Friday, 6 May 2016


I straggled on down to the polling station at a quarter to ten, held my nose and crossed the Dogshooters' box. 

Three hours later the Council's chief executive announced a thumping victory for Liam McArthur and a kicking for the Tribesmen. Tribeswoman in this case.

The turnout was up, not by the twelve per cent which the PBC stated  - a sixty two per cent turnout is not a twelve per cent increase on a fifty per cent turnout, but no matter, if they can't find Jimmy Savile we can't expect them  to do percentages -  but by nearly twenty-five per cent.

I doubt that it was a victory for Liberal Democrats as such, although Liam McArthur increased his majority, but more of a vote against the Tribesmen.  Maggie-Maggie-Maggie Sturgeon, as national socialists do, has taken significant powers to the centre - herself - notably the cops; 


 the bungling Chief Constable - is there any other kind? - of what is now Police Scotland being her liege man. Should I need to contact the cops I need to speak to a call centre in Inverness.  There is talk, currently, of the abolition of county councils entirely, of everything being determined by a mutant, groomed by Alec Salmond, who has never had a job in her life and is self-avowedly motivated by hatred. People here don't like that shit.

Gnasher also rewards those who vote for her and punishes apostates.  The Western Isles vote SNP and enjoy significantly reduced ferry fares, Orkney and Shetland, which are much further away and suffer worse weather do not return SNP candidates and still pay the full whack.

Unlike the two local Dogshooter Wiseguys, Carmichael and Wallace, 

McArthur is a courteous and  effective local representative and he's also a local man. His party is disfigured by so many - by Cyril Smith, by Boy David Steel, by Straight Simon Hughes, by the slimy opportunist,  Clegg; by the revolting, blowhard narcissist,  Field Marshal Ashdown - that a claim, tonight, by Lord Ming Campbell of a mere ten years in the wilderness for LibDemmery seems remarkably optimistic and one would expect Susan Fallon to be its last leader, and serve him right, pompous little prick.  Be that as it may, against the backdrop of his local colleague, Big Al Carmichael, being dragged through the courts, of his national party's demolition  and of the upsurge of Tribalism in Scotland, McArthure pissed down the Tribal throat.

Shetland was never as perilous a seat for the LibDems and Tavish McHooter increased his majority, also.

As we said, back then, under Kacza Nobody, the collapse of Scottish Labour continues, Blair and Snotty's NewLabour having - I suspect fatally - poisoned that well. 

Ruth Boy Davidson, 

speaking whatever is the Jock equivalent of Mockney, is jumping about, gettin' down and up4it, claiming to be the New Opposition. 

Even has a Maggie suit of her own, 
like Gnasher

My vote didn't matter in the end  and it looks as though the SNP will remain comfortably in control of the wee parliament but at least they do not, for now, boss and bully a one-party state. 

The confounding of national socialism  doesn't justify opening a bottle of champagne but I will certainly go to bed on a large brandy and soda. 

Tuesday, 3 May 2016


 Sophie Thighsworth here for you, 
with the Lunchtime News from the PBC. 


Yes and it's all about sport, today, so over to our sports correspondent Jayne Tits, 

 Jayne, a great night for the business.

Yes, thanks, Sophie and that's right,  a truly great night for the business, especially for Leicester, is it Leicester, where IS that, by the way, is it up North, somewhere? In the Lake District?  Sounds Lake Districty, doesn't it.  Me and my partner love it, there, Ellesmere Port and Port Sunlight, places like that, you can just see Wandsworth, that poet chap, in your mind's eye. Go there whenever we can slip away, you know how it is, Sophs, busy lives, busy schedule.....

Sorry, Jayne. Just have to stop you there for a moment, for this, just in from our Diplomatic Editor Emeritus, John Wotsisname, that fat old geezer, yes, with the young wife, whaddaretheylike these old hacks, eh?  John, in Beijing, what's your take on all this?

 Well,  journalists with some seniority, if I might say so,  Sophie, rather than airheads

have often spoken of China as  a sleeping dragon and tonight just may be the night when the dragon has awoken.  This from the Chinese Foreign Minister, Bang-yo Head, speaking earlier.

