That the leader of this gang of filth, crooks, liars, bullies, hypocrites,  thieves, gaybashers, warmongers, racists and beasts has the effrontery to call on anyone to resign,  absolutely anyone,  even  this Sticking-To-My-Mandate cocksucker, wossisname, the bloke in Rochdale, fuck it,  I don't wanna know his fucking name, that somebody as venal and vile and corrupt as Nick Clegg can go on air and demand another's resignation, is staggering. 

mr mongoose, yesterday, was enquiring how far down Ruin's highway we had travelled; this, Clegg, this is how far we have come.

Wednesday, 27 August 2014


It has always been the very nature of abuse that the victim's word is never enough; to be abused one must be weaker and thus, in our society, lesser than the abuser but I have never heard this point articulated so grimly as I did, yesterday, hearing that some sergeant or constable Filth had said of a five times-raped twelve-year old that she was one hundred per cent consensual to her abuse.  I don't know who this police officer is but he should go to jail. He should also have a punch in the gob.

 Not even the law, so heavily weighted against the weak, permits a twelve-year old to consent to sexual intercourse, she cannot consent, much less be one hundred per cent consensual;  I thought everybody knew that and we can reasonably expect  every police officer in the land especially to know that; if we proceed as adults, without any constabulary powers, we are required to discharge a duty of care not only to children but to everyone.  That a police officer, in this day and age,  can speak thus of a child, unchallenged by colleagues or superiors is a fucking outrage.  But then, as regulars will know, a thread woven through these commentaries is that All Coppers Are Bastards, this turd's behaviour and the failures of indifference displayed by his colleagues only highlight and embellish that thread. 

And as if that wasn't affront enough to Decency, today, we have seen some prick  of a Crime Commissioner, a nonsense job were ever there was one,  hiding behind the bogus cliche of collective responsibility, refusing to resign over his failures in this vile Rotherham scandal of unprosecuted child abuse .  Rotherhamees, if they have anything about them,  should picket his home until he quits, should catcall him in the street, throw eggs at him, always supposing, of course,  that they care about their weakest, which, quite clearly, they don't or certainly didn't; if they had, this wouldn't have happened.

Maybe these kids' family relationships were chaotic or worse, maybe their dads were less, even,  than memories, maybe their mums were on the game, themselves.  Doesn't matter, everybody can see grooming and exploitation going on; every council in the land  has child protection, place of safety procedures which it can enact swiftly and the filth have more than adequate powers to arrest, detain and prosecute virtually whoever they want.  The failure here is two-fold: parents have been schooled, brainwashed into anti-social individualisation, LuvEm2Bits,MyKids,  DoAnyfin4Em which of course translates as fuck all the other kids, 'smy Tamarind who matters, my Seattle or whatever these dimwits call their child-consumers; too busy buying the little prick an iPhone to hear the lonely sob, see the hollow, empty face of abuse and, secondly, the failure is political;  the number of lucrative public sector careers and pensions available now to Mr and Ms Jobsworth is staggering, the Rewards of Obedience are well known and well liked; who, leading a busy, interesting and rewarding life is going to compromise those rewards for the sake of some little scrubber, eh; if the service policy is not to rock the multicultural Boat of Plenty, then that's just how it is, why should I jeopardise my own career?

And it doesn't matter whether the perps are Pakis or Peers, this isn't a matter of race, this is just a matter of Power, of how those who have it use it against those who don't and are assisted in their crimes by those In-betweenies, mealy-mouthed lickspittles, those managing the Poor on behalf of the Rich.  Me, I would disbar every councillor in Rotherham, I would dismantle the Social Services department - what does it matter if it is  there or not, given its record - I would dismiss the entire police force and deploy the army until some decent law enforcement could be recruited and trained and I would publicly shame all of its now bleating citizens, not for what they did but for what they didn't do.  Suffer the little children, eh?  Aye, right.

Monday, 25 August 2014


My young friend, stanislav, coined this phrase because he thought it was true, that Scotland was the best place you could go in England, like a different country but not.  I hope that Scotland stays part of England and England part of Scotland.  Gordon Snot, however, Tony Blair, Jack Torture and all the other monsterbandits of NewLabour - just think of them for a moment, Geof Hoon, Steven Byers, Alan Milburn,  Des Browne, Bob Ainsworth, Tessa Jowell, Blind Boy Blunkett. Jacqui Schmidt, John Thug Reid, NewLabour's own Little Big Man; Peter Mandelstein, Alastair Campbell and John Prescott, what utter filth - what they achieved in Scotland, their nursery, their homeland, was unprecedented,  The monumentally rotten JockLabour party was thrown out of  the local parliament by a disgusted electorate, people like myself, who voted for the wee fat pig Salmond, rather than return Jack McConnell's band of thieving incompetents;  so overwhelming was this protest vote that what should never have happened did happen, the proportional representation incorporated into Scottish elections should have seen no party with an overall majority, exactly what Salmond obtained, what allowed hom to seek an immediate referendum and since then has allowed him to divert my taxes from scoolzanospitals into naked and unconstitutional propagandising, local councils are muzzled, public employees bullied into silence and senior public sector appointees do nothing but Salmond's bidding, hopeful of an even more lucrative sinecure, perhaps an ambassadorship, come the glorious day.  This has all happened as a result of  Jock Labour's generations-old rottenness and of the  wicked agendas of NewLabour UK plc.

