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.

Wednesday, 9 April 2014


Now, look, lessbequiteclear about this.  The outgoing Culture Seckatry has done nothing wrong, Mr Tiny Speaker, and I am very sorry to see her go merely because she has.  Lessfaceit, the right honourable lady has been central to the many achievements of this govament in turning the land into a Sodom and Gommorah of which we in this house can be rightly proud,

Cheers. Waving of order papers. Cross-party voices in unison:  Si-i-ing ii you're glad to be gay, sing if you're happy that way....

Indeed, Mr Tiny Speaker, were it not for the right honourable lady, many silly old fairies up and down the land would not, today, be facetiously calling one another husband and wife.

Cheers.  Applause. Waving of order papers. Cross party voices in unison, with some three-part harmony:  Ma -reeeah, I'll ne-vah stop say-ing Ma-reeeah.

The most remarkable thing about the right honourable lady is that throughout this whole sorry saga, she has put herself first, cheating the taxpayer, frustrating the investigatots and reluctantly apologising in terms which can only be described as mealy-mouthed, weaselish and insincere.  That she has kept her main job, which, lessbeclears, she can swiftly supplement with proper jobs outside this place,  that she will keep her pension and that she may well find herself back in cabinet, alongside Mr Laws is a testament to the  rigour with which my govament treats benefits cheats.

Hear- hear.  Applause. Cheers.  Entire house, apart from John Mann, breaks into song:  Fo-o-or he's a jolly good fellow, for he's a jolly good fellow.......

Order-order. The house will come to order.  There now follows a statement from the right honourable the leader of the opposition, Mr Ed Wotsit.

Thank you, Mr Tiny Speaker and I am sure that members all across the house will join with me in expresing our profound sorrow at the tragic loss of Ms Peachy Geldof, she was a fine and serious columnist, a deft and skilled broadcaster who brought real gravitas to the world of trivia which she inhabited and she will be sorely missed by her many brain-impaired  followers, some of whom might vote for me but I doubt it.  Her loss is tragic almost out of all proportion and our thoughts will be with her  repeatedly unfortunately bereaved father Sir Bob Gabshite.  And at this time, would the prime minister agree with me that a state funeral for Ms Peachy is the very least that a grieving nation can offer as a mark of respect.

Cheers. Waving of order papers.  Hear-hear.

Order-Order.  I now move that as a mark of respect to both Ms Peachy Thicko and Ms Maria Thief, the house do now adjourn so's we can all go on our holidays, attend gatyweddings, cavort with rentboys and gather in conclave to stitch-up my former Deputy Mr Tiny Speaker, Mr Nige the Fag Evans.  All in favour say Aye,  The Ayes have it, the Ayes have it. C'mon lessfuckoffouttahere.

Tuesday, 8 April 2014


From today's Filth-O-Graph

Scottish independence 'would be cataclysmic for the world', ex-Nato head warns

Lord (George) Robertson says 'the forces of darkness would simply love it' if Scotland voted Yes in September 18 referendum

Lord Robertson: 'The loudest cheers for the break-up of Britain would be from our adversaries and from our enemies.'
Lord Robertson: 'The loudest cheers for the break-up of Britain would be from our adversaries and from our enemies.' Photo: AP
Asked why the official papers on the Dunblane Massacre had been closed for the next hundred years Lord Arseface retorted angrily that this was a matter of the gravest national security, the fact that he had befriended and supported the nonce mass murderer, Thomas Hamilton, and that if people kept asking him about his involvement with Hamilton he would have them jailed under the Official Secrets Act .
What with the numbskull, Carmichael, with Darling and Brown, Cameron and Osborne and now this poxy arsehole, Robertson, one must think  that the UK establishment must, behind closed doors,  be gagging, as we say, for the independence of Scotland.
Forces of darkness, forces of darkness????
He must mean his old guvnor, Tony Blair; he's the darkest force in the world presently.



Ms subrosa, at her excellent  blog, reports, mournfully, the death, after a long illness, of Scottish MSP, Margo MacDonald. MacDonald was all those things - y'know - fiery, a maverick, fiercely independent, radical, feisty; pick a journalistic cliche card, any card, Margo was it.  A former tribeswoman, she differed eventually with the Fatman, Salmond and for the last few years struck a Tony Benn-like figure in MediaRood.  She had many friends and admirers, just like the late former Viscount Stansted and even the turdheads of the current govament, as it calls itself, - if it is a governement, why is it calling for independence; surely, to be a government you must be independent, otherwise you are just a local govenment, innit,  that's the Tribesmen for you, less logic now than they showed at Culloden -  anyway, that shower, Shitbrain Swinney and Fishwife Sturgeon and the fat, oily fucker himself gushed hypocritically at her passing. 

I am a little more cynical,  a lot more cynical than ms subrosa and tar them all with the same Millarbrush, politicians. MacDonald, like Benn, managed to fool many people into thinking that she was one of us pretending to be one of them, when, in fact, she was one of them, pretending to be one of us, she would have had more in common with a Scottish Tory MSP than with a constituent.