Herro, Joh' an' herro Engrish viewa on PBC. How you ah doing? But first up is very bad news for both country. Engrish people wa' wah? 
OK, can have wah. Is like Confucius say, Aw we ah sayi', is gi' wah a chance. 
An' Engrish ferra, 

Mah Serraby, no' win da Snookah, was crear wi' for Chinee boy, Ding-Dong.


 Was no' propah game, was ah shit. Was duckin' ah fuckin' divin' from stah to finish. Mah Serraby is dirty playah an' good for fuck aw.

I mean, Joh',  Peopah Republic Chin-ah like Ronnie O, is good playah.

 An' Stevah Henry, is good playah, excep' is Tribesman.

But  Serraby is jus fucki' dog, eh, is play snookah like fucki' dog.


Need burret, chop-chop, in back of neck

an' sen' bill to Meestah Barry Hearne. 

Yes, an' Meesta Steve Davi'. 

An'  also to Miss Hazah Mouth.

Wha' fucki' happen in Engran', anyway, wi' stupid totty in charge of Snookah show?  No' happen in China, home of world Snookah. 

Stupid totty, is fucki' rubbish.
 An' anyway is fucki' ugry, no' rike sexy Chinee lady.

Chinee snookah fan mad as arseholes,

 Engrish people must caw fou' and award cup to Ding-Dong or else is wah.  Chinee army can swah Engran' like moth.

Chinee army huge,

Crucible Theatre tiny

Best Engrish snookah bloke remembah,
Can send nuke, easy, like piece oh piss, on Sheffiel'.

Well, yes, and the honourable Mr Bang-yo makes a serious point, we all do work for China, now, but perhaps  when he studies the detail of our proposed sell-off of Engrish, I mean English council houses to Chinese investors he may well think again. And as well as buttering up the Chinese, themselves, we also, by selling-off to the Chinese any possibility of young people, or indeed anyone, securing affordable housing we, with one step, place the feet of all of our people on the housing scaffold, I mean gallows, no, I mean ladder, course I do. Which can only be good for all of us.  The building societies or banks or whatever the Shylocks are calling themselves - and by that I am definitely not being anti-wossaname - will continue over a lifetime to charge people two or three times what their homes were worth, not that they were worth a fraction of what they paid for them in the first place but which they'll have to sell to pay for their care in old age, yes, to Mr Osborne's friends who will then own the NHS, Chinese, American, it doesn't matter, just as long as we stay in the EU and British wages stay depressed, any foreign ontraprenooers can buy whatever they want. 

No, no, it simply doesn't matter that it's not Mr Osborne's to sell. 
If it belongs, as you say, to the people, then clearly it belongs to this Conservative  govament. And when I say buy, of course, I don't mean that the future wealth creators would buy in the sense of paying what the public service or public property is worth.  Gosh, no, they'll only buy the NHS and the schools if we give  them away virtually for nothing. Well, for nothing, actually.  Fuck all. That's the point  of Conservatism, isn't it.  People whose parents have put a bit aside for them, we simply have to look after each other. And quite frankly, this idea of the public owning anything whatsoever, apart from a very large debt, is an idea unfit for the twentieth century. Twenty-first century? Alright, if you say so. 

 But no, much has been made, unfairly, in my view of the remarks made by my President, last week, when he said the Special Relationship depended on our doing what he tells us.  Some people have considered this to be unfair.  But what they don't actually understand is that America hates us, always has. That is the Special Relationship.  They hate us, they sabotage everything we try to do, especially our aerospace industry,  they insist that we have to buy their weapons and then don't allow us to use them. I mean, Concorde, you remember Concorde, Concorde was a super fast airliner, went jolly quickly, several hundred miles an hour, and the Yanks wouldn't let us fly it over their land, airspace, they call it;  too noisy, they said. And so it never made any money. Suez, when Mr Eden wanted to invade Suez - or wherever it was - Egypt?  The Falklands? - well, the Americans wouldn't let him.  The Comet Four, a great aircraft, sabotaged by Boeing and Lockheed. So when my good friend and master, Umback  Barama, says Britain would be at the back of the trade-deal queue, he's not strictly accurate, we've always been at the back of the trade-deal queue.  And I mean, many of them, the Yanks,  wanted Hitler to win the First World War, or the Second, whichever it was -  they were both against Japan, that's the main thing.  The Lease-Lend arrangement, where they charged us a fortune for some rusty old death-trap ships, well, that crippled us for decades after the war, whenever that was, and we only paid it all off when Mr Snot was in charge, not that he was, really, not proply, like I am in charge of my party.