Tonight there is to be a televised debate between the wee fat fucker and Alastair Darling, the man Snotty couldn't sack but a man nonetheless tainted by his and Blair's record. It will be fucking awful. Salmond, repulsive,  will be smirking and smarming like a stand-up comic at Butlins holiday camp;  Darling will be pathetic, the only elder statesmen of a discredited government who dare show his face, some bloated Jock oaf will try to enstature himself by facetiously acting like some grand adjudicator, you know the type, good for fuck all, much less smart enough to hold either or these two jumped-up pricks to account, but he'll be a member of MacMediaMinster and thus worthy of great respect from the voters. He's a cunt. Whoever he is. You can out money on it.

This, in punditland, is the make or break for both men. Bollocks, it's nothing of the sort. The vile, immature reptile tribesmen will vote for Salmond if he were to stand on stage with dick in his hand, pssing on the lectern;  people like me won't, simple.

Much is made of converting the undecideds, my view is that if they are undecided at this stage, can be swayed by a wee bit of bollocks telly, they shouldn't have the fucking vote in the first place. morons. Och, I need tae see how yon Darling goes, if he's afeart a that Alec Salmond, afore I make me mind up, d'ye ken.  It is all bollocks this election, it is simply a test of whether or not enough people have the sense to stay with the lesser of two evils.  I suspect and hope that just enough do. All that we need remember is that Salmond learned his grubby, bullyboy tricks in the  bars and knocking shops of the Westminster he so decries;  that he is as keen, as fervent in his self-justification of criminal expenses as are they all;  that he is ever up for a freebie and that he cannot, will not tell the truth, lest it undo his corset of patriotism and spill his rank guts all over his trouser belt; that, as usual, he is one of them, pretending to be one of us.

I'll go and warm the telly up.

Friday, 22 August 2014


In the late 'seventies, with a couple of good ole boy mates, I was gloriously on the piss.  For a time, drunk - and untouchable - as lords,  we lived lives of complete fantasy.  It all had to end, we knew, and would invent elaborate, fantastical suicide options, for when the money ran out.  This was happening in Coventry and after - I think - Tile Hill and Canley Crossing, the next train station on the Coventry-Birmingham line was Berkswell.  I used to say that if I was goinna top meself, I was determined to take some bastard with me.  How ya gonna do that, Ishmael? Well, what I'm gonna do, is, there's a train leaves Berkswell at 4.10, every afternoon. Yeah, so?| And I'm gonna write out a big sign, on cardboard, in big lurid letters .  Then what, wossitgonnasay? It's gonna say IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT, YOURS.  And then what? Then I'm gonna park my car a coupla miles from Berkswell, stand in front of the train, holding the sign up in front of me and pointing at it, as the driver's jumping, to no avail,  on the breaks, shitting himself. Oh, wow, Ishmael, that's really fucking sick, that is, poor sod gonna spend the rest of his days not knowing if it WAS actually his fault, if he'd fucked you about unknowingly, and smearing yourself all over his windscreen was the only way you could get your own back,  If you could find out his name, and write it on the sign, that'd really fuck him up;  they'd never let him on a train again, British Rail, maybe we could find out, what his name is, shouldn't be too hard.

And so it came to pass that Taking the Four-Ten From Berkswell became a common euphemism for suicide;  if somebody dropped out of sight we'd say, You don't suppose he's.....What, Taken the Four-Ten from Berkswell?  Nah, not him, hasn't got the balls. 

 There's an old Western, isn't there, the song sung by Frankie Laine, I want to ride again, on that Three-Ten to Yu-u-ma;  I think it came from there.  Fancifully sardonic and playful though my confection was, I nevertheless could see that being a train driver did lay you open to the most bizarre form of workplace harrassment that there could ever be. And there's a lot of it around, Network Rail has a special depot, where trains go to get a good, deep, underarm cleansing after some fucker's taken the Four-Ten and is splattered all over the wheels and undercarriage.  I think they should be fitted with big, fuck-off cowcatchers, the locos, like they have in the States, just sweep the kamikaze nutters the fuck out of the way and not having them splash their insides on the windscreen, three inches from the driver's face.  Bound to upset a man, that.