Aside from her lifelong, gold-plated  ticket on the gravy train, aside from her conceit and her gobby arrogance - think Tommy Sheridan in golden multi-medallions and truest, most phospherescent peroxide - Margo, at the end, suffering from the shaking disease, used her seat as the most vulgar bully pulpit, blethering endlessly about an Assisted Dying Bill, she didn't want to die that much that she'd shut the fuck up and stop putting ideas in people's heads - ideas of compusory but entirely voluntary euthanasia - no, firebrand, radical, selfish old cow, right to the bitter end she stood shaking and dribbling, yet making, cogently, she believed, her case to be a legislator or last resort; oughta be a law against that sort of cheek.  Fuck me, the nerve of some people, who do they think they are?

It is a matter most depressing that even the shrewd amongst us, like ms subrosa, all seem to have their MP, their councillor, their MSP who, because of the theirness factor, isn't like all the other filth;  oh, no, Margo was different.  And it is by this cosy self-subterfuge, ms subrosa, that we are all doomed. We don't need showbiz fiery, showbiz radical, showbiz independence, we need Samson, to pull the whole stinking place down around his ears.  I'd vote for him.




He'll probably make another shit  record, won't he, the Saviour of the World, him and that AmyWinehouse father prat, together, when what they should have done is put the silly little tarts over their knees.

Thursday, 3 April 2014



 Friendly fire,  they call it, collateral damage.

Heartbroken President Crocodile and First Lady Crocodile
 fly-in to shed some tears.

Another of Uncle Sam's crewcut psychobastards has run amok in his base.  
 These are dangerous people,  and not just to their nation's perceived, hypothesised enemies - y'know, all these deadly Afghani wedding parties, all these terrorist school playgrounds, all these teenage sluts, just begging to be gangraped by Uncle Sam's bravest.  I was in  a Birmingham Airport hotel a little while back, having breakfast alongside  a platoon or so of American soldiers in transit, every one of them looked as though they were stark raving mad, and they didn't even have any weapons on them; haunted, angry-looking, buttoned-up tight,  they all looked in need of profound and lasting psychiatric care, maybe it was just me, being sensitive in the presence of real men, and real women.  But figures from the States suggest a huge problem among serving and discharged military personnel, of which last night's jamboree is just the latest example.

Firstly, among those "serving" in Afghanistan, deaths from suicide, at just over one daily, now exceed combat deaths, one a day, doesn't sound much, it's just that it's every day, just over 400 a year, letting their buddies  down like that. It's about half a regiment, isn't it, four hundred soldiers? You wonder why Ahmed bothers, maybe he could just leave them to top themselves;  twenty years of this would wipe out a division.

At home, in the States, the rate of military or ex-military suicide is surveyed to be 22 per day, almost one an hour;  17 of these 22 are 50 or older and so don't really count, says Uncle Sam, such folks kill their own asses for all sorts of reasons, except that US veterans' associations insist that hundreds of thousands of serving and former military personnel have been and continue to be denied benefits, precribed massive, deadly  doses of anti-psychotic drugs and these, combined with a resentful failure to re-integrate, a level of post traumatic stress disorders - aka Guilt - and a service-inculcated predisposition to sudden, raging, murderous  violence have made suicide - or more accurately murder-suicide -   for many vets a delayed-action inevitability, a kamikaze timebomb.

Former Commanders-in-Chief, of course, who ordered these fools into action in the first place, have their own burdens, 
Gennulmen, we all gonna get rich, leastways, I am.
Aw  shucks, they call it a Foundation but bribes is where it's really at.

President Spunky Bill Clinton, 

 Boy, I'm gonna make you so rich you'll be shittin' gold dollars. 
And I you, Mr President, and I you.

 like our own Tony Blair, hoovered-up tens of millions of dollars in deferred bribes from GlabaDeathCorp and lemme tell y'all, just can't wait, bless him,  to become First Gentleman to his baggage-wife, 

Hillary Rodham Trousers and from the sidelines he can probably stir-up a few more glorious wars of liberation,  liberation and profit, unless, of course the dirty bastard, shoving a ceegar up a White House teenager, overdoses on coke;  we live in hope, we democrats.

George Dubya Chimp, surely the vilest human on the planet, didn't wait for his kickbacks, his Vice President - actually his employer - Dick Cheney and his pimp, Karl Rove, will have made sure that MonkeyMan will have seen the dollars flowing into his Crawford Ranch from the word Go . 

 Just to digress a minute, most of these vermin, when they cease to be president boast of the building of their own, memorial presidential library, how's that gonna happen with Dubya, he can't read, can't write and can barely speak; too much booze,  too much wife-beating, too much cocaine, and these soldiers claim to be having problems, eh?

I suppose that Obama's move to DroneMurder of anyone he disagrees with might keep a few grunts out of Harm's way, but then their units'll just be wound down, like ours and trained killers will be dumped, unceremoniousy out on their arses, turned loose on an unsuspaecting public which believes that grizzled grunts like Clint Eastwood, after a lifetime spent killing, retire, marry, settle down and eat apple pie.  Fort Hood, for the second time,  marks the real triumph of American foreign policy.  Swords into ploughshares, that should be the thing, shouldn't it, for  a nation of Bible-thumping, Creationist morons