Yes, sir, I am in charge of things.
You sure, boy?

So, the Americans hate Britain. But then so do we, in parliament, particularly, we hate it with a passion. And that's why we all want you to vote to stay in Europe.  I mean, British courts, British health and safety regulators, a British parliament, who wants all that, in this day and age?


So you see President Umbacko is speaking the truth. Britain, as a sovereign nation is at the back of everyone's trade-deal  queue, especially in the British house of commons. If the Chinese can't do it for us, say, with energy,  the French will; if the French can't, the Indians will, and if it's something the Britsh can't do, say health or education or housing or transport or ships or heavy engineering, there is simply no end of countries which the govament would rather deal with than provide employment for British trade unions, who, lessbeclear, have ruined the country for over a century. And Mr Junky George is acting entirely proply in making sure that whichever skilled jobs do arise, we send them overseas.

And this is why people simply must Conservative on Thursday.  Or we might have to put your taxes up, depriving you of the choice of how to spend your own money, even though we do it all the time and just don't tell you.


That was our European Regional Manager there,  and the PBC, I should remind viewers, is absolutely non-partisan over the question of Brexit, although with every programme we produce we find more and more reasons to remain in the EU, obviously. But back to John Simpson;  John, do you think the Chinese will really go to war over the World Snooker Championship?

Well, Sophie, after scrutinisng the situation in the East for most of my adult life, if I may say so, and not just for five minutes, they're nothing if not inscrutable, the Chinese. I mean, one has to say that they have a point. It was a shitty game, watching Mark Selby is like having teeth extracted without anaesthetic whilst squatting on the bog with arse-ripping constipation, isn't it. I mean, Sophie, even the other players hate the sight of him, don't they, he's like a jackal, gnawing at a wounded hyena. Nothing beautiful about Selby, even his name sounds like a by-pass. So if the Chinks march on the Crucible and put Sheffield to the torch who could blame them? And now back  to you in the studio.

That was John Simpson there for us, yes, 
the Dave Attenborough of Diplomacy on the PBC. 

And Jayne Tits is still with us and I see she has been joined by Sir Gary Lineker, football pundit best known for his championing of   fat-laden, salty snacks for children.  Yes, he must be a complete cunt, mustn't he?

I'd just like to say that it is a great honour for me to be on the PBC on this night of all nights. I mean, you coodena dreamed this one up, not if you was off your head on monosodium glutomate. 

Which, I must declare an interest, is my mission for all the children of Engrand, I mean England. To be, that is, to be off their little heads on MSG.   

No, it's the stuff that dreams're made of, Jayne, Leicester, the home of potato crisps, winning not only the World Cup but also the Snooker on the telly.  I used to dream of this moment when I was kicking a crisp bag round the streets of Leicester. Pausing only to build up my health and strength with a packet or three of Walkers Cheese'n'Onion.

Oh, well played, Sir Gary. A diet of Coke and crisps is the very thing to unleash the potential of our young people.

And don't forget, as we used to say at Eton, it doesn't matter how you play the game, it's whether you win or lose  that counts.  Hope you've got all your crisp money somewhere nice and funny, I mean sunny, British Virgin Isles, is what we swear by in my family. And quite proply, too, in my judgement. 

But it's right, Jayne,  now my dream's come true. And I'm sure the whole city will be celebrating with a few bags each of Golden Wonder.  It is  Golden Wonder I work for, isn't it?  Only sometimes I forget. Yes, course it is, the Premiership  champions of salty, greasy, potato snacks for kids. 

That was Sir Gary Crisps, there,  for us. 
And we've just heard that two prominent Leicesterites have issued a statement on this day of dual clebration. Speaking from their million pounds home in the county, bought for them by well-wishers, Drs Gerry and Cilla McCann issued the following statement:

On this momentous night we would just like to remind ordinary Leicester people that they may have won the cup and the snooker but our reputation is still missing. We know that we have sued the arse off everyone who queries our own, one true version of events, in which  we both  behaved quite properly, as you would expect from doctors and Portugeezer police sold our child to slave traffickers but some people still cling to the, frankly, unhelpful view that we were in some way amiss in leaving our child, Wotsername, alone and unprotected in a strange apartment in a strange country while we slipped out for drinks with some very highly-esteemed professional colleagues. Some people, further, cling to the idea that when we discovered our child missing we should have immediately called the cops, instead of 'phoning home to secure the services of a PR company and reporting to the PBC that our child had been abducted.  Yet more people think, quite improperly, that we should have answered any reasonable questions put to us by the police.  Yes, it is true that we recently lost a libel case against a Portugeezer in the Portugese courts, where the judges ruled that people can say what they want.  This is clerarly not the case, people may not say what they want, well, not about us, anyway,  and we expect the British govament to intervene at the highest level to get this verdict overturned, with costs and damages awarded to us, and some people, people  who didn't actually leave little Wotsername unattended, be sent to jail.  We have another book coming out shortly and will be touring the world's TeeVee studios to promote it in the near future. So, on this night of some minor importance to our fellow Leicesterians, we wish them well in  their celebrations but ask them to remember that we are the real victims, here. As well as the real champions of Leicester.
(both sing) 
'Ere we go, 'ere we go, 'ere we go......

Well, yes, if I can just come in, here. If I - or we, me and the First Lady - if we were were to, not that we ever would, mislay our child, in the 'pub, f'rinstance, the very first thing that I would do, rather like Cilla and wotsisname  - a Scotchman, isn't he, yes, characteristically forbidding and dour, Dr Gerry, I wonder if he supports the Tribesmen, I expect he does, bitching and griping and whining this last decade, like he was Ms Moustache, who, has anyone else noticed, come to resemble our own, late Maggie-Maggie- Maggie,  

Empress of Grievance. 

Queen Boudicca.

Yes, I know, people do warn that we can become the thing we hate and there is a startilng sartorial resemblance, if nothing else, between Ms Moustache and the Whisky Maggie. Just saying.

 And they do both appeal to the, what shall we say, to the instincts of the aggrieved ruffian. 

Flag-waving, tub-thumping,
 jingoistic, rabble rousing

in place of reasoned political argument;

adolescent hatred and bile as a political raison d'etre.

No, I daresay she won't like me saying that, comparing her to Thatcher. But she doesn't much like anyone who doesn't  agree with her RobRoy schtick.
Schhh, I wouldn't mention the oil price slump to her. Or the EU referendum, she'd shit a brick trying to explain that one, better together with Europe,  not better together with Engran' I mean England

But no the very first thing I would do, too, having mislaid a child is speak to my press office.  Yes, someone like Mr Coulson, someone who could explain to the public that it wasn't actually a case of me forgetting all about my child, which it was, but it was more a case of  the Portuguese police not doing their jobs proply.  And we'll sue anyone who says otherwise. And we all know what they're like, don't we, the Portugeezers, thanks to the Met, who have investigated ten million pounds worth over there and not made a single arrest. still, some jolly wonderful public servants will have enjoyed a nice break in the Sun.  Only not as many, I trust, as me and the First Lady. And like everybody else, apart from their kid, of course, Little Miss Wotsername, they should be jolly grateful to Dr and Mrs Moneybags. 
But  Leicester, lessbeclear, it is magnificent news, 

the Impossible Dream,  the First Lady and I are delighted, both of us,

although I, of course, have been a Leicester Athletic, is it Leicester Athletic?  Rangers? Leicester Villa?  Whoever they are I have been a keen supporter  of them since my days at Eton 

Myself and some other Leicester supporters at school.

and I am thrilled that all my Saturdays spent shouting on the  terraces  up there  have finally paid off. Just goes to show, this success, that what with Leicester being known as the Islamabad of the West and nobody having any jobs, only down the cash'n'carry or selling dusty tomatoes off the pavement, why we need to stay in the EU.  I mean, it was largely immigrant players who won, wasn't it? A very clear message there, I think, that if people want to win football competitions we must stay firmly in the EU. Yes, and vote Conservative on Thursday. For a better Europe.

That was him, again, the Brussels' TeaBoy.
And in Newsnight, tonight, the big story of the day. Evan Davies will be asking Should anyone vote for Mr Corbyn's filhty Nazi party in Thursday's elections or are we a modern, compassionate, anti-racist nation which would be better represented by a different Labour party leader. Or preferably no opposition at all. Pretty much what we have, now, anyway. Join Evan later.