But I was loooking at one of the filth sheets just now and fuck me, Jesus, but some bloke's just gone and done that very thing, that Four-Ten To Berkswell thing. He split  up with his partner of about nine years and no matter what he said or did, she wouldn't have him back. Only trouble is, she's a train driver. And yesterday he went and stood in front of her train.  Instant strawberry jam, he was;  she, of course, is shocked out of her mind, had to be drugged-up. 

 Can't be too careful, not in this life. Not about what you think when you're pissed, nor about working as  a  train driver.  Fuck that shit. Imagine, you got your partner out of your life, or so you think;  next thing, he's hurtling into your windscreen at ninety miles an hour. And that's all you're ever going to see, everytime you close your eyes.  That's like Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Only it's a man.

EVENSONG. Wagner - Tannhäuser, Overture - Thielemann

Might just be that it is a later recording but this seems so much warmer and brighter than my lifelong favourite, by Herbert von Karajan and the Vienna Philarmonic; wrote good overtures, did Wagner

Thursday, 21 August 2014



This is the devastating news that tireless Hollywood funny man, Robin Something, finally got bored with his own act and fucked-off out of it.  And who could blame him? Who could live with that arsehole, warbling and chirping, look at me, look at me, from dawn 'til dusk?

Some of us grew bored with him half-way through Good Morning Vietnam, one of the first of his ghastly,  rushing about, pulling funny faces and doing funny voices films and never wished our interest in the horrid freak to be revived.  Rather watch Norman Wisdom, me, if I want a quick dose of the horrors.

Unfortunately, when some arsehole Hollywood junky dies, the viewing public - serves it right for watching - is subjected to a barrage of maudlin hyperbole; to tales of self-slaughtered genius misunderstood; to the deeply sincere regrets of every slag in showbusiness who ever shook the deceased's septic hand. And sure enough,  our own name-dropping junky-aristo, none less than the cock-waving  Sir Russell Brand, current swain of 
 Lady Forty-Something Khan; 

laird of Chipping Sodom and poor, exhausted masseusista,  did not disappoint.
The Daily JailBird, known to we ancients as the Guardian, recently printed Brandy's eulogy to Robin Something;  it was, as you'd expect, an oily, name-dropping, Look-At-Me lamentation,  Brand the iconoclast, hero-worshipping ad nauseum;  that it sat oddly with our boy's customarily espoused, Everyman egalitarianism  is unsurprising, for he is no more a socialist egalitarian revolutionary than is young parent, Lady Sir Elton John; his burnishing of the wretch, Williams', noisesome ouevre  is no more shocking and hypocritical than is his knobbing some wealthy old baggage for class kicks and calling it love.  And it wasn't entirely hero-worship, for man of the people, Russ, in illuminating Robin's tragedy, let the limelight flood his own, equally obnoxious, self-centred existence. 

it is the very essence of my Art.

Russy, you see, darlings, had met the dear departed one, 

not only that but Robin had complimented Russ, presumably on  what he calls  his work, an activity  which most of us would describe as showing-off to a cretinous, uncritical public;  Robin and Russ, creative junky-brothers under the skin, both toiling thanklessly, prodded and scourged by a relentless muse, both driven, by forces unknown to the layman, to play silly buggers.  Poor Russell, for all his supposed streetsmarts, unaware that luvvies endlessly and  meaninglessly compliment everybody, Darling, you were wonderful. Oh, was I? Really? Do you really mean that? And actually, darling, so were you, and so courageous, so Out There. Anyway Russell had met the Star and the Star had recognised Russell's  fellow-genius,
 fellow selfless artistry, fellow-suffering, Christ-like,  for  his Art.  The art of showing-off.

Just like every self-obsessive, showbiz arsehole before him, Robin Something had EverythingToLiveFor, ALovingFamily and NumerousProjectsOnTheGo, he was perhaps at the Peak OfHisWotsaname, HadSoMuchMoreToGiveUs  (sell us, actually but never mind, luvvies don't do it for the money, darling) but it was just all too much and in order to punish, further,  his long-suffering wife/audience, gifted, complex, sainted genius Robin strung himself up, right where she'd find him, worthless piece of shit. 

Don't worry about the age difference, Honey,
or the size difference;
I'll be easier to cut down.

Not so much, in my view,   Good night, sweet prince and may flights of angels sing thee to thy rest, no, more like good riddance to bad rubbish.

Maybe it only underscores the brutality of the United States - the fact that while running an aparthied police state, murdering, raping and torturing far and wide,  her jolly and Oh, So Humourous white folks gorge themselves on the callow, infantile mewlings and pukings of the likes of Williams, comic genius and 24 carat waster, and call it Art.
By a thousand to none, caring Guardian film junkies uncritically  prostrated themselves before Russell Brand's powers of eulogy, 
elevating the insufferable tosser to greater heights of self importance; it was all very depressing - a dead,  sometimes-funny old junky luvvie; a live, sometimes-funny younger junky-luvvie and a brain-dead, wittering mourn-a-mob, staggering weepily between the deaths of pampered junky rubbish like Amy Winehouse, Philip Seymour Hoffman and now this jerk. 

 Rich junkies go to  showbiz Heaven, are soireed in  the White House and Downing Street, ribboned  and knighted; poor junkies, of course, go to jail and preferably to Hell.

Force-fed Tinseltown illusion, stumbling, self-blinded with phoney tears, Facebooked and Twittered to death with risible sentimentality, is it any wonder that the children of Ruin, cretinous and uncritical,  cannot grasp, cannot even clutch at an understanding of why it is that some of our less arty, less showy, less precious sons lie headless in foreign sands? Can't quite see the comic genius in that, can they, their elevation of the mawkishly worthless, nor their indifference to the monstrous cruelty which it obscures;  Hollywood, mon amour.

Friday, 15 August 2014


As a lifelong, devout and committed  young Christian all I can say is that if my behaviour has at any time  given offence to another I am deeply sorry.  I do not believe that I have sinned but as a Christian I accept that this is a matter for my Heavenly Father, to whom all hearts are open, all desires known, as I sang in my recording of the Book of Common Prayer of 1682.  I believe that if mine enemy smite me, I must turn the other cheek, and that I must love my neighbour as myself. A tall order, I know but one after which I must strive.

Thanks for the use of yer 'ouse, chuck, in the Bahamas
'Salright, Imelda, in my property portfolio there are many mansions. And thanks, too, to you and Tony, for extending the period of the copyright laws.

Sir Cliff with his company chaplain,  father confessor and paid best friend.

As a lifelong, devout and committed member of showbusiness, however, all I can say is that this fucking bastard fucking nobody is lying his fucking cock off,  the cops are utter bastards and if I have any more of this fucking shit I will retire to Portugal, where they know how to treat child molesters, I mean, respected, national treasure entertainers  who have sold product in every decade since the fucking Crusades, or so it seems.


It is surely one of the darkest farces of our time, the Esther Rantzen story, worse, by miles, than the ascent of the filthy old trollop, Edwina Underpants.  A recent story, run in the Mail and the Filth-O-Graph, has been eclipsed by he showbiz factor of Sir Cliff but it seems that one of Rantzen's career fucks, Tory nutter, beast and freak, Nicholas Fairbairn, MP, 

as well as dressing and speaking 

as eccentrically and contemptuously as Sir James Savile, 

was a truly horrid, lifelong child abuser, sharing among other things,  the pleasures of his friend,   Robert Henderson, QC's  four-year old daughter, Susie, now 48, who has waived her right to anonymity in this matter.  Mind how you go, Ms Henderson's story would break  your heart.

The story is for those with a strong stomach, a heartier appetite than I for the dreadful doings of great men. The Mail has the best coverage, although all of it, being about Thatcher's Tories, is hedged around with caution, as you would expect.

Fangs Rantzen, who, decrying what she calls Cruelty TeeVee, modestly describes herself as one of broadcasting's  great women and  a fiercely independent and  investigative journalist, was, surprise-surprise, shocked and horrified and horrified and shocked  and all that stuff to learn that the  creepy, poxy knob  she had been fucking, back then,  was also regularly within a four year old vagina;  nothing like an investigative journalist's instinct, eh? Way to go, Fangs.

If we add Rantzen's misguided choice of Fairbairn as a lover to her apparent affection for Sir James 
we can only conclude that she is either unpardonably stupid or is trying to pull a fetishist's wool over the national eye;  I believe  it is the latter, that she's a nasty, vicarious freak, drawn to the beast she claims to hunt down;  I would not permit her to speak to any young person in my orbit.

  In  any event, her publicity-seeking creation of a child protection charity is one of many dark farces which litter the grimy streets of showbusiness, particularly those leading to the PBC.

Since the old crow  is incapable of honest, objective self-criticism, someone might usefully suggest to her that she shut up or fuck off, preferably both.  Israel, I understand from recent events, has a unique approach, also, to child protection.

Next week, How Gerry and Cilla McCann feel for Cliff and Esther;  We are all victims, here, says Cilla, of malicious allegations. Wot Sir Cliff 'as gorra 'ave, is a good PR team. An' Lady Esther, she's gorra 'ave one